Robbie Robertson - Testimony

Stared out that train window

into the darkness,

till I near went stone blind.

I patted out a rhythm on my knee and smiled to myself. Sounded like a song from the very place I was headed.

I was spellbound, gazing out the train window at silhouettes of passing towns, a blur of nocturnal landscapes streaming by. Only the lights were changing. Small-town shadows stirring quietly, city neon coloring the night sky, one scene blending into another. Id been awake for many hours, but I was too wound up to sleep, too nervous. No, too buzzed! Me and that train were headed to the holy land of rock n roll, to the fountainhead, where the music I loved grew right out of the ground. This was a southbound train.

Spring, 1960, sixteen years old. I was traveling from Toronto, Ontario, to Fayetteville, Arkansas, toward my chance to try out for a job playing with Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks, the most wicked rock n roll band around. Ronnie was a big rockabilly recording artist, an amazing showman with a fresh, Frankie Lainetype voice. The Hawks were a powerhouse band with perfect casting: they looked as authentic as they soundedsideburns, slicked-back hair, Memphis cool, one part country gentlemen, three parts southern wild men.

I kept staring out that passenger-car window in wonderment. Id never been this far from home before. Every time the train whistle blew, a chill ran through me. I tried to close my eyes but couldnt sleep. This was all too new, too unimaginable, too dreamlike, because, it occurred to me, people from my background didnt hardly know how to dream.

I remember the exact day it all turned around for me. I had just stepped out the side door of St. Theresas Catholic grade school when it hit me: a vicious combination of driving wind, burning ice needles to the face, and blinding snow. You couldnt see more than a few feet in front of you.

The public school lay between my school and my house, and it was plainly understood that you took your life in your hands with the kids who went there if you cut through that school yard. But in this storm I had to risk it. The sleet was pushing me to the ground every few steps. So I set myself on a direct line for enemy territory, hoping none of those tough older kids could possibly be out in this blizzard; I thought, Even Eskimos dont go out in this.

But then I spotted a figure in the distance. I was already halfway across the school yard, no turning around now. As I got closer, I saw that the guy was big, and he was coming toward me. My heart was pounding from wading through the snow and being pushed back by the wind, and now from fear. He stumbled toward me, shielding his face with his scarf, like a mask. Oh man, what does he want? But when I reached him he merely stuck out his hand, holding a paper flyer, and gestured for me to take it. I blinked. Then I took the paper, stuffed it in my pocket, and kept moving.

By the time I reached the side door of my house I looked like a zombie who had just crossed the Arctic Circle. My mother was there to greet me, saying, Goodness, get in here, you must be frozen! While hanging up my coat, she pulled the flyer out of my pocket and read it aloud. Music Lessons: Accordion, Violin, Spanish and Hawaiian guitar. Oh, are you interested in taking lessons?

I shook the snow from my hair. Sure, anything if it means I never have to walk through a blizzard like this again. I was already drawn to music and now wondered if maybe it could help me find a way out of this frozen hellscape. But not accordion, I added. Lawrence Welk and all

She laughedOkay, big dreamerand handed me a hot chocolate.

This was a turning point. I just didnt know it yet.

As the train idled at the Buffalo border crossing from Canada into the States, an immigration officer walking through the carriage asked me where I was going. It was a tricky moment: if I mentioned anything about a job, hed turn me back. I was trembling inside, but with a straight face I told him I was going to visit my brother and his family in Arkansas. He glanced at my birth certificate, then looked me dead in the eye. I just about swallowed my gum. After a pause he said, Have a good trip, and walked on.

As the train pulled away from the station and we crossed into the U.S., a wave of sadness came over me as I remembered what Id had to do to get the money to make my way south. Ronnie was looking to replace the guitarist or the bassist in his band, and he had told me, Come on down here and well see if it works out. This was my chance to convince him I was his man, so I thought it best not to ask him for any train money; nor did I want to bother my mother, whod given me a rough time about quitting school.

In the end there was only one thing to do: I had to sell my prized 1958 Fender Stratocaster with the original classic sunburst body. She was a real beauty. Id worked so hard to get her, saving up for months. But now I had to do whatever it took to get to Arkansas. I was on a mission, but leaving that beloved Strat behind cut deep.