Dan Peek - An American Band, The America Story

An American Band

The America Story

by Dan Peek

Copyright 2004 by Dan Peek

An American Band

by Dan Peek

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 9781609849818

All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The views expressed in this book are not necessarily those of the publisher.

The authors and publisher have made every effort in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of the information. However, the information contained in this book is sold without warranty, either express or implied. Neither the authors, Xulon Press nor its dealers or distributors will be held liable for any damages caused or alleged to be caused either directly or indirectly by this book.

Unless otherwise indicated, Bible quotations are taken from King James Version of the Bible.

Cover photo courtesy of Henry Diltz

www.xulonpress.com

In Memory of Russ Shaw

________________________________

Thanks to Catherine, Sheilah, Gerri, Tom, and Milton Peek

I couldnt have done it without you.

Episode One - Starting From Zero

I was born in Panama City, Florida at the age of zero. I was actually born with a tooth, which was a cause of great joy and some pain to my Mother who chose the natural method of feeding me. When I was two, my Father, a career Air Force man was transferred to Greenland, then two years later to South Carolina, quite a rapid change of pace for us all.

At the age of five I nearly died from accidentally ingesting cleaning fluid. It burned my vocal chords so severely that my voice sounded like Rod Stewart talking through a Fuzz-Tone; a condition which persisted until my voice changed, at which point it miraculously became smooth.

I started playing music when I was seven, although my love of music goes back further to long trips in the car with my family criss-crossing the U.S.. Mom taught my brother and sister, Tom and Debbie and me to sing three part harmony to hymns and pop songs of the day. Music and rolling along the highway have seemed to go together ever since.

At the age of seven my Dad was transferred to Kyushu, Japan, the southernmost island near the industrial city of Fukuoka. We lived off-base for a year and a half getting a chance to really soak up the culture first hand. My Mother convinced the three of us children to take piano lessons. Im sure at first we begged her to take them, but within a short time, we were all begging to stop. It was tough going and our teacher, a lovely Japanese lady, Kagi-wagisan, brooked no slacking. If one of us hit a wrong note she would respond with a fierce blow to our offending digits.

Ultimately my impatience got the better of me and Mom relented and let me quit the lessons. I immediately forgot how to read music, but I did retain the muscle memory of the hand motor skills basic to playing the piano; although I must admit I didnt even want to see a piano for a long, long while after 3 years of pounding away while my friends were out playing ball.

From Japan we moved to Syracuse, New York where I was transferred to an advanced class and spent the next three years doing 4 hours of homework each and every night. I was forcefully encouraged to take Russian as a foreign language. I scored an almost unheard of 100% in the class. In the special school we were taking three semesters each year instead of the normal two. The intent was to graduate us a year early. I ended up graduating a year late; but more about that later. I managed to keep my grades up in spite of some lengthy hospital stays. Illness stalked me like a great stalking thing and had been a constant companion since the poisoning episode. Exploratory surgeries, radical experimental treatments and ghastly therapies like submersion in ice for hours to lower my soaring temperatures became an accepted part of my life.

Additionally, being in the advanced class was akin to wearing a sign on ones back saying Kick me, hard. In the rough and tumble public schools in New York we were especially popular with the Hoods. So, it was with some relief that we packed up to move yet again as my Father received orders to transfer to Peshawar, Pakistan.

Episode Two - Kipling and Cobras

A t the same time, Tom and I had been badgering my folks to buy us a guitar. After being reminded several hundred times that money doesnt grow on trees we finally wore them down and they sprang for a $30 Kay acoustic guitar. The strings were at least an inch off the fretboard but Tom and I fought over the thing, playing it alternately until we grew blisters on our blisters. We were hooked. We dreamed of playing electric and copying the latest hits like Pipeline, Apache, and Wheels.

Music was forgotten temporarily as we boarded the plane for the 3-day flight to Pakistan. Just past the point of no return to Bermuda, our first refueling stop, one of the four engines caught fire and we made a frightening landing made even more unnerving by the fact that the entire 5000 foot runway was lined on both sides by emergency vehicles. Fortunately the pilots made a perfect 3 pointer and we cruised to a stop to learn that we would then have 3 bonus days in Bermuda while the craft awaited a replacement engine.

Bermuda was beautiful and I fell in love with the island ambiance and the colonial feel of the old hotel we lodged in, complete with an old wrought iron openwork elevator. The layover was a double blessing to me as I had gotten the worst sunburn Ive ever had whilst we stayed in South Carolina a few days before our flight. By the time we had landed in Bermuda my back was covered in water blisters and the opportunity to sleep on my stomach instead of spending interminable hours sitting in the prop plane, my back in an agony of pain, was an incredible relief.

The rest of the Journey passed pretty tamely with the plane stopping to refuel in the Azores, Madrid, Tripoli, and Saudi Arabia. In Saudi Arabia things tensed up a bit. While waiting to board a different craft we were herded at gunpoint into a tiny section of the splendid Dhahran Airport. We all breathed a huge sigh of relief as we finally boarded the C-135 Jet for the next leg to Karachi.

The constant presence of heavily armed soldiers training weapons on us and the 120 degree heat at Dhahran were soon forgotten as we surveyed the inside of our new craft. The jet was actual1y a cargo plane that had been rudely converted for human transport.

For some unknown reason the seats all faced the rear of the plane. There was no inner wall as such and the sides and ceiling of the craft were bare metal sheeting and support ribs. The intense heat of the desert was quickly replaced by bone chilling cold as the 4- engine jet hurtled us at high speed into the stratosphere. Many hours later as we began our descent to Karachi, the cabin fogged up completely and rain actually fell from the ceiling as the moist air of the gulf condensed on the bare metal skin of the hull.

We had been traveling for a whole week just to reach Karachi, yet Peshawar, our final destination was still over a thousand miles to the north. Karachi was the capital and chief port of West Pakistan situated at the mouth of the Indus River commanding a magnificent view of the Arabian Sea. It is also one of the most prosperous cities of the East. We were fascinated immediately, gazing out through the windows of our hotel, sighting the ivory-towered minarets, and the dusty streets of the city filled with people, animals, carts, trucks, and bicycles.