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stage, with my guitar, sit on a stool, and do understated humor. Sure! That'll work!
I got off the plane, went to the baggage area to pick up my guitar and suitcase, and they weren't there. The airlines had lost my luggage. No guitar, no clothes, and I was going on stage that night.
So I walked out and there was a stretch limo to pick me up. It was all too much. I got to Caesar's Palace, went to the show room where they were setting up, and explained what happened. Roger Smith, Ann Margret's husband, said, "No problem. We'll find a guitar."
I said, "Well, there is one problem, I play a 12-string."
He said, "We'll find something. Now go to the men's store here at Caesar's and find some clothes to wear tonight. Charge them to the show.
I went to the store, and it was like going to Rodeo Drive. Every item had a designer name, and the prices were through the roof. He told me to just charge it to the show, so I got clothes. Gucci loafers, the only ones that fit, $700. That was in the 1970s. I'd never owned a pair of shoes that cost more than 35 bucks. Pants? Nothing but the best, but they were like golf slacks, with pleats, and I would never, ever buy a pair like that. Next, a shirt, a sweater, and the bill took my breath away.
I went back to the showroom and they'd dug up a 12-string guitar that belonged to one of the stagehands. Let me tell you about 12-string guitars. The strings exert a huge amount of force when they are tightened up, and when you have 12 of them, and tune them up to pitch, a cheap guitar will fold in half. As a result, most 12-strings are tuned down a third, which means the strings aren't as tight, and you don't snap off the neck. But, and this is a huge but, every song is now in a different key! My guitar was a Martin D-41, top of the line, and you could tune it up to pitch. This one? I didn't think so. I talked to the stagehand and he was cool. He said go for it, I think the guitar can take it. So we gave it a shot and the guitar didn't snap in half. I assumed it would wait till the middle of my set to do that.
So that night, terrified, I walked out on stage to open the Ann Margret show in golf slacks, Gucci loafers, a cashmere sweater, carrying a strange guitar that could blow up at any time, and did my 17 minutes. I have no memory of it. None. I was on autopilot. They didn't fire me, so it couldn't have been too awful. A couple hours later I did the second show. Again, no memory whatsoever. It must've worked.
The next day my stuff arrived. My costume took a thousand-dollar downgrade, my guitar was a thousand-dollar upgrade, and the shows went well. The next day the stagehand came up to me and said, "You've got to come
outside."
"Why?" I asked.























































































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