What was I thinking?
The event was held at the Alaska State Museum, and it was usually packed. I wore a vintage blue velvet dress that I found at a secondhand store. I chose to perform one song, “Love Me Tender,” originally recorded by Elvis Presley and later by Linda Ronstadt.
I have no idea if I was any good or not. I was terrified of making a mistake, and somehow I got through it. But I got enough encouragement to keep performing.
The following year I went back to the festival as part of a band. One of my best friends from Steller, John, had moved to Juneau. John and I linked up with a friend named Cliff to form a trio we named The Maintainers.
Cliff was from upstate New York. He had unkempt shoulder-length blonde hair and played an electric guitar. I adored Cliff, although he hardly fit my back-to-nature philosophy. But that’s why John and I hooked up with him. John has always had a wicked sense of humor, and we both loved Cliff. We figured the folk festival needed something besides banjos and fiddles.
We came up with an opening comedy bit that made us a hit with the audience. John, a natural at the microphone, began our set with something like this: “Hi. We’re thrilled to be here. We’d like to begin our set with a classic folk song. Feel free to sing along if you know the lyrics. It’s called, ‘Play That Funky Music (White Boy).’” Then Cliff launched into the opening guitar riff from the 1976 disco hit by Wild Cherry.
The place erupted in laughter. They loved us! The rest of our set—some Crosby, Stills & Nash, and another song or two—went just as well.
The audience loved us so much that the next year, we were given a Saturday night slot, considered the biggest performance night. We had added a violinist and banjo player. A bunch of friends came down from Anchorage, including one who brought satin tour jackets monogrammed with the band’s name.
Alaska State Folk Festival, 1979.
We insisted the emcee introduce us as “live and direct from Anchorage”—our ironic reference to the way Juneau residents felt about our hometown.
Just before going on stage, we had one snag. Someone had left a car running with the doors open right in front of the hall’s main door. The emcee made an announcement looking for the driver. Who would be so dumb? I wondered, as we waited to go on stage. Then a friend ran up to us.
It was my car.
A friend moved the car, and we were ready to go. We opened with another bit delivered by John.
“We’d like to begin our set with a song we wrote as part of a promotion we did for the Anchorage bus system,” he announced. “It’s called, ‘Another One Rides the Bus.’”
Then Cliff played the opening guitar riff to “Another One Bites the Dust,” by Queen.
“Another one rides the bus,” we all sang, with the audience singing along, too. “Another one rides the bus.”
Again, the house exploded with laughter.
That was The Maintainers’ final show. I am still friends with John but have lost touch with Cliff, who I wouldn’t mind finding someday. But after that, I stopped performing, aside from school recitals.
EVEN WITH THE relative success of my short-lived musical career and music studies, I was still undecided about what I wanted to do for work. Another career idea: sailor.
I read the book Dove, the true story of Robin Lee Graham, who at sixteen sailed his twenty-four-foot sloop around the world. Of course, a part of my newfound passion for sailing was inspired by the handsome, golden-haired Graham.
Hey, I was a girl in college. I tended to get crushes on adorable guys.
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