Timothy “Ace” Holleran, my friend of 40 years (but, who’s counting) bleeds Black Rock blue, downloads Bridgeport “ahbeetz” and serenades Park City institutional knowledge.
Rock drummer, song writer, game show wiz, story teller, Ace makes Forest Gump appear torpid.
He lived the Rock & Roll life for many years drumming for the likes of The Guess Who’s Burton Cummings. But when it comes to his heart beat he’s a man of the ‘Port. And he’s back in town.
Ace, upon request, shares this Christmas story about longing for home during Christmas toiling among the flowy LA palm trees.
Fall never really occurred in Los Angeles. Summer faded just a bit and palm fronds reluctantly turned brown. But come October, the questions began, “Where are you going for Christmas?”; “Got your flight yet?”
Oh boy. I realized that, like me, no one really lived here. We all called other locales “home.”
Finally out to the Left Coast on my own in late summer, free of any band ties. Drumming a continent from Beepo. It took weeks for the smog to curtsy and reveal a mountain just a couple of miles away. I was there for the business, nothing else.
One day, a large truck pulled into the cul-de-sac behind my place. I felt the rumble. Nope. A “tremor,” locals called it.
Enough of that Richterdreck.
Just getting by, I was garnering some recording work and a few showcase gigs. I met my bills, with little to spare. But a flight back East? It hadn’t occurred to me. And I hadn’t budgeted.
Come November, discouragement pushed my life ajar. Sure, the weather pitched perfectly, pleasant and unsteamy. Yet, the oddness of driving around with open windows with Bing and the Andrewses chanting “Mele Kalikimaka” proved quite unsettling. Most of the players I knew had their travel plans booked.
Cruising the Glendale Galleria for gifting ideas also felt off. I guess this was due to the fact that I was wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops.
Yes, I was living the dream, playing sessions in LA. I’d bump into semi-famous folk, looking for the big jump, that tightly cloaked catapult to stardom, or at least a decent road gig.
Such was my life. No tar pits, no Disney, no ocean, no edible ahbeetz. And especially, no homeboys.
Just music.
I had never spent a Yuletide away from Bridgeport. And so, I resigned myself to fake snow, overly tinselled storefronts and illuminated carports shimmering in the seamless LA twilight.
Then, one Monday at the Troubadour bar, a guy buttonholed me. He asked me to back him on a demo. Sure. Name was Jeff.
The session, one-night long, was booked at A&M studios in Hollywood. This was a couple of flights up from my normal dates at insulated garages in the Valley.
During some guitar overdubs, Jeff brought up the by-now-wearisome holiday travel topic. Without crying poormouth, I told him how I was planning to stay West for the Nativity, trying not to miss Lafayette Plaza.
Jeff praised my playing and promised me more sessions down the road. And that was that. Until he called me in December.
He sounded excited, his voice vying with an obvious party in the background. “Ace! Get packed. You’ll be picked up at eight tomorrow morning.” Click.
So I packed. What for, I didn’t know. The next morning a yay-long limo pulled up to my place. The rear seat–or should I say lounge?–was empty, with a dripping bottle of champagne at the ready. “You’re all set, Ace,” the driver said. “Mr. Jeff will see you at the airport. Everything’s been arranged.”
Jeff met me at the curb at LAX. “C’mon, Ace,” he said. “My folks live in Southport. We’re going home.” He ushered me into the Admirals Club.
The plane seats were in first class, of course. We had just about finished our cognac when LaGuardia loomed. I was still too stunned to speak much. Another stretch met us at the gate.
Okay, Southport was about three miles and a few million smackers from Mom’s house. Jeff insisted on dropping me first, wishing me the best, parrying my mumbled thanks.
314 Midland was dark and locked solid. Then I realized it was Friday evening, the 22nd. I knew where the party was.
The Norden Club was only three blocks away. I dropped my bags on the back stoop and sprinted. My windbreaker did little to thwart the hawk in the steely air. I deked the flakes, the big, soft kind, zigging my way down Grovers Avenue.
The strident scrape of shovel on sidewalk chased me. Through the club’s windows, the cheer seemed to bleed into the lot. My passkey still worked. Inside the hugs and Gløgg were warm. The biggest embrace came from Mom.
I felt the damp on my shoulder. Was that from fallen snow? I couldn’t tell, but it felt like home.
Thank you for the story and a kind of trip down memory lane.
We’re still in CT…but there’s no place like Bridgeport!