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Stories About People I Knew - Chris Davis
Somehow peacocks became a recent recurring topic. First, there was a radio discussion about people who keep peacocks as pets, wild peacocks in residential communities, and peacocks as meals (and how it’s served). People called in with their peacock anecdotes and facts.
Another instance was when my friend Noah mentioned in a group text his excitement for seeing peacocks during an approaching trip to India. I guess he's never encountered peacocks. I had no need to share my experience.
I know peacocks. I’m from Los Angeles. I grew up thinking peacocks were normal birds that just walked around. I thought that the presence of peacocks was how you knew you were in a rich neighborhood. Peacocks are truly spectacular in person, sure. But they are also kooky, mean, aggressive divas whose screeches sound like torturous murder. They do not care about your expensive car.
Their feathers are a thing too; in that moneyed hippie vibe like jade but skewing a bit younger than jade. Peacock feathers in a vase is a core Los Angeles childhood memory.
People who grew up with peacocks in their neighborhoods typically hate peacocks. It’s like in Berkeley where tom turkeys are bullying our softer human citizenry—turkeys are the new gangs of Berkeley. The turkeys were cute until they were dreaded. Like peacocks.
Chris Davis hated peacocks. Chris Davis was someone I knew in the early eighties who I now understand was influential to the development and evolution of me as this person. Chris hated peacocks because he grew up with peacocks in his neighborhood.
I met Chris when I was working my way into Freelancers in 1982. I somehow persuaded the southern California members to allow me to attend a rehearsal, then attend weekly rehearsals in the San Fernando Valley, on Sepulveda Blvd. These musicians were all well into collegiate music programs. I was a senior in high school and those practices were an hour drive each way. At night. Explain to your mother that, no, no other high school kids are involved and it's not a sex cult. But I had a shitty car, a bright orange older model 4-speed Toyota Corolla without a name, and off I went. That small group--about a half-dozen--consisted of the most talented individual percussionists I’ve still ever known. I was the wonder kid from Claremont but I was not that-level talented. Yet. I was actually astounded by what I witnessed. And I was by far the youngest and least experienced, a frightened newbie.
The SoCal Freelancers were also some of the most culturally comfortable people I had met to that point. I hadn’t yet experienced that level of personal comfort and self-satisfaction within my generation. At least that’s how they presented themselves; as if existence was already fully formed around them but they couldn't be bothered with any of that. These people were as comfortably assured as any music professional I'd ever met. At that time I was only beginning to transition from my teenage introvert phase; half-cocky, half-terrified. Aspirational. But here I was among people way more talented. I was not in their league.
I don’t remember if they invited me back but I kept coming back for some reason. For two years I showed up and rehearsed and performed and toured with these people as far as Montreal and Atlanta. No one ever told me if I had made it but I suppose I had. I was in, not out.
Chris "Fuckin'" Davis was the bad boy of the Valley group. He had a shitty car too, a primered, beaten, older model Ford Capri called the Black Phantom. Chris smoked, drank, and F-bombed more than anyone I ever knew. He was the first person whom I knew to unironically like Mötley Crüe (I was a “music program” nerd). I think Chris dabbled in community college but nothing serious. But Chris was wildly talented, blessed with unbelievable skills in the crudest of packaging. As a drummer, he had hands of gold and exceptional timing. And he knew exactly how good he was too. Nicknamed Jackrabbit, not for his drumming but because a cop once exclaimed, "look at that jackrabbit run!" as Chris drunkenly evaded arrest. Chris was bigger than life and had no cares. He never worked especially hard.
Chris definitely vibed me when I first showed on the scene, he tested limits and flexed his credibility. He was dismissive of my presence, and negative toward my skills. He may not have talked to me directly for the first three months or more. Surely he laughed in my face and told me I sucked. I told people there was this one dude there who just hated me. This was all such a shock to me since I was the hot shot from the Inland Empire. I was the one who held the room back home but now I was nowhere near any conversation.
I somehow held it all together and I never let the depth of the shock show. I actually just kept trying. Well, I couldn’t quit because I wouldn’t be able to maintain any credibility back home. If I quit I would be laughed at just as I would laugh at any retreating failure. So I committed and worked.
Chris Davis’s personality was amazingly complete at the time. Then I found out his truth and was able to see through the performance and see the dude. Chris turned out to be a rich kid cos playing bad boy because he could get away with it. My beautiful blue-eyed rich kid bad boy was the son of a petroleum company CEO. Chris was privileged and that changed everything.
Chris was from Palos Verdes Estates—PVE—where peacocks roamed freely. Chris had a shitty car because he could afford to have a shitty car. Chris hated peacocks.
At the time PVE was to new money what Claremont was to old. All money, not that I had any, looked down on Valley money so Chris and I slowly developed an awkward connection. Through an inherent resentment I think we understood each other well. But I had to earn Chris’s respect as a player. I think the combination of learning more about his background and no longer fearing him, along with my skill development freed us to develop something that became an awkward friendship. We never hung out outside of music but we were all in with each other inside of the music world. Chris could trust my performance because knew my approach.
I’m sure I annoyed the crap out of Chris because I figured him out quickly. I believe he knew that I genuinely admired his talent. He paid attention to me and eventually allowed me to me learn from him and the others. He knew I cared about the nuances of technique and performance and I think he respected that. He called bullshit on bullshit. The respect was mutual.
He could be the rich kid and he could be the bad boy because he had skills. Nobody cared past that. I could be the music nerd with the awkward personality because I developed skills. Nobody cared past that.
I also learned a little bit about the application of the bad boy act. I learned how and where I could ultimately deploy it thanks to Chris. That group toughened me up. Those Freelancers taught me that talent is all that ultimately mattered. Chris taught me that we could always be who we want to be, not who we were born to be or somehow destined to be. He had that privilege.
But then, after a couple of years, I needed more. I moved up and away to the next level and became one of the most talented people on the whole scene surpassing many of my talented peers. It was a blur for years. I can't remember most of it.
The last time I saw Chris was in 1987, three years after I left Freelancers, when I was the lead dude for the biggest gig in the world, Vanguard. At a venue in southern California I happened to walk past Chris and he looked and me, smiled, and said without irony, "Vanguard sucks." It was Chris's highest compliment; endorsement that I had made it.
Skills. Nobody cares past that. I learned so much from these experiences and Chris Davis has surely informed my existence. RIP Chris Davis. I will definitely pour some out for you, Jackrabbit.
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