I’d heard rumors about “Wild Rick” Mizell for years. He was the hottest guitarist in the region, and considered one of the local musicians most likely to make it big. He’d been playing in jammed nightclubs for years, and when he opened for Johnny Winter at the university, Winter asked him to come up and jam with him at the end of his set. My friends and I were too young to get into the clubs where he played, but we heard stories from older brothers and sisters. So when my friend Mark caught me between classes in eleventh grade to tell me that Rick wanted to audition us for his new band, I was flabbergasted that he knew I existed.
The next day, after school let out, I saw a guy in his early twenties with long dark hair and a fat handlebar mustache sitting in a Ford Falcon behind the school busses. “That’s him,” said Mark, who ran up beside me. “Right on time, too.”
I climbed into the back seat and Rick glanced at me in the rear view mirror. His eyes were dark and glittering. “Hey man, thanks for coming.” His voice was high and he spoke in spurts. “So we’ll see what happens, okay? I’ve got some gigs lined up. I want to stop doing cover songs and make my own mark on the world, but I need a band. I hear you guys don’t mind a little hard work.”
I didn’t know who was spreading such stories, but didn’t argue.
“I’ve got drums, a bass, everything you need already. And there’s a six-pack of Cokes in the trunk for you, too.”
I could tell from his voice that Wild Rick was shy and a little nervous. He drove us a few miles to a brick colonial with a dirt yard next to a highway. We followed him into what looked like a typical hippie group house—bare wood floors, a few mismatched and worn sofas, anti-war posters on the walls. As we entered the kitchen, I saw where the garlic and tomato smell came from. A young woman in overalls with a thick, dark braid down her back was cooking up a big pot of sauce while a toddler played at her feet.
“Hey guys, this is Amy, a friend of mine,” Rick said as Amy turned and smiled at us. “Here, come on down.”
Rick led us into a spacious basement with only a few cardboard boxes and stacks of amplifiers and speaker cabinets. A double tom-tom set of Ludwigs was set up and ready to go. Mark picked up a red Gibson EBO bass that was plugged in to an Ampeg amp almost as tall as he was. “Is this for me to use?”
“Yeah, I know you usually play guitar, so it’s pretty easy to play.”
While I sat at the drums and adjusted them, I wondered what the catch might be. Rick bent down and pulled a gold Les Paul out of his case and strapped it on. The black leather strap was emblazoned with gold lettering.
“What does that strap say?” I only saw part of it as Rick plugged in. “Wild Rice?”
Rick popped a short, loud laugh. “No, man. Wild Rick, not Wild Rice.” He pulled the strap down for me to see. “You’re crazy, man. But hey, let’s call our band Wild Rice.” He laughed again, turning away as if embarrassed. “Wild Rice. I like that.”
Once he put the guitar on, I saw him in all his glory. Along with the long, gleaming dark hair sweeping across his back and that big mustache, he wore a scarlet silk shirt, black trousers, and alligator skin cowboy boots. Rings flashed from most of his fingers, and colorful tassels dangled from his guitar and strap. Most striking was that he was only about five-foot-three. After some tuning, he cranked up the volume on his stack of Marshal amps and let loose a high-speed barrage of guitar flash that was so loud and so virtuosic that I reeled for a moment. This guy was the real thing—a guitar God.
Mark tuned up, then looked behind the top of his amp for a moment. “This is seven-hundred watts? Seven hundred? I didn’t know they went up that high!”
“Yeah man, it’s plenty powerful,” said Rick. “So look, here’s the first song. You might want to turn up some.”
Once we were playing, Rick lost his nervousness and led us through the first group of songs, carefully teaching us each change, each segment, so that it would be just right. It was immediately apparent why he liked the idea that we were hard working, because we went over and over and over the songs until they were pounded into our minds forever. I had to beat those drums harder than ever before because Rick liked to play loud–very loud. I was too young and awestruck to suggest that he might turn down, and that first rehearsal was the beginning of serious high-end hearing loss, but I still remember the songs and those tricky changes so well I could still play them today if the need arose.
After a couple of hours Rick drove us both home. We rehearsed with him three times a week for six weeks, and built up a set of solid material, most of it Rick’s originals. His songs were built around catchy blues-rock riffs with extended guitar solos that showed off his talents. He didn’t bother much with lyrics, which were generally a couple of lines per song repeated over and over. One was You’ve got my soul, babe—You’ve got my soul. Another was You got my money—And you know that. The day he showed up with an acoustic 12-string he made up a song on the spot. The music was hard edged, but the lyrics consisted of variations on I don’t know—Where I’m going today. There may have been more lyrics to his songs, but I never heard them.
Those little fingers of his were a blur on the fretboard, but speed wasn’t all there was to it—he employed complex phrasing built on a succession of inventive melodic twists that developed into a crescendo of such emotional power that I could hardly believe he could pull it off. In spite of his gifts, he was ill-at-ease around us. It was easy to understand—he didn’t really know us, and to him we were kids. Many people get involved in music because they don’t know how else to relate to other people. Mark and I never really got to know Rick, though we chattered happily away to him about ourselves. Mark and I often talked about our friend Dave, and one day when Rick came to my house to pick me up, he looked at my dog with a puzzled expression. “Hey man, is this Dave?”
Rick didn’t provide many details about our first gig, and on the Sunday evening he drove us there, I found out why. It was at a nursing home. How or why a nursing home hired a loud blues-rock band was a mystery, but Rick treated it with the same businesslike demeanor he might treat any gig. As we set up, I could see his hands trembling.
Once we got started, Wild Rick flew into action. He strutted like a rooster around the stage area in his alligator boots and a black satin shirt, his stubby fingers racing around the neck of his guitar, his head thrown back until his hair thrashed at the small of his back. He tore through his repertoire of blazing fast leads, low note moans and high note shrieks. I expected our elderly audience to retreat, but their eyes never left him. After the set, a line of old ladies waited to meet him, most of them in wheelchairs. I broke down equipment and looked over occasionally. Every one of the ladies took his little hands in theirs, their eyes glowing up at him, and thanked him for coming to make their day so much brighter. Rick, still flushed and perspiring, thanked them for coming the same way he might thank an old friend.
Our next gig was at a coffeehouse for teens called The Garish Grape. I knew the place well, and had many friends who hung out there. It was appropriately gloomy, with dripping candles, black lights, and black walls punctuated by psychedelic posters. Most bands that played there were inept at best, fumbling through Cream and Hendrix covers. I could hardly wait to do a gig in front of my peers, and Wild Rick didn’t disappoint. He was electrifying, and we left the crowd in slack-jawed amazement. I felt like a rock star.
Our next gig was the one we were building up to, and that had us all on edge. It was at The Emergency, a big-time venue, featuring local stars like Grin–lead by Nils Lofgrin, who later joined Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band–and touring national acts. Rick was more wound up than usual, and could barely get out more than three words at a time while we set up. I knew the gig meant a lot to him. He was sweating when he picked us up.
Minutes before our set, he pulled us into the men’s room and held out two plastic cards. “I got you fake ID’s, just in case. But I don’t want anything to happen, man. This is the night we start to make our mark on the world. Whatever you do, don’t try getting a beer or anything like that. Don’t even go near the bar—I’ll get you cokes. And stay in the background, you know? Don’t attract attention. Stay under the radar. We could all get in a lot of trouble.”
The place was jammed, and Rick turned his amp up all the way. On the first note I swore I could see sound waves ripple out from the stage on a fusillade of high volume. The bass made my lungs shake and the floor pulsate, I pounded the drums so hard that my hands hurt, and Rick’s guitar demolished everything in sight, screaming on high notes before descending in a lightning flurry of growling riffs to crushing power chords. We were so loud that my inner ear twirled with vertigo, and several times I almost keeled over. That relentlessly visceral intensity was painful and intoxicating.
During one of Rick’s solos I heard a crash and commotion through his Les Paul’s cries for mercy. Five policemen ambled in and signaled for us to stop. The agitated owner ran out and spoke to the policemen. People started to leave, and Rick hopped offstage to see what was happening. After about a minute he climbed back up and hurried over to me. “The cops are closing the place down, man. We’re done. Let’s get our stuff and get out.” He gave a short laugh. “We blew the windows out, man, can you believe it? We blew the friggin’ windows out!”
Rick was more silent than usual on the ride home. He pulled over in front of my house and let the engine rumble. When he turned to me, I saw tears in his eyes. “Hey man, I just want to thank you guys for everything. For everything. You were great, and I’m really proud of you. I can’t thank you guys enough.”
“It’s cool,” I said, feeling a nudge of alarm. “Sorry we got kicked out, but it was fun anyway.”
“Yeah, man.” He turned around and wiped one sleeve across his eyes. “Okay, I’ll call you guys, okay? Take it easy.”
Mark and I didn’t hear from Rick for a couple of weeks and he didn’t return our calls. We wondered if he was discouraged by getting the boot from The Emergency, or if he decided we weren’t all that good. I knew we still had a couple of gigs coming up, and didn’t know what to think.
At last I got a call from Rick, and he asked if Mark and I could meet him at Gino’s, a burger joint not far from where we all lived. We waited for him and nibbled at Gino Giants, wondering why he wanted to meet us there, of all places. Maybe he wanted to formally kick us out of the band. Or maybe he wanted to discuss future plans. Maybe, Mark suggested, he was just hungry.
When Rick showed up, he was wearing a white polo shirt and jeans; it was the first time I’d seen him out of his Wild Rick persona. He walked in with red eyes and a somber expression that gave me a twinge of concern. He shook our hands, which cranked that twinge into a jolt. “Hey guys, thanks for coming. I won’t keep you long.”
Oh man, I said to myself, here it comes. We’re fired.
“Hey man, I just wanted to thank you again for all you’ve done. You guys were more than I could have hoped for. You work hard, and you’re really talented. You’re going to go a long way, man. I know that.”
Mark looked at me and then at Rick. “So what’s happening, Rick? What’s this all about? What’s going on?”
“I’m sick, man.” Rick took a shaky breath and lowered his eyes. “I’ve got cancer, man. I’ve got to go in for treatments. They say I don’t really have much of a chance–maybe a couple of months left. I guess this is the end of the band. I’m really sorry, guys.”
I sat staring at him, feeling as if I’d been smacked in forehead with that Les Paul of his. Mark sat up and leaned toward him. “You’ll get better, Rick. I know you will. We’ll come visit you in the hospital or wherever. You’ll be all right.”
“Yeah, don’t listen to those stupid doctors,” I said. “You’re a rock star. You’ve got something special that can beat this.”
“I don’t know.” Rick’s voice lost that nervous staccato. “I’m going back home, to New York State. To be near my parents and all. It’s too far for you guys. And, I don’t know, I just don’t think you should come. I don’t want you to see me, you know, after all they’re going to do.”
“We’ll get up there, Rick,” I said, fighting to emerge from shock. “We can borrow my mom’s car.”
“No, man, I don’t want you to. Don’t come up. Please. I can’t explain it.” Tears filled his eyes until they glittered like diamonds. “I just want you know how much it’s meant to me to play with you guys. You helped me maybe, you know, leave something of myself behind. You guys, all this, meant a lot to me.”
He got up and left. We stood at the big windows watching him drive away in his blue Falcon just as a mom came in with seven kids screaming and scrambling all over the place.
Decades later, when I run into graying musicians who have been playing around the area for awhile, I’ll ask if they ever heard of Wild Rick Mizell. Every time, their faces come alive. “Ricky? Wild Rick? Of course I knew him.” They stop and chuckle to themselves. “Poor little Ricky.” Another pause, this time without a chuckle. “Man, there will never be another Wild Rick again. Never ever again.”
On a whim I recently Googled him, using all the variations of his name, wondering if his music ever did outlive him in some way. I didn’t get a single hit.
© 2010 C.B. Heinemann
