(Note from Jenn: Michael had me in absolute stitches with this one. Nugent is such an arrogant prick, and I love that Michael screwed with him some.)
I was thinking about the great guitar players we all love and admire—the Jeff Becks, the David Gilmours, the Mark Knopflers, the John McLaughlins, the Allan Holdsworths, the Eddie Van Halens. And then, while scrolling, I was tortured for five seconds by a clip of the Nuge playing live. I lingered just long enough to read one comment:
“Ted Nugent is one of rock’s most underrated guitar players.”
That comment unlocked a memory, one of my most vivid, and satisfying, professional remembrances.
These Boots Are Made for Walking
It was around 1986. I was one of those “in-demand session guys,” and I got called to play on a Ted Nugent song. At the time, I was deep into some illicit drugs that made me far more arrogant than I am now, and somehow even more opinionated, which seems almost impossible in retrospect. I was also, inexplicably, very into cowboy boots.
For the record, cowboy boots are not ideal footwear for someone with my foot size. But they were fashionable, and I was wearing them.
I arrived at Capitol Studio B. Naturally, Nugent wasn’t there yet, just his entourage: an engineer of note, a producer of some credibility, and assorted enablers waiting for me to start dialing in drum sounds at 9 a.m. I delivered sonic excellence, as was my habit. And then Ted Nugent finally strutted in.
He did his trademark pantomime of friendliness, pretending to like everyone in the room, before marching straight into the drum booth. He didn’t offer a handshake. He stared at my feet.
“Are you going to wear those cowboy boots when you play the drums?”
“Fuck yes,” I said. “I’m going to wear these cowboy boots while I play the drums. They’re what I have on my feet.”
He stared back at me with those milky, lifeless eyes and declared,
“Drummers don’t wear cowboy boots. You need to go home and change your shoes before we start the session.”
So I stood up, walked out of Capitol Studio B, crossed the parking lot, drove through the guard gate, and headed home to change my shoes, at his command.
Here’s the part Ted Nugent hadn’t thought through: he had no idea where I lived, or how long this little footwear pilgrimage might take.
On my way down Sepulveda Boulevard from my Gucci house in the now-gentrified Royal Oaks neighborhood of Sherman Oaks, I decided to enjoy myself. After all, this was his dime. I stopped for gas at my favorite 7-Eleven, where, fourteen years later, I would bump into O.J. Simpson, because America is nothing if not consistent.
I got hungry, so I swung by In-N-Out for a Double-Double with cheese, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. Then I realized I was out of my favorite illicit substance, so I made a quick stop at a dear friend’s house, known professionally as “the dealer”to stock up for my evening with Teddy.
By the time I returned to Capitol Studios, four and a half hours had passed.
Triple scale is a beautiful thing when you’re a sideman. Sidemen don’t get the glory, but occasionally we get the satisfaction, and the invoice reflects that.
I walked back into Studio B without acknowledging Nugent, the engineer, or the producer. I sat down at the drum kit and played one of his stupid songs.
And that, in a nutshell, is how one of rock’s “most underrated guitar players” taught me that power is often loud, insecure, and deeply concerned with footwear.
—Michael Jochum, Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition
