And now let us praise guitarist Tommy Bolin, giver of riffs, taker of souls, dead and forgotten. Hailing from Denver by way of Sioux City, most thought Tommy a teabag and probably a shirtlifter to boot. Sharing a similar last name, and the same affection for feather boas as Marc Bolan, certainly added to the confusion. Marc Bolan's T-Rex, however, was an exalted enterprise that approached true bliss. Tommy Bolin, on the other hand, was a prince of mediocrity and his mercenary services for both an ailing James Gang and Deep Purple is a sad testament to his middlebrow leanings. He did make a record that I still love, if only for it's flawed potential. It was called "Private Eyes" and it featured one of the most profound and prophetic lyrics of that entire decade: "don't let your mind post toastee, like a lot of my friends did." No truer words were ever uttered about the 1970's.

I first heard "Private Eyes" up at Andy Martin's classy digs. His parents: Dick, a pediatrician, and Gale, a potter/MILF, were pioneer sun belt hipsters... they had built this neo-Swiss Ski Lodge in the foothills of Tucson when all that was up there were John Bircher's and pack rats. Punk had not dawned yet, and the soundtrack for our pubescent partying was the album rock broadcast over KWFM. Swilling Heineken Dark and inhaling bong loads of Paraquat spiked weed, our heads spun with the hobbit rock of Rundgren's Utopia, the redneck snarl of Skynyrd's "Pronounced", the junkie payday of Lou's "Rock n' Roll Animal". We were truly retarded and it would take decades to sort out what was "good" from "bad". Shit, we listened to Grover Washington and Al DiMeola and thought it was jazz. The only Miles Davis we were aware of was an unlistenable mess called "Bitches Brew". We did like the title, however, and intrinsically understood that this was one serious mofo. Maybe, we weren't that stupid after all.

Which brings me to feeling old and feeble wondering around Tower the other day when I spotted the unmistakable yellow fever cover art of "Private Eyes". Tommy might have been more careful about the Japanese characters, "Bo" means grave... well it's too late now! Thankfully, someone had done me the favor of leaving the reissued CD out by it's lonesome in the DVD section. It was also on sale, which sealed the deal. I immediately hopped a green line express down to the ferry and couldn't wait to get home to play it on my 40 dollar blaster. It wouldn't be vinyl coming through Dick's monolithic JBL's, but nostalgia never is an exact science anyway. I strode past a family at peace, flung my brat's frogger DJ mix across the kitchen and slapped Tommy on. Okay, let's rock.

"Busting Out for Rosie" starts the party. Something sounds weird and I realize that not much love went into re-mastering this puppy. It's not like Columbia was going to get any irate e-mails from Tommy. This track had an amazing lower mid range vibe on vinyl, or maybe it's my imagination? Right off, it's apparent that all in all Tommy would rather have been in War, or at least back with Billy Cobham. "Sweet Burgundy" holds the two spot and after thirty years this little gem is a revelation. Jesus Tommy, make me cry why don't cha? Fucker never lost that puppy dog empathy, most likely that's what killed him. Sure, blame the heroin.

Praise God, here comes his mighty opus, "Post Toastee" with bar chords a crunching. Tommy foreshadows the pop genius of the piece earlier in "Rosie", when he admits to feeling "toastee". Researching this elegy, I learn that "Rosie" was a term Tommy lifted from Dr. John, it's swamp speak for that certain chick that would always bail you out of jail. "Toastee", of course, is general late 20th century hippie talk that refers to being high, ergo "Post Toastee" would be someone who has passed the point of inebriation and quite likely is dead. "So take it nice and easy, leave the coals in the pit." Good advice, Tommy, good advice.

"Post Toastee" is representative of the late golden age of rock in that a lot of takes were spliced together to create a heroic Wagnerian journey. The reggae breakdown was particularly inspired, while the backward guitar lion roar still sends a chill down my spine. Although Al Kooper once told me that records didn't really have budgets back then, "you were done, when you were done", "Private Eyes" had been recorded in six days and Tommy claimed he wrote it all in the studio as well. This I believe since half the tunes are bunk, but the lack of studio time speaks volumes about his lack of juice around Columbia. The worse thing about the disc are several unfortunate horn parts that sound like TV sitcom jive, but I'm sympathetic. Tommy wanted room to breathe and playing the white guitar hero was suffocating him. "Well my mind has been overflowin', about some things that don't seem right." Things still aren't right Tommy, and they'll never be right. Hamburger meat.

Soon after "Private Eyes", Tommy bent his final note and spoon down in Miami Beach. His "Rosie" at the time was too dumb or scared to call the paramedics. He had played the night before, and his last song was a furious extended jam of "Post Toastee". I like to imagine that deep down he knew it was his last sonic journey, and that he transversed the majestic terrain of the piece with passion and grace. "Hope I get me some sleep tonight." Turns out you needn't have worried Tommy, really.