The Fiction of Robert Charest

THE DEAK

a novel

THE DEAK, the first novel of a planned trilogy, is the wacky autobiography of the greatest rock musician who ever lived.  In his own inimitable voice, Deak tells his life story by breaking down and explaining his song lyrics, and describing the people and events that inspired each one.  It is aptly described as a literary homage to the film, This Is Spinal Tap.

Table of Contents

 

 

                                    Preface                                                            

                        1)         In the Beginning, There Was the Deak  

2)         First Kiss, First Song                                       

3)         Rolling Into New Orleans                                 

4)         Bourbon Street                                    

5)         Deak and the Ducks                                        

6)         Eulogy for Yulelog                                           

7)         My Guitars                                                      

8)         Guinnivere                                                       

9)         Marvin the Midget                                           

10)       Quack, Quack, Goose                                     

11)       Storming the Charts and the Country                

12)       In Cognito                                                       

13)       The First Second Coming of the Deak  

14)       One Man Band                                    

15)       I Parade Around the Earth                               

16)       World Dance Party                                          

17)       Ricky Venunziano                                            

18)       Deak and the NPS Express                             

19)       My Blue Period                                               

20)       Deak in the Country                                         

21)       Razmatazz                                                       

22)       The Rock of Deak                                           

23)       The Orchestral Deak                                       

24)       Cornucopia                                                     

25)       UFO                                                               

26)       I Am God                                                        

27)       Elvis                                                                

28)       Jesus                                                               

29)       Isabella                                                

30)       The True Second Coming of the Deak 

31)       With Podi in Madrid                                        

32)       The Arguers                                                    

33)       My Baby                                                         

34)       The Birth of Isaac                                            

35)       Upon This Rock                                              

36)       Deak and The Invaders                        

37)       Ancient Melodies                                             

38)       Trouble at Home and on the Road                   

39)       The Kookie Kola Fiasco                                 

40)       The Belle Blossoms                                         

41)       The Worst Night of My Life                             

 

 

 

 

Inasmuch as many have undertaken to compile an account of the things accomplished by me, just as those who from the beginning were earwitnesses of the songs have known, it seemed fitting for me as well, having lived everything from the beginning, to write it out for you in consecutive order, most excellent Guinnivere; so that you might know the exact truth about the things as they came to pass.

 

Preface

 

Throughout the blessed years of my life, literally hundreds of people have approached me with the idea of collaborating on my biography.  I admit, I’m always complimented they think highly enough of the life I’ve led to want to document and share it with my fans and the rest of the world, but I’ve always chosen to decline, for a variety of reasons.  The first is that although my musical career has been long, successful and illustrious--there is no shame, I am what I am--I’ve always been too busy continuing it to stop, reminisce and write.  And beside that, I’m still plenty young enough that I’ve never felt, until just this morning actually (I’m confronting my mortality here in the hospital), that the events of my life, incredible as they’ve been--there is no shame, I am what I am--warranted the composition of a biography.

Also, in trying to maintain a modest front, I’ve always reckoned myself to be unworthy of what would be such a flattering undertaking.  But even as I’ve just begun with this little preface, and given it a few minutes thought, I realize that all the anecdotes and stories of my romances and affairs--and my two true loves--the recording sessions, the tours, and colorful promotional interviews, could meritoriously fill volumes.  I don’t mean to boast, but that is the plain, unchangeable truth, wherefore there is no shame, for I am what I am.

So why now?  Why does The Deak pause at this point in his life to write his story?  Another assortment of reasons, the foremost of which is that being laid up in traction as I am with two broken legs, I’m going to have an abundance of idle hours on my hands for the next few weeks, making the moment right.  And who better to write the story of The Deak than Deak himself?  (If you want to know why my legs are broken skip ahead to the song 'Traction' at the end of the third book, or use it as a literary device to keep yourself in suspense and reading on...as you wish.  And in case you’re speculating, no, they were not broken by some loanshark’s henchman.)  

I’m also doing it on the advice of my manager, Larry, to try and counter some recent attempts to tarnish my image in the press.  These vicious, unwarranted attacks against my person are being perpetrated by what I call ‘envious wannabes,’ scoundrels who are waging an unfair war against the Deak.  People with desire but no talent become critics, and critics are often jealous of the genius.

Therefore I, here at the outset, must make several unequivocal, outright statements of fact.  With regard to the nine paternity suits pending against me, my lawyer and I have brought up counteraction that will prove the children are not mine.  The charges of tax evasion against me are also wrongful--I have never cheated anyone out of what was theirs--but if by some strange and unforeseen quirk the courts decide that I do owe the government money, I will abide by that decision and make haste to repair every last penny. 

The rest of the lies are sensational exploitations of my fame, for the singular purpose of selling magazines and newspapers, and I have every confidence that when reached, the verdicts in the libel lawsuits currently in litigation against some very high-profile publications will vindicate my character and good name. 

The only crimes I ever committed were two hotel room trashings in my wild adolescence, which damages I recompensed in triplicate.  Those two instances of vandalism are the only laws I’ve ever broken, and none others.  Nevertheless, Larry has suggested, and I agree, that it will serve me well at this stage of my career to adopt a charitable cause, so a portion of the proceeds from the sale of this book, and my next album, will go into The Deacon Downes Foundation, to establish a chinchilla preserve in an as yet undetermined part of southern Texas. 

Other than that, I suppose I should just get on with it, trusting that my muse, Guinnivere, will guide my pen-wielding fingers as gracefully across the page as she has up and down the necks of my guitars all these years.  And since my life and my music are so intimately intertwined, it seems logical that I tell my story by publishing my song lyrics, and describing the events in my life that surrounded and inspired each tune.  Peace out, rock on and love forever, my brothers and sisters.  And remember--there is no shame, we are what we are.

                                                                              Love,

                                                                              The Deak


 

Chapter 1

In the Beginning, There Was the Deak

 

I was born in Reverse--I mean, Reserve.   Heh, heh...that happens to me all the time.  Reserve is a small town in Louisiana about an hour from New Orleans.  My father was a sharecropper, and my mother a midwife, but as she understandably couldn’t deliver her own son, my aunt, who was also a midwife, held the honor of bringing me into this world.  Three days later I was christened Deacon Evan Downes, but even the minister who dunked my head in the holy water called me Deak, and that’s how I’ve been known ever since.

While so many infant boys are nurtured with footballs and sports gear in their cribs by fathers who hope they’ll grow up to become great athletes, mine had the wisdom and foresight to place a guitar and six harmonicas next to me; and when she later introduced herself, I realized that my muse, Guinnivere, had provided him with the inspiration to do so, for which I praise and thank her constantly.

My first memory dawned at the unusually early age of six months.  I was snoring and drooling through a nap while my parents entertained some friends in the other room.  A wind-up music box was playing 'Pop Goes the Weasel' behind my head, which formed the soundtrack of a dream.  The notes of the melody fell from clouds, dancing and flitting in the air above my face.  One by one they dropped onto my tongue, and as I sucked and chewed on the divine confections, they filled my mouth with a flavor like sweet nectar, and my whole body with a tingling, warm glow. 

I had been cradling my little guitar as I slept, and when the music box wound down I immediately picked up playing where it left off, not skipping a single note, as if I were willing those succulent candies to keep parading down my throat.  When at last my belly was full, I awoke to see my parents and their friends circled around my crib, staring down at me in awe.  I was still playing the tune, finger-picking it classical style, though I had embellished the simple music-box arrangement with some very ornamental, baroque arpeggios, making my instrument sound more like a harpsichord than a guitar.  My audience of six was astonished, but to prove it was no fluke I repeated the performance on three different harmonicas, in the keys of C, B-flat and the chromatic, as I clearly recall.  Thus came the first inkling that I was a prodigy, and my delighted parents acted in a very according and appropriate manner.


 

Chapter 2

First Kiss, First Song

 

In many ways the next year and a half was one of the most painful periods of my life, for although my brain was full to brimming and bursting with songs, I did not write my first one until shortly after my second birthday.  In that meantime I versed myself in the rudiments of blues, jazz, rock, classical and improvisational guitar, under the tutelage of Yulelog Henderson, the greatest of the fabled blind bluesmen of New Orleans.  My parents sent for him shortly after that first performance in the crib, and although he was immensely helpful to me in the beginning, when after just a few months he was learning more than he was teaching, and my father wanted to start charging instead of paying him for the lessons, his fragile ego revealed itself to be flawed, and he returned to the Big Easy in a huff.

I practiced every day for sixteen to twenty hours, mastering the guitar and harmonica while achieving high levels of competency on piano, saxophone, clarinet, trumpet, tuba, a wide array of percussion instruments, and the acoustic double bass, which I had to play standing on a high chair.  I was able to hear a Mozart composition once and play it back perfectly before I could walk or talk.  But the whole time I was mastering the instrumental aspect of my craft, the other remained trapped within my heart, as if inside an inescapable prison, where it ached and throbbed for release.  I speak, of course, of songwriting, how I wanted to sing for the joy of love and the sorrow of love lost, to elicit a chuckle or inspire a thought, to be clever and witty, to turn hearts toward almighty God, and all the messages I wanted to preach that would change the world forever. 

But I was still barely able to communicate to my parents when I was lonely for a hug and kiss, when I was hungry or needed a changing, or just plain tired and ready for a nap.  And although it was for all those reasons and more that I yearned to speak, the most powerful drive and desire I had to master the English language was so that I could commence producing the art for which I had been created.  Fortunately, during those early years--and ever since--every time my frustrations reach an intolerably painful pitch, Guinnivere always appears in my ears, softly saying,  “Patience, Deak.  Everything comes in its time.  First the leaf, then the fruit.”

How right she was, for an event occurred just after my second birthday that triggered the inspiration for my first song, but more importantly popped the cork off the bottled-up fountain of music that spouted like a geyser, and has gushed unabated to this very day.  It was, of course, my first smiting by a pretty face, and I will follow the lyrics of 'Chrissy Kissy' with the story behind them.

 

 

Chrissy Kissy

 

She was the girl next door to me,

I was the boy next door to her,

And when our mothers got together for tea,

One thing was for sure....

 

They’d leave us alone in the playpen

And go out on the lawn;

Then we’d start singin’ and laughin’ and

Dancin’ the moment they were gone.

And I’d cry....

 

Chrissy!  O Chrissy!

Come give some kissy kissy!

Though we’re only two

We know what to do,

And if I could talk, I’d shout I love you!

 

 

Our secret tryst went on for weeks,

They knew not of our love,

And how we two were sometimes one,

Like a hand and glove.

 

Then one day they caught us

With our diapers at our knees,

And snatched away and tore us apart,

Despite our gurgling pleas.

 

I never ever saw her again,

And her pretty little bangs,

But I think of her every now and then

And my poor heart pangs,

And I cry....

 

Chrissy!  O Chrissy!

Come give some kissy kissy!

Though we’re only two

We know what to do,

And if I could talk, I’d shout I love you!

 

The lyrics pretty much tell the whole tale.  Chrissy’s real name was Annabella Gumm, and her family lived next door to mine.  Our moms were friendly neighbors who took tea together two or three times a week, and while they were in the kitchen or out in the yard, Annabella and I were left alone in the playpen.  The first few occasions were harmless enough, though only because I was too naive to read the meaning of the gleaming twinkle that appeared in her eyes every time she looked at me.  Then one afternoon, while I was enjoying a little siesta, she crawled into my arms and started smothering my face and neck with her lips.  It was my first passionate kiss, and it whet my palate for the many more I would soon enough be giving and receiving fast and furiously; but after only that one, glorious eye-opening kiss, the Fates conspired against us, and, as I sing in the song, we were wrenched from each others arms and into our mothers’.  She never came over again, and two weeks later the Gumms moved to Cheyenne, taking Annabella away from me for what I thought was forever.

By more than coincidence I did run into her thirty-two years later, in Pasadena on the Big Hair tour.  What an indescribably lovely reunion.  She had been through two broken marriages, and confessed that she had always wondered what might have been had we stayed together, and showed me The Deak tattoo that she’d sported on her ankle for twenty years.  She hopped aboard the tour bus, and we spent a marvelous weekend together at my three sold-out San Francisco shows.  Also, I did a remake of 'Chrissy Kissy' a few years ago with the Shakin’ Sidewinders that was a minor hit on the Japanese charts for six or seven weeks.


Chapter 3

Rolling Into New Orleans

 

For the next six months I remained holed up in the house playing and writing.  I must have composed close to a hundred songs, not one of which I was happy enough with to want to record, or even remember.  But for the curious, here are a few of their titles:  'My Sippy Straw,' 'The Six-Fingered Fist,' 'Little Girls and Mini Skirts,' 'Love Is the Pacifier,' 'Moo Cow Blues,' 'Cookies and You,' 'Cartoon Faces,' 'Take You to Neverland,' 'Blue Suede Shoe Blues,' 'Turn Me in the Hay,' 'Pretty Little Booties,' 'In My Crib,' 'Tie the Clock, Set my Shoes,' 'Dinner Belly Rings,' 'Belching in Rhythm,' and 'Naptime Lullaby,' among others.

I was just a month shy of my third birthday when my parents and I decided I was ready for my public debut, and we booked a local men’s club hall for the performance.  I had an audience of no more than ten that night, but I played as though they were a hundred thousand, and pumped gallons of sweat from my heart before I had finished.  Quite simply, I blew them away, they spread the word like wildfire, and the next night the hall was stuffed to capacity, with hundreds more crowded at the doors, some of whom had come from as far away as five hundred miles.  My second show was even more sensational than the first--they gave me a forty-minute standing ovation--and my life was never again the same.

Only the best agent and manager the business has ever known, Larry Hymes, was in attendance at that show.  My father and I signed an agreement with him that night, and my career was launched.  The decision was made that we move immediately to New Orleans, where I would front a band on Bourbon street, a hot, jamming scene that was consistently turning one incredible performer after another onto the national circuit.  And as quickly as we could get our things packed and shipped ahead, we were on a southbound train.

I remember viewing our venture into the unknown with trepidation and wonderment.  I was leaving behind my cozy little creative cocoon to expose myself naked to the big city, to do with me as she pleased.  But I also knew the decision was right, that my family and I would be protected, and that the music of which I was guardian and dispenser would flourish and be embraced by a warm, welcoming world.  While those worries, fears and dreams crowded my tiny mind as the train trundled along, the rhythm and cadence of the rail infected me as I lay in a meditative, semi-conscious trance, and when we arrived at the station, I took out my guitar there in the lobby and performed 'Rolling Into New Orleans,' which I had written in my head and memorized on the train.

 

Rolling Into New Orleans

 

The windows pass like paintings on the southbound train,

My melancholy mood played in the patter of the rain.

I'm leaving home forever, never going back,

With nothing but a dream and my guitar in a sack.

 

Courage, son, my papa tells me,

As mama dandles me on her knee,

And even though I'm only three,

I'm quickly becoming a man.

 

Rolling into New Orleans,

Jazz parades and Dixie queens,

Hot corn bread, rice and red beans,

Hoping she'll fit like perfect jeans.

 

 

I know there’ll be bumps and traps and ruts,

Diversions, ditches and pitfalls,

But I ride this train of life through the tunnel

At the end of which my muse calls.

She’ll smooth the hills and fill the valleys,

And make the water glass where I tread,

She’ll quell the fires, cushion the rocks

And keep my mouth full of bread.

 

Courage, my boy, papa tells me,

As mama dandles me on her knee,

And even though I’m only three,

I’m quickly becoming a man.

 

Rolling into New Orleans,

Jazz parades and Dixie queens,

Hot corn bread, rice and red beans,

Hoping she’ll fit like perfect jeans....

Hoping she’ll fit like perfect jeans....

Hoping she’ll fit me....

 

There were about thirty people there in the station, and the moment I finished, they burst into a loud cheer of whistles and applause.  “Encore!  Encore!” a man wearing a hat cried.  They demanded more, but I was a bit overwhelmed by their response, and couldn’t sing another number, so I nervously jammed a few bars of 'Pop Goes the Weasel.'  It was met with another thunderous round of approval, and the same man doffed his cap, put ten dollars in, and went to everyone imploring:  “Come now!  Pass the hat!  That’s one hot little cat!  Fill the hat for that hot little cat!”  Then he came to us and insisted on knowing who I was.

“I’m The Deak,” I squeaked.

He shook my hand, then stuffed it with the bills.  “Jacob Kilvenny.  That was awesome!  Where do you play?  You should play out!  I can line up gigs for you....”

Larry hastened to put his arm around my shoulder, and protectively replied:  “He’s already under management.”  Then he whisked my parents and I away to the waiting car.  As we cruised to the house I counted the money--over one hundred dollars--and my starry eyes, swelled with greed, gave Larry a severe, suspicious look.


Chapter 4

 

Bourbon Street

 

 

The house was one of Larry’s properties, on the corner of Dauphine and Toulouse, one block off Bourbon.  It was five comfortable rooms with a studio in the back, fully stocked with recording equipment and musical instruments.  Both he and my parents were in adamant agreement that I be kept in seclusion until we figured out a way to smuggle me in and out of the house without belying my whereabouts to the many people who would surely be hounding me from the moment I debuted on Bourbon Street. 

Larry bid us goodnight and left, and then my parents began unpacking while I went to fiddle with a mandolin.  It bored me quickly, however, as did all the other instruments in my new studio, for I only wanted to go outside and explore.  I was mad to do so, and ere very long couldn’t stand being cooped up for another minute.  I checked and found my parents conveniently upstairs preoccupied with their books, and so slipped unnoticed into the night. 

I followed the music like a wafting scent into the intoxicated crowd, wandering forward while gazing up and around me in total awe.  I was dazzled by the lights and the action, the pretty women, the drunken kissing and groping, and the music!  Jazz on the left, blues on the right, Dixieland straight ahead, all horns, drums and guitars, guitars, guitars!  It seemed like a paradise, but soon proved to be no more than a mirage.

I was feeling a bit thirsty, and still had all the money in my pocket, so I stopped at a beer stall and bought myself a cup of cola.  I wandered on through another crowded block, where I stopped and listened to a couple of bands.  I have to admit I was disappointed, for although they had sounded good from a distance, upon closer scrutiny one could clearly hear that the instruments were out of tune and the musicianship generally sloppy. 

It’s no secret that I’m one for improv playing and open jams, but these cats were all over the place like cars out of control!  I mean, the bass player sounded like he was following the guitarist in the bar next door, the drummer like he was keeping beat to the feet in the street, and I don’t know what that harmonica player was blowin’, but it would have sounded better if he’d had a kazoo or even a hollow bamboo shoot in his mouth!  In short, it was a letdown of expectations, and I left that doorway despondent that the fabled music scene was, in truth, discordant and cacophonic renditions of the simplest and oldest standards.  But it did serve well to bolster my confidence that I would ascend like cream to the top of that crop.

I briefly lent my ears to two more bands, but they proved no better, so I gave up on the music and started staring at the women.  My young, fledgling libido began racing like a horse, and I longed, yearned, craved, ached and hungered like I was in a famine for a kiss from any of the hundreds of women streaming by me with ruby lips, pearly teeth, dark eyes and dressed to the nines in elegant, designer fashion.  I wanted to try out one of the pick-up lines I had been working on, but I was too overwhelmed by the crowd and too self-conscious to speak, and so stumbled around with my silent mouth agape.  Then I suddenly felt myself snatched up into the air, where I found myself staring into one of those painted faces I had been lusting after.

“What a cute little boy!” she said to her girlfriend.  “Where are your parents?”

Without the slightest reservation or hesitation I lunged, and in the next instant my mouth was pressed against hers, giving it a deep, passionate kiss.  She resisted at first, then gave in for several seconds, then resisted again, pushing me away.

“Where did you learn to do that?” was her exasperated response.

“Chrissy.”

“Chrissy?  Who’s she?”

“Kissy,” I answered, plunging back in.

She indulged herself in a second and longer kiss, then swung me back off her face again.  By then my feet hadn’t touched the ground in three minutes.  “How old are you?”

“Three next week, but that’s irrelevant.  Where are you two staying?”

"We have a room in the Monteleone...why?”

“What do you say the three of us go back there and make a rumpus of love?” I suggested.

They were shocked by the idea, and stricken temporarily dumb, during which moments I took my first close look into their faces and realized that they were much like the music; comely and enticing from a distance, but up close the truth, which can never be hidden forever, revealed them to be time-worn past their blooms, with sloppy make-up poorly disguising veritable maps of wrinkles and blemishes. 

I sighed in despair, but then thought:  Beggars can’t be choosers.  “Well, what do you say?” I asked, then mounted my third labial assault, this one on her friend.

We were interrupted almost at once by a stern and authoritative voice.  “Excuse me, but may I ask what is going on here?”

We turned to see a large, muscular, broad-shouldered cop, with his stout arms folded across his barrel chest.

The woman who still held me suspended in the air tried to answer, but she couldn’t get so many as two words out of her mouth, so I spoke out.  “Nothing that no one else around here isn’t doing, which you’d see if you’d just look about.”

“Yes, but they aren’t doing it with three year-old children,” he answered.

“I can assure you, officer,” I replied, “that I’m a full-grown man trapped in a little boy’s body.  I’m way beyond my years.”

“He does kiss like it,” the women said.

“What’s your name?” the policeman asked me.

“Deak,” I proudly replied.

“Deak what?”

“Not ‘Deak what?’” I cried.  “THE DEAK!  You’ll know me very well soon enough, and will regret having treated me thus--I swear it!”

“Where are your parents?” he continued contemptuously.

“Man, what’s with the third degree?” I indignantly demanded, then asked the woman to set me down, which she did.  “Why don’t you go arrest some criminals instead of harassing the citizens you’re hired to protect, and with whose taxes your salary is paid?”

“Why don’t you learn to respect the law?” he rejoined.  “It’s a lesson I’ll be glad to teach.  What’s in your cup?  Are you drinking under age?”

He bent down to grab my arm, but I evaded his grasp with a quick step back, and answered:  “It’s a moron and coke!”  I threw the soda in his face, then bit his wrist, kicked his shin, and sprinted away calling over my shoulder, “Sweet adieu, ladies!  It’s been lovely!”

I never looked back, so I don’t know if he gave pursuit, but I do know he never caught me, as I was able to hide myself amongst and swiftly navigate the tangled legs of the crowd.  I slipped down a side street and walked back on Burgundy to our house on Toulouse.  My nerves were a bit frazzled from the whole experience, so I took several deep breaths before going in.  When I finally did, my mother flew across the room, swooped me up in her arms, and smothered me with a suffocating embrace, crying, “O my baby!  Where have you been?  We were worried sick!  Your father’s out looking for you right now!  He should be back any minute, and we were going to call the police if you hadn’t showed up.  Where did you go?”

“Mother, I can hardly breathe.  Would you please stop blubbering and put me down?” I calmly requested.

She hesitantly acquiesced, saying:  “Now I thought we discussed that you weren’t to leave the house at all yet, least of all alone!  And at night!  You’re only three years old!”

“What can I say?  Curiosity got the best of me.”  She started to respond, but I interrupted.  “Look, I’m not your normal kid.  Do you really think God above would give me all these talents and then fail to protect me wherever I walk in this world?  This world I am here to sing of and to?  I think not.  Remember how Joseph and Mary worried themselves sick when they got separated from the child Jesus?  Well, I’ll tell you the same thing he told them:  Trouble yourselves not when I go about on my Father’s business.  Jeepers!”

And on that note I went into my studio, grabbed a guitar, and hastily composed the song, 'Bourbon Street.' 

 

 

 

Bourbon Street

 

Babble...babble...babble...babble...babble...Babylon!

City of fools!  Wicked charms!

Counterfeit jewels!  Spiritual harms!

 

See the pretty lights, how they dazzle the eye,

Attracting drunken moths like the stars in the sky.

And see the pretty women, how they make you want to dance,

Stirring thoughts of…mmm!  C’mon!  Take a chance!

And hear the strains of music drifting through the night,

But in this seeming perfect scene something's not quite right,

Because...

Lights are not stars,

Lust is not love,

And your guitar is out of tune,

You crow dressed as a dove.

 

It’s the marketplace in Babylon, Bourbon Street.

As phony as bologna made without meat!

Anything that would be good is trampled by the feet

Of the drunken, mindless zombies marching Bourbon Street.

 

Babble...babble...babble...babble...babble...Babylon!

Your smile beguiles!  All goodness has fled!

You work your wiles!  You’re the living dead!

                 

Your streets are paved, but not with gold,

That’s beer and puke and rancid mold.

The air is warm, but your heart is cold,

And you have no soul because it’s been sold...

 

At the marketplace in Babylon, Bourbon Street,

As phony as bologna made without meat.

Anything that would be good is trampled by the feet

                  Of the drunken, mindless zombies marching Bourbon Street.

 

Chapter 5

 

Deak and the Ducks

 

The next morning I held the first rehearsal with my first group, The Ducks.  They were accomplished seventeen-year-old twin brothers, Dickie and Denny Duck, who played the bass and drums respectively, so the name Deak and the Ducks presented itself as obvious and natural. 

There was rarely an awkward musical moment between us:  we connected and clicked instantly, and they learned my songs as if they knew them already.  Even I was astounded at how well they gelled with my playing.  By way of introducing the band to the audience I wrote the eponymous ditty, ‘Deak and the Ducks,’ which we used to open every show.

 

Deak and the Ducks

 

We are Deak, Dickie and Denny Duck;

I sing the guitar to their quack and cluck;

We’re here to rock and to make a buck;

Don’t care what you think, no, we don’t give a duck;

Still we wish you all the very best of luck,

Sincerely, Deak and the Ducks...

Sincerely, Deak and the Ducks...

Sincerely, Deak and the Ducks....