Free No Regrets by Joe Layden Ace Frehley John Ostrosky Page A

guys in the band saying the name was an African word for an instrument used during sacred tribal initiation ceremonies.
    So who knows? Either way… totally sixties, right?
    I didn’t know what to expect the first time I showed up to rehearse with these cats at their loft on Canal Street in lower Manhattan. Conceptually speaking, Molimo was an odd little hippie band that modeleditself after Jefferson Airplane. We had two lead singers—one male (Tom Ellis), one female (Christine Murphy)—who alternated at the microphone. It was totally out of character for me, unlike anything I’d ever done before. And to be honest, it didn’t interest me much. But they’d written some good songs, and as a result had landed solid management and a speculative recording deal with RCA Records.
    I remember how exciting it was the first time we went into the RCA building in Midtown to put together our demo—walking into the very same studio where Frank Sinatra had recorded. If you care about music, that kind of history is palpable; you can feel it the moment you enter the room. I was twenty years old and trying to become a professional musician. Working with Molimo was as close as I’d ever been. We played a few shows, including one at the Fillmore East, and it seemed then that we were right on the cusp of hitting the big time (until RCA pulled the plug, midway through the recording of our first album).
    For me, though, it was a mercenary pursuit. I got involved with Molimo not so much because I fell in love with their music, but because I saw it as an avenue to become more deeply involved with the music business, particularly the recording end of it. I considered it a gig, not a passion; simply put, I did it for the bread, and that’s about it. You do what you have to do to make ends meet.
    I liked the people in the band, though—a diverse bunch that included not just male and female singers, but a New York City cop who was moonlighting as a keyboard player. He used to comb his hair straight back when he went to work and tuck it up under his cap. When he’d show up to play with Molimo, he’d comb it forward and let it hang down over his collar. I also became friendly with the drummer, Dave Polinsky, and the bass player, Barry Dempsey; in fact, at the same time that we were working in Molimo, we formed a power trio designed to fulfill our hard rock desires and to put some extra money in our pockets. The name of that little group?
    The Muff Divers.
    I shit you not.
    Obviously, with a name like the Muff Divers (and I forget which one of us came up with the name, or why we thought it was appropriate, although you can probably guess), we weren’t particularly concerned with commercial success or the likelihood of securing a record contract. The Muff Divers just wanted to play hard, fast rock ’n’ roll. Molimo played only original material, so it was limited in scope. I’d been in Top 40 cover bands before, playing songs people recognized, and so had Dave and Barry. So when Molimo wasn’t working as much and we all needed extra bread, we went out as the Muff Divers.
    Any chance to play was all right by me. The name of the band? The venue? The size of the crowd or even the size of the paycheck? All irrelevant. I tried to treat every performance in every dive club as if I were headlining Madison Square Garden. Arrogance was not part of my makeup. If anything I was insecure. I never considered any gig to be beneath me. If someone wanted to pay me (even if it was just a few bucks), and people were willing to listen (even if their numbers barely reached double digits), then I was more than happy to give them my best effort.
    Some nights, naturally, were more memorable than others, though not necessarily because of anything that happened onstage. There were the occasional bar fights, for example. They’re unavoidable when you’re playing in shitholes, with loud, drunken customers challenging you for the crowd’s attention. Usually they