It was the grand and glorious 70's and I was playing drums in a Houston-area rock band. I was just a kid, probably 14 or 15, but, with a closet full of Black Sabbath t-shirts, I took my music very seriously and held my musical heroes high with hallowed reverence. But since my only exposure to these "heroes" was seeing them on the back of album covers or in concert at the Sam Houston Coliseum, it became very important for me during those formative years to have a more localized hero from whom I could draw inspiration and guidance. And for me, a key such character was one Keith "Bones" Bailey.

I was first introduced to Bones through our guitarist Mike and, let me tell you, this guy was rock and roll cool personified. Seven years my senior, his suave, hip demeanor was accentuated by his Jesus-like tresses of long brown hair, tidily manicured beard and mustache and slow, smooth swagger that was reminiscent of an old wild west gunfighter. Bones also gave new meaning to the phrase "wine, women and song," particularly on the "women" front. He always seemed popular with the ladies, which made him even more of a mythical figure to us impressionable youngsters.

And then there was his drumming. During that particular time frame, Bones was in high demand, notorious around town as the consummate, ass-kickin' drumming machine. I remember talking with a local manager back then who described his band's inevitable letdown when their usual drummer returned to the gig after Bones had filled in for him. "We got spoiled," he would explain. "Bones mops up the floor with our regular guy." Bones was the man...

I can still recall watching Bones play in a variety of situations. This was like going to school for me. He had a potent rock feel, meter like a pacemaker, sizzling technique and, above all else, a depth of seasoned musicianship that simply made whichever band he was playing with sound better. And while his fiery aura and slick showmanship were entertaining to behold, what always struck me about Bones was the unflinching seriousness in his eyes when he played. He had a profound understanding of the drummer's role in the band and he ran the show from behind his chrome Ludwigs with a commando-like intensity. And when it was time to solo, look out! With sticks and arms a blur in a locomotive motion around tribal toms, punchy bass drums, crackling snares and exploding cymbals, his drum solos were at once violent, poetic and inspiring.

At one point back in the early days, we even wound up auditioning for the same gig. What a joke. Bones cleaned up on the deal, making me look like the pathetic amateur that I was. No ill will involved, though. He was just overwhelmingly the better drummer for the job as my inexperience was no match for his spit-polished professionalism. Afterward, he was classy and apologetic about it, leaving me with a wink, a light punch to the shoulder and a reassuring "You'll get there, chief." He was the coolest...

As we got into the 80's, I began to devote considerably more time to the craft and wound up studying at a well-known New England conservatory for a couple years. Upon my return to Houston, Bones was very interested in seeing all that I had learned up there in "Bean Town," and it was gratifying for me to be able to show "the master" a few of the things I had been working on during my eight-hour practice days. Suddenly, we were more like contemporaries. In fact, a year or so later, we even shared students in a drum school that we ran out of his rehearsal studio. Those were the days...

Over the next several years, I would relocate to LA, but we still kept in touch. I had landed a few successful national gigs...something that, for reasons unknown, had always eluded Bones as his personal journey took him elsewhere. Nonetheless, drumming was in his DNA and it seemed as though he always had his hands in it on some level. And although I can't recall the exact circumstances of his winding up without any drums at one point in the late-80's, it was my great pleasure to be able to retire one of my old sets to Bones for "safekeeping;" on permanent loan, you might say. It was a root beer brown Pearl kit with oversized toms, a 26" kick drum and some heavy-duty Tama hardware. He loved them. I was all smiles...

One particularly poignant memory unfolded in the summer of '91. I was in the midst of a whirlwind tour with a popular new rock band, all over the radio and playing to sold out crowds around the continent. At the height of the madness, I found myself back in Houston for the quintessential local-boy-made-good homecoming: two days of screaming girls and spastic promo hoopla, all culminating into a sold-out show at the sizable Southern Star amphitheater. Due to the craziness of that last year or so, I hadn't connected with Bones much. But, despite the Valley Forge-like security of the venue and, more especially, our airtight inner circle of crew guys and bodyguards, I was pleasantly amazed to find Bones blending into the backstage scenery the night of the show. And I mean, backstage as in on the stage, 10 feet behind my drums! To this day, I don't know how he talked his way back there, but it was a joy to be able to share this event with him...one that he clearly would not have missed. And it occurred to me that, at one point, he no doubt would've like to have been the one up there playing for that ocean of shrieking fans, which included a number of proud friends and relatives. Yet, there he was, without a hint of envy or bitterness, like a proud older brother, selflessly cheering me on with wide-eyed enthusiasm and an even wider grin. It was a great night.

The Bones-man and I would continue to stay in touch over the next 10 years but, in retrospect, not nearly as often as we should have. So when I picked up that sketchy voice mail message last week from an acquaintance that a "Keith" had passed away, I willed with all my heart that it wouldn't be Bones. To no avail. I would soon find out that he had passed quietly in his sleep, a peaceful coda to what some might characterize as an often difficult 45 years on earth. If Bones was in fact dancing with a few demons, he always protected me from them.

And even though Bones and I hadn't been in as close contact over the last few years, it's been difficult shaking the quiet depression that has clouded over my days since getting the news of his passing. I've lost a friend, a mentor and a brother drummer who played a crucial role in the lineage of my biggest influences. What I would give to spend one more lazy afternoon in the thick summer heat with a shirtless and blue-jeaned Bones, sitting on yellow and green-striped lawn chairs, locusts abuzz in the background, spring water for me, a beer for him, and the two of us carrying on about drums, women and the philosophies of life.

I guess I'm going to have to wait...