Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasy

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Clement Chen was freaking out. It was his first night at Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp in Las Vegas, and he had never played in a band before. “I was petrified,” admits Clem, 52. “I had absolutely no idea what to expect.” But on that night last November, after only a couple hours of rehearsal, he took the stage with his camp-assembled rock band and played the Rolling Stones’ “Live With Me” louder than he’d ever played anything in his life.

Rock On!

Photo by Mike Foster

Get a serious musician’s take on the rock-camp experience: check out the video diary by Confluence recording artist (and AARP employee) Billy Coulter on AARP.org.

It was messy: “The vocalist lost her way in the lyrics, and I didn’t know where we were, so I started playing the chorus, and then the other guitarist started playing the chorus, and our counselor shouts, ‘We’re in the verse, we’re in the verse!’” recalls the compact, bespectacled Clem. “Afterward, I’m thinking, ‘God, we sucked.’ But I had a tremendous amount of adrenaline in me. I couldn’t get to sleep till 3:00.”

Clem, an on-again, off-again guitarist, hadn’t even signed up for the camp. His wife had enrolled him as a surprise, after she’d heard that two of his idols—1970s guitar icon Joe Walsh and singer Roger Daltrey of The Who— would take part. Clem had just eight days before camp to learn the two starter songs: “Live With Me” and “Sister Christian,” written by his band’s counselor, drummer Kelly Keagy of the ’80s hair band Night Ranger.

“I took two emergency lessons from my son’s guitar teacher,” Clem says. “And I did say to myself, ‘I don’t want another surprise present like this ever again.’”

At about $10,000, not including hotel, the standard five-day Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp is no frivolous indulgence. Aimed at wannabe or coulda-been rock stars, it’s more like a sonic Outward Bound. Thrown together into ad hoc bands and plunked into rehearsal studios, campers navigate a wilderness of nerves, chords, and egos, hoping to survive a closing-day recording session and a closing-night show.

Clem’s band, dubbed A Hynt of Noize by its members, offered a fairly representative sample of campers. A hotel developer in San Mateo, California, Clem belonged to the most visible demographic: high-powered men age 50 and up. Drummer Robert Lee, 41, was attending camp for his third time, having recently sold a flooring business to devote more time to music. First-time vocalist Tracey Gregg, 45, a stay-at-home mom, was at camp on a trip her husband won in a radio contest. Guitarist, vocalist, and songwriter Travis Marsh, 17, had been homeschooling himself in music theory. I, 45, was also in the band: a chick bass player along for the ride.

The schedule was intense. At 9:00 A.M., campers piled into buses to the MGM Grand Hotel, where locker rooms and storage areas had been transformed into practice studios. We spent most of each day rehearsing and dealing with one another’s foibles, which in our band included bossiness (me), timorousness (Clem), and an endearing tendency to overshare personal info (everyone but Travis). Day’s end was typically devoted to master classes led by counselors such as Spike Edney of Queen and Bruce Kulick of Kiss, and jam sessions late into the night. Eventually we’d shuttle back to our hotel, and when 9:00 A.M. rolled around, we’d start all over again.

As our band practiced under Keagy’s tutelage, big stars would drop by to pose for photos, listen to a song, or even join in and play. When the unexpectedly tiny Roger Daltrey arrived—dapper in a flowered shirt and lavender glasses—Clem had so much Who memorabilia for him to sign that Daltrey asked if he owned a store. Slash, the top-hatted Guns N’ Roses guitarist, played a Tom Petty song with us, and Nicko McBrain, Iron Maiden’s drummer, sat in on our band’s original punk tune, “Come Get Your Sh-t.”

But it was Joe Walsh who had the biggest impact. Unlike the other visiting stars, Walsh jammed with each of the camper bands onstage in the lunchroom while the others watched—which meant that we would be in front of an audience for the first time since that messy opening night. Gaah.

Some bands invited Walsh to join them in playing his own hits, including “Life in the Fast Lane” and “Rocky Mountain Way.” During “Funk #49,” camper Chuck McKibbin, 51, a bassist, leaned over to Walsh and said, “You know, this song got me a lot of girls in high school.” Walsh reared back laughing, then whispered, “Me, too.”

Our band played a simple 12-bar blues in A, anticipating an improvised solo from Walsh and maybe one from young Travis, whose deferential manner concealed a keen talent. The first time the solo section came around, Walsh pointed to Travis, who ripped off a great little lead. The next time, Walsh pointed his guitar neck at Clem.

Terrified, Clem shook his head. He hadn’t improvised a solo in 30 years. But the rocker would not relent. As we turned to watch the standoff, cycling through the song’s chord progression, Walsh just stood there nodding.

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Finally, Clem gave in. And the solo he came up with was, surprisingly, solid—a spare, convincing survey of the pentatonic scale. “I’m a guy who likes to have everything preplanned and under control,” Clem said later. “But that was a moment for just stepping off the cliff and going for it. I did my thing, and it all fit in. I stepped off the cliff, and I lived.”

I’m not going to say our band’s foibles instantly evaporated, but something did change. Clem realized that, for all his lack of experience, he had as much right to be onstage as anyone, including his rock-star idols. And we bandmates realized that Clem could come through in the clutch. After camp was over, he e-mailed us saying that the process of becoming a band was “a life-changing experience”—a boost in musical confidence and a spur to take more risks. “Tomorrow, it’s back to the same old, same old, although I am no longer the same old me,” he wrote.

The final night’s show at the House of Blues went by in a blur, but a DVD of the performance confirms it was a success. There was Tracey, who had never performed in so much as a high-school play, vamping and thrashing her tambourine like Stevie Nicks. There was Robert, showing off his drumming chops. There was Travis, playing a Hendrix-style solo, guitar behind his back. And there was Clem, bopping and jamming as if playing in a band were the most natural thing in the world.

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