Chapter 1

There have been a number of major turning points in my life. Most of them are pretty much the standard fare, birthdays, major holidays, vacations, things like that. There have been three particular events that stand out in my mind as being outside the realm of typical and pretty close to being surreal.

I suppose I should introduce myself, as well as this story. I will be up front in sharing that many of the events that I will relate may be less than accurate. I can only attest to the veracity of the events that I witnessed first-hand. As the years have passed many of those memories have softened a bit around the edges, and may have faded a bit. Many other events that I will recount have been shared with me by those who were directly involved, and are tainted not only by their own bias in the telling, but by my own biases in the re-telling. I will freely confess that I do most certainly have biases of my own and feel strongly about the actions of many of those people who were a part of the events I describe.

Finally, I have done my best to piece together many other events from a variety of sources, not the least of which are the internet, news reports, anecdotes, wild-ass stories, and vague recollections dimmed by the haze of drugs, sex and rock-and-roll. My name is Alan Council. I am the lead guitarist of Geechie Mance. I am probably the best able to piece together Tiggy's story, not because I have any particular talent as an historian, but because I am outsider enough to be objective about the founders of said band. I am also most qualified because I am the closest friend of Tiggy Anderson, renowned in rock history as the inspirational force that propelled the band he named to the heights of success.

So, where to begin? Since this is Tig's story more than anyone else's, I suppose it would be best to begin with the day I met Lesley Dana Anderson. It was 1965 and he had yet to gain the famous 'Tiggy' moniker. He was just Lesley, not Les. He was also 9-years old, almost two full years younger than me. My family had just moved to Santa Barbara, California. It was summer, and I didn't know anyone. I was just wandering the neighborhood and noticed a little girl with dark curly hair crying in the shade of a Eucalyptus tree.

I remember the first glimpse of her swollen lip and the dark imprint that covered half her face. I asked her what had happened but she couldn't respond. She sniffled and sobbed and within a few minutes I was seated beside her, my arm draped across her narrow shoulders as she began to pour out her pain. It took a while to get the whole story. There were fits and starts and gaps, but she painted a pretty vivid picture of an emotionally neglected child, an alcoholic mother, and a psychotically unstable step-father. I also learned, during the tale, that this raven-haired beauty was a boy.

I am a normal hetero guy and have never felt a hint of sexual excitement around other boys. I cannot really say why I wasn't put off by this news. I know that my own father, good man that he is, would probably have walloped me if he had seen me cuddling another boy. All I know is that we connected some way on a plane that exists outside of sexuality and gender. I was not a boy snuggling another boy. I was a friend offering what meager comfort I could to a friend in need of said comfort.

From that day until this, we were the best of friends.

Before I recount the events that led to the first major turning point in my life, I feel as if I should answer all of those who might consider my words actionable in some form. I have spoken with lawyers about what I should and what I should not say. My only reply to anyone who takes issue with my commentary is very short and pungent. Fuck Off. I am recalling events to the best of my recollection and I challenge you to prove that anything I say is a blatant falsehood. In other words, sue me and be damned or shut the fuck up.

Over the course of that first meeting, Tig shared with me a veritable comedy of errors that led to a prime beating by his step-dad. Tiggy was always quiet and shy and was never allowed to socialize with other children. In fact, his mother usually banished him to his bedroom with a cuff around the ears and orders to shut up and don't come out unless called for. On this particular occasion, Tigs was doing what he usually did, creating his own little fantasy play world wherein he acted out dozens of roles. on this particular occasion, he had the misfortune to be overheard by his step-dad whilst acting out the part of the rescued damsel in distress.

Needless to say, the bastard was less than amused when he returned home from the track to find his wife passed out drunk in front of the TV and her faggoty little son dressing and playing the part of a girl in the back bedroom. When I say dressing, I mean only that he was wearing an oversize tee shirt that hung to his knees, his hair tied up in bunches, and a bit of color on his lips. It was enough to make said father figure leave a hand-shaped imprint on one side of Tiggy's face. He then grabbed the child by the hair and dragged him in to face his mother who was barely conscious.

Her inability to answer his screaming inquisition with any semblance of coherent speech caused him to redouble his brutish behavior as he backhanded the boy and tore into his lethargic bride. As she became more aware, it became a bit of a battle royale and by Tiggy's account she gave as good as she got (being a largish woman). Needless to say, the happy couple parted for the first and last time with both sides screaming epithets to the other. After the departure of daddy dearest, the woman spent several moments focusing on the image of her only son.

With venom in her voice, she focused on the badly battered child and said, "Now look what you've done! Go away. You disgust me."

Tiggy fled to the shade of a massive eucalyptus tree down the street.