I just finished my first day as a camper at David Fishof's Rock and Roll Fantasy Camp in Los Angeles. Now you may ask yourself why a professional sorta-somebody who has been in several hundred bands of varying degrees of success would subject himself to a 5-day routine of forming bands and rehearsing with complete strangers (some of whom are far from pros) and getting shellacked by rock star "camp counselors" in the process. Well, the answer has several prongs: [1] I'm a personable Italian gentleman who enjoys experiencing new things with new people. [2] The camp holds the promise of a story of Shakespearean tragedy and mirth. [3] Even I, who gets to interview rock stars all the time, can't resist the giddy joys of hanging out (and being schooled by) camp counselors such as Roger Daltrey, Mickey Hart, Cheap Trick, Neal Schon, Jack Blades, Mark Farner, Doug Fieger, and Simon Kirke -- just to name a few. [4] I'm always a sucker for a chance to perform with a brilliant PA system in a fabulous rehearsal facility. (The camp runs at the legendary SIR, as well as Swing House studios.) [5] I might get to play "I Can See For Miles" with Roger Daltrey actually singing the damn thing. (Check my pulse! Check my pulse!) [6] Gibson loaned me a totally bitchin' ES-137, and Vox provided some cool Valvestate amps. [7] I got put up in the oh-so-hip Roosevelt Hotel (with its tabloid hot spot -- the bar at the Hockney Pool), which afforded me all kinds of people-watching bliss, even though I am (a) way too old, (b) way too unhip, and (c) too cranky to deserve the glory of being in the presence of young hot things who will probably own the world for about 16.75 minutes in about a week or so. The whole camp moves like a military operation with tons of support people assisting the scores of campers and their star counselors. I was shuttled from the Roosevelt to Swing House studios for a fine breakfast and rehearsal, and when it was discovered there was no guitar available for me to use (most campers bring their own instruments -- excepting drums and amps -- but I took the lazy way out and opted to use camp-provided goodies), a groovy driver named Sash (who happens to drum tech for several big names, including Peter Murphy) was nice enough to take me to SIR to pick up that Gibson, and then drive me back to Swing House. (The group is so big that it requires two reheasal studios to handle the campers.) Back in the studio, I found myself in a band -- ultimately named "Kiss the Sky" -- with four guitarists (including myself), two drummers (one of who is a 19-year-old Keith Moon, but minus the vomiting and passing out), a bassist, a keyboardist, and a singer named "Fior" (who was no amateur, had a really BIG voice, and has enough industry contacts and talent to do some damage). Bruce Kulick, the marvelous and ballsy guitarist from Kiss and, currently, Grand Funk, is our counselor. He's an amazing player, a good organizer, and a really sweet and caring guy, but I learned quickly that he doesn't dig mistakes. And he REALLY doesn't like dumb mistakes. I thought my boot camp days were long over. They were not. Bruce was kicking our asses as we struggled through our versions of "Hard to Handle" and "I Can See For Miles." Even if you're a pro, you tend to forget the pressures of putting a live show together on a deadline whenever you don't have to. That's a survival mechanism. And here I was trying to fit in with a group of people I'd never met before, learning songs I'd never played before, and preparing to perform those two songs with these people at the Hollywood House of Blues on Monday. Four days away!!! In the process, I got my share of hammering from Bruce about too much vibrato ("It's not a Townshend thing!), fumbling an arrangement or two ("Aren't these really simple songs?"), and turning a signature lead line upside down and sideways ("You're freaking me out. I'm thinking the drummer is missing the groove, BUT IT'S YOU!"). We were also really really loud -- which isn't a good thing for a former punk rocker who stood in front of Marshall stacks for more than two decades. Here come the earplugs! Oh, and some members of the band couldn't stop noodling while Bruce was giving directions, which prompted a few "I will kick your ass" comments from the boss if the offending soul didn't cease making noise immediately. See, I had forgotten all the joys of managing band mates. We finally got both songs sounding okay just before the dinner break -- which means we probably saved Bruce's head from exploding. (Kiss and Kulick fans can send their thanks to this blog!) After dinner, I opted to bail out of the evening master classes and jam sessions to repair to my little oasis of obnoxious hipness to rest up for tomorrow. I certainly don't want to make any more dumb mistakes! Michael Molenda Editor-in-Chief, GUITAR PLAYER magazine