Whitey Johnson was the first guitar player I ever saw that amazed me, and I always go back to that parking lot in Garland, Texas when someone asks what made me want to play. It was Labor Day 1963 with the new asphalt oozing a black goo that would rob your flip flops if you didn’t keep moving. My baseball buddies and me were hot footin’ all around the shopping center carnival, rocking the Tilt-a-Whirl and the bumper cars and ruling the Fun House. Leon Phelps was my ride to the fair. His dad played mandolin in a bluegrass band called The Breakdown Boys, they were all mechanics, that played before the Valiants, who mostly covered Elvis and Jerry Lee, Little Richard and Fats Domino. The Valiants had the perfect look for a combo of their day, powder blue shirts, white dickies, tight black slacks, pointed toe white loafers, and razor-cut pompadours standing tall. Their outfits were complimented with matching white Fender Telecaster, Stratocaster, and Precision Bass with beige Fender amps. They were smoking and laughing at each other’s dirty jokes the whole time The Breakdown Boys played their set of crippled up Flatt and Scruggs and Bill Monroe stuff. Leon and I tried to look cool and act like rockers, like we didn’t like his dad’s band, even lighting up behind the flat-bed truck that was the stage while his dad was busy workin’ the mandolin and couldn’t see us.