Only Golden Fingers Could Play So Heavy
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Linder / OGF1 / 1 ONLY GOLDEN FINGERS COULD PLAY SO HEAVY Roger D. Linder Linder / OGF1 / 2 Copyright © 2014 Roger D. Linder All rights reserved. RoCeMaBra Publishing Linder / OGF1 / 3 Dedicated to my Mom and Dad Linder / OGF1 / 4 Linder / OGF1 / 5 Many words have been written about I Mall. Turn to any newspaper or magazine of the time and you’ll see the impact he had on music. But until this time, the full story of I, his family and friends has never really been told. That is, the story of I Mall cannot be told without telling the story of those around I Mall. While he once would have been the last to admit it, his life was shaped by people and events around him, without the control he thought he had over them. We all know I as the literal birth of Rock and Roll. Without him, the world of rock as we know it today in the mid-twenty-first century would not be the same. But without the influences and events surrounding him that shaped his life, he would not be the same either. I was both a tragic and a comic figure, and this manuscript will help you understand the man, the myth, and the legend. Most histories of I Mall begin at the beginning, or so they claim. Their beginning, originating with Golden Fingers, is not I’s beginning. And I’s beginning is not his beginning, his birth. It reaches years earlier, to the man known simply as Henry Mall. This is as much his story as I’s. I knew Henry. I knew I. I know this story. Enjoy! Roger D. Linder November 30, 2025 Linder / OGF1 / 6 CHAPTER ONE 1948 - Henry Henry Mall began his shift at the chicken farm much like he did every day. Rising at 4 AM, he walked the short distance from his modest home over to the hatchery building. In this line of work, he was literally up before the chickens and the rooster took its cue from him to begin the day. The smell was atrocious, as one would imagine when 1,500 chickens were cooped up in the building, providing the farm with a modest output of eggs, and occasionally, a new batch of hens. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” began the rooster as Henry entered, and he failed to let up for nearly 30 minutes. The chickens began rustling from their slumbers and Henry went about the business of checking each and every coop for the presence of that day’s bounty. Before his shift was over, he would collect hundreds of eggs and clean up gallons of manure. One would think it to be an existence that no one could tolerate, but Henry had the secret to keeping the job on this side of fun. It was the rats. Yes, rats. They scurried off to wherever they hid during the day when Henry arrived in the morning, but a brave one would show his whiskers and as often as not, it would be his last time in the light. For Henry carried with him each shift a .22 caliber pistol, and liked to take pot shots at the rats when they would appear. Henry’s passion for rat killing was his only vice. He was a good employee, arrived on time, worked unsupervised, and was responsible for the success of the hatchery in more ways than even his bosses suspected. His diligence was not unobserved, and soon Henry was promoted from egg gatherer to egg inspector. This gave him the opportunity to work with the automatic machinery, and be even more responsible for the success of the business. Once collected, the eggs were carefully placed into a large vat with a feeding tray off of the end. The eggs rolled individually onto a conveyor belt, making their way to the inspection station. Along the way, they were graded for size, quality, and color and most important of all, the light test. Each egg was individually checked in front of a strong incandescent light to ensure there were no surprises inside. Occasionally, that randy rooster would get into the chickens’ areas and one never knew if a new little chick was going to appear. The strong light would reveal the tiniest speck of blood, a new life, and that egg would be taken off the production line and into the “nursery” portion of the hatchery, where it was allowed to grow for twenty-one days to become a new Linder / OGF1 / 7 chicken life. Henry nurtured each of these eggs as if they were his own, and named each emerging chick. But Henry had a lonely life. Sure, he had his friends at the hatchery, but his family was gone. No, they didn’t die, but they were stuck in a time and a place where life moved even slower that it did on the hatchery. Henry had to get out, find the excitement, so he left his family when he was just fifteen[ Roger Linder, 12/17/14, 7:02 AM Left North Dakota sometime in 1943], gathered all his worldly possessions and took the train to California on his first great adventure. Henry wasn’t exactly unhappy in his time in North Dakota; in fact, some of those times were the happiest of his life. The cold and brutal winter storms would sometimes take a break, and the skis and sleds would come out. His brothers and sisters, there were eight in all, and the kids from the neighboring farms would all get together and race. There were no hills, but that didn’t stop them from pairing up and running through the snow, pushing their partner on his or her sled, striving to be the first over the finish line. And summer, though a tough time in general due to the Great Depression, still could be fun with cow patty throwing contests, horse riding, sleeping in the hay, hiding in the corn fields, riding on the tractors. It seems there was no end to the fun. But still, Henry knew there had to be more for life to offer. His parents weren’t entirely happy that he wanted to leave the homestead, but begrudgingly gave their assent. When he arrived in California, he moved in with an older cousin[ Roger Linder, 12/17/14, 6:38 AM An older cousin implies a sibling to Henry’s father or mother.] who helped him get his job at the chicken hatchery. Although Henry hadn’t worked with so many chickens before, he had been raised on a farm. He did have the basic skills, if it could be called that, to do the job. Henry had always clocked in each day shortly after 4 AM, until his big promotion. After that, he got to “sleep in” until 6 AM. But what a difference the two hours meant. For Henry, accustomed to getting into bed at 8 PM, could now spend a little more time in the land of the living, checking out the nightlife, so to speak, of the big city. Henry wasn’t a drinker[ Roger Linder, 12/23/13, 9:09 AM Henry would have to be 21 by this point to legally drink. That would put his birthdate early in 1927. Novel 3 establishes his birthday as January 15, 1928. Drinking was tolerated by minors at the Stomping Grounds.], but he liked music, and the local bar, the Stomping Grounds, had the best Country Western band in the area, at least in his opinion. The “Scuffling Scrappers” knew what people liked, and every weekend the place was full, people dancing, drinking, and occasionally fighting. But the music kept going, and the Scrappers were gaining a reputation as the Next Big Thing. When word got out and a local talent agent saw them, it looked like it was their ticket to stardom. They went off to the big city to record their first record, “The Boots are Covered with Manure.” Henry adored the band and had always wished he could be a part of it. In time, he was able to sit in with them while he was learning to play the guitar. He wasn’t very good at first, but with practice and perseverance, he found that he was Linder / OGF1 / 8 improving daily. He also started to build up a small record collection, and listened to the radio vociferously, learning all the songs from his favorite County Western artists. Henry was overjoyed when he was invited to join the band as a regular member. He soon began playing the circuit, visiting other clubs in the area. He dabbled in writing songs, but could never quite get past the first verse before running out of ideas. There wasn’t a whole lot you could write about in the life of a Chicken Farmer that would inspire folks to kick up their heels and dance to the tunes that the band put together. Fridays and Saturdays now had a special meaning to him. He was out with friends, playing the music that he loved, and most importantly, meeting girls. His first great love was Sandy Thompson. She, like him, was born in the mid- west but came to California as a young child when her father joined the U.S. Air Force. He was gone much of her early life, and when he was killed during World War II, it was a blow to her and her entire family.[ Roger Linder, 12/20/13, 3:07 PM Who was the rest of Sandy’s family?] That tragedy left Sandy a broken teen, and she took to drinking, smoking and general carrying-on.