Lord of the Strings

On stage before a crowd of 80,000: This is the view from the top of rock and roll. Glenn Schwartz was there -- a few days before New Year's Eve 1969, at the Miami Pop Festival. With his guitar and his band, Pacific Gas and Electric, Glenn blew that crowd away. This Euclid boy was ready to be a rock star.

But another metamorphosis was taking place. After exhilarating a crowd that looked like the whole world, Glenn made an announcement: He had kicked drugs and taken Christ as his savior. He advised the sea of hippies that they would be wise to do the same.

The media chalked it up to rock-star eccentricity. The next day's articles treated Schwartz and his band as the real revelation. The band landed on the front page of the Miami Herald. A New York Times critic said that PG&E was "among the best and most under-exposed talent in the country."

Glenn's talents were no secret to Jimi Hendrix, who asked Glenn to play at his last birthday party. Janis Joplin jammed with him at San Francisco's famous Fillmore West. He counted Chuck Berry and Eric Clapton as friends. Jimmy Page, Duane Allman, Carlos Santana, and Jeff Beck were admirers.

After the Miami Pop Festival, Columbia Records swooped in, bestowing upon Glenn and his bandmates the record deal that would put their songs on national radio. In the summer of 1970, Pacific Gas and Electric hit No. 14 on the Billboard charts with "Are You Ready?"

But Glenn was not ready for rock stardom. The business was full of unholy temptations. God had given him enormous talent, but for God he gave up everything.

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Almost 36 years after Glenn made his testimony in Miami, he navigates a dusty white van through the Cleveland Flats, engulfed by a November fog. With him is Gene, younger brother and bass player.

When they arrive at Hoopples, a rustic, blue-collar sports bar, they are met by Sam, a sandy-haired man who's been taking nervous pulls at a Miller Lite while waiting for them. Glenn and Sam met three years ago at a rock show. Glenn locked him in a piercing stare that left Sam feeling "like I was standing at the edge of a 3,000-foot plateau." He is not religious. But he is devoted to Glenn and demonstrates his loyalty by acting as the brothers' roadie and promoter.

Sam ditches his beer, dashes outside, and grabs an amp. He hauls it up a few steps, placing it just where Glenn likes it -- a few feet in front of the Golden Tee.

Glenn enters without a smile or greeting for the regulars, only the same denim outfit, the same weary eyes. He lays his guitars on the video-bowling machine and stows the Bible behind it. He mutters to himself as he tunes his instrument. The first notes bring silence to the jukebox. There are about 30 patrons in attendance, and most know that this is their cue to stop talking.

Gene and Paul O'Brien, the drummer, mingle with friends as Glenn begins, fingers caressing the guitar's throat at first. Warmed up, gaining momentum, he starts strangling it, letting his trademark riffs wail out, the meaty part of his palm pounding the guitar neck, callused fingertips tugging strings for extra vibrato. Like every great guitarist before him, Glenn can make one instrument sound like two.

He grimaces, writhing through the high notes as if the guitar is electrifying him. O'Brien launches into his drum set, and the rhythm gets Glenn's trunk swinging back and forth, his knees bending.

He lays the guitar on the bar, and while his left hand works the high strings, his mouth works the lower. They say he began playing guitar with his teeth before Jimi. Today Glenn's teeth are mostly gone, so he pecks at the strings with gums and lips.

The guitar wails in a growling, screeching voice. Gene leans over and shouts above the din, "As long as you live, you'll never see anybody play guitar like this."

There is no stage at Hoopples, just a nook at the back of the bar, decorated with random knickknacks -- a Schwartz Brothers mirror, beer signs, and a felt dartboard, along with the bowling machine and Golden Tee. The bar is small enough that when Glenn stamps his black boots on the weathered hardwood floor, everybody can feel it.

Hoopples suddenly feels like a Mississippi Delta juke joint. "Hard time," he sings. "Hard time since the day I was born." Sam says it's the best he's ever seen Glenn play. "Come on, Gene!" yells Glenn. "Play that bass! Talk to me, Gene!"

The show ends as it always does, with Glenn delivering a sermon on the perdition of modern America to the few dozen people still in the bar.

"Sorrow is better than laughter," he tells them, locking a happy group in his baleful glare. "Laughter is cheaper."

This doesn't bode well for my interview. Asked earlier for advice on getting his brother to talk, Gene had said: "Just try to catch him in a good mood."