Robert "Bobby Caution" Morris is a walking conundrum bearing a warm heart and a mighty beard—easy to love but hard to understand.
I met Morris many moons ago in that den of burgeoning sin and occasional education known to most as middle school. I was a little lost schmuck, hoping to make a friend or two in a new town. Morris welcomed me with open arms.
We got along well for one simple reason: Morris revels in the weird and wacky—as do I. For Morris and me, the more likely a subject is to remove oneself from the graces of modern social circles, the better. We dug (and still do) Monty Python; obscure punk bands; ultra low-budget horror flicks; homemade comic books; and myriad other interests bound to insert one squarely in the "loser" category of any school.
The long and often difficult years between that curious time and now did not alter Morris much. Sure, life forged a more mature and head-strong Morris, but it did not wash away the wildness—nor the eccentricity—that caught my attention those many years ago.
* * *
Morris sits next to me outside Hamblin Hall at West Virginia State University, where he studies chemistry. Not so long ago, Morris came here to earn a degree in art—and earn one he did. Now Morris is back, pursuing another passion that he hopes to translate into a career.
"Art was fun," Morris says, "but it's kinda one of those degrees that are almost unnecessary, you know? It doesn't guarantee anything."
But Morris isn't gullible enough to believe a chemistry degree will automatically grant him a job upon graduation.
"I don't really know why I came back," Morris says, his usually bright and cheery voice dropping to just above a whisper. "I mean, I couldn't find any gigs remotely pertaining to art. Nothing, you know, official. And I'm not the painter type, selling art to interested buyers or whatever."
I ask Morris why he pursued the art degree without a clear end-game goal in mind. His answer is simple: "'Cause it was cool. That's about it really."
Morris himself is a living icon of cool, like the gods broke out their Cool Stamp and imprinted Morris while he was still cooking in his momma. Once a petite and wiry ball of spastic energy, Morris is now a calm and collected man with taught muscles, sharp eyes, and a beard that would make Grizzly Adams proud.
Morris says that he "evolved" from the ADHD-addled boy wonder I remember into the focused man of today sometime during his first go-round on the university Ferris wheel.
"I got my s*** together," Morris says. "I pulled my head out of my a**. Started taking my [ADHD] pills. Studied more. And yet I still partied. I just, you know, did it less often."
After graduating from WVSU in 2005, Morris headed to Huntington, the fattest city in the world according to one incredibly confused Englishman. Huntington proved to be Morris' musical launch pad, for it is there that Morris formed what he calls his "first formal band," the rock'n'roll outfit known as the Dig-Its.
"I played in bands before," Morris says, "in high school and whatnot. Little bands. Nothing special or fantastic. But, like, they were learning experiences, see, and that's what counts, I guess. F***ing up this, nailing that—getting it better, tighter, as time goes by."
For Morris, the Dig-Its represent improvement through experimentation made manifest in flesh, guitar strings, and cymbals. The latter have special significance for Morris, being a long-time drummer.
"I never thought I'd be, I don't know, John Bonham or whatever," Bobby says. "But I didn't try to be. Nah, I just want to—as clichéd as it sounds—rock hard. The Dig-Its, man, that was my first good opportunity to do just that."
And rock hard the Dig-Its did, for a short spell anyway. The band, which Morris describes as Thin Lizzy by way of the Stooges and Johnny Cash, captures the attention of the Huntington rock scene. Morris and crew win fans and sell out shows, and eventually record their first CD, which sells quite well.
Between gigs in Huntington, Charleston, and occasional out-of-state bars and dives, Morris took care of socially-disabled autistic patients full-time at Huntington's Autism Services Center. Morris juggled the dual responsibilities happily, enjoying his often difficult work while rocking many nights away with his band.
But like all good things, the Dig-Its' heyday came to an abrupt end, and Morris was forced to reevaluate his life.
"The Dig-Its, that was the status quo of my life," Morris says. "But then Amber, our singer, wanted out, and out she went. Then Vinnie, our rhythm guitarist, took off. Later, his replacement, Joey, quit as well. Last I heard, he'd pawned off all his old gear. Tragic, really. Dude was a guitar prodigy."
The dissolution of the Dig-Its forced Morris' hand. Rather than beat a dead horse, Morris elected to move on, putting the Dig-Its behind him forever. Morris informs me that the band, for all noble intents and lofty purposes, is a corpse.
"Won't be any reunion gig," Morris says, a subtle note of regret creeping in. "No new shows. No second CD. The Dig-Its are the past. The Wizards are the future."
The "Wizards" to which Morris refers are the Wizards of Ghetto Mountain, Morris' latest musical venture. Formed in early May of 2009, the Wizards came to fruition thanks to Morris and Chuk Fowler, a former Huntington DJ.
Morris heard Fowler spinning a slow, hard-driving form of heavy metal called "doom metal" (or occasionally "sludge") at Huntington's now-defunct Club Echo. One night, Morris approached Fowler about forming a doom band, and Fowler ecstatically agreed.
"The name," Morris says, "that was Chuk's idea. Didn't take him long to come to it either."
And the Wizards of Ghetto Mountain were up and running just as quickly, although there were a few stumbling blocks along the way.
"We had a friend of mine, Travis, on lead guitar," Morris says. "This guy Jared—friend of Chuk's I think—he's on bass. I'm drumming as usual, and Chuk takes vocal duties. That was the Wizards' first line-up. Didn't stick though."
First Travis left the Wizards due to work complications, and then Jared took off for reasons unknown. Thankfully replacements—guitarist Garrett Babb and bassist Luke Belville—came along soon enough, and the band set about subduing the Tri-State music scene like a pack of heavy metal Vikings.
"We have but one goal," Bobby says, "and that's conquering the f***ing world. As of right now, we are in the embryonic stage of doing just that. It's been pretty amazing how much we've accomplished in such a short time, you know? The band just seems to have this, I don't know, this energy that I've never experienced before. We get together and blow the ceiling off of wherever we're at."
The folks at Pittsburgh's Ulja Factory Records caught wind of said ceiling destruction and signed the Wizards to a record deal. Morris can barely contain the rapturous joy with which the record deal fills his heart.
"Not only are we getting an album with an honest-to-God record company," he says, "but we're also working with Steve Albini. This dude, man, he's worked with the greats. He's got the Midas Touch when it comes to metal. Everything he touches—and I mean everything—turns to gold."
Some of the "greats" to whom Morris refers include Helmet, Fugazi, Nirvana, the Pixies, and Jimmy Page and Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin. Albini has a proven pedigree in this business, so it is quite clear why Morris and his band are so stoked.
The Wizards will head to Chicago with Albini and producer Bud Carroll to record their first album in Electrical Audio Studios. Morris says the album will likely contain nine songs, and as many as three tricks will be available for free on the band's MySpace page.
"It's gonna be flat-out epic, dude," Morris says, all but pumping his fist in the air. "Epic, man. I can't wait."
Bobby Morris the musician has his head fully in the game and is playing by his own rules—and is winning, at least so far. But what of Bobby Morris the student and future chemist?
Morris doesn't know.
"I have no idea where this road is leading me," he says. "If the Wizards keep going, if that works out, well, I'll be happy. I love the band. But chemistry, man, I dig it too, and I'd hate for all this learning to go to waste."
* * *
The Bobby Morris that gets up at an ungodly hour for school every day is a far cry from the Morris that takes the stage with the Wizards every weekend. Morris is at once a musician with a bright future and a would-be chemist walking a tight rope. In a way, Morris is a modern day Jekyll and Hyde, only both halves are equal concoctions of good and bad qualities.
For instance, Morris the musician is never late to a band practice. Morris the student, however, occasionally sleeps in, missing the start of Algebra.
Morris the drummer contributes a great wealth of exceptional material to his band. Morris the chemist-in-training feels like he is "just at the cusp of something—maybe something great, but probably something unremarkable."
On the flip side, Morris the musician doesn't have a message to impart in his music. He isn't interested in heady metaphors or deep subtext; he just wants to rock. On the other side of the coin is Morris the student, who hopes to be at the forefront of great advances in the world of chemistry.
"I want to discover something," Morris says, "something special, something big. It's not an ego thing. I don't care if anybody knows I, oh, let's say I found the cure for cancer. I don't want celebrity. I just want to make a difference."
Morris is unable to explain why his is attracted to chemistry, or why he feels the need to use his training to change the world. In fact, Morris often doubts his current educational path.
"I know I love chemistry," Morris says, "but I can't tell you why. I don't know, man. Something about, well, about lifting sheet and peering beneath. Does that make sense? Chemistry is the science of everything underneath, the life blood of the world, I guess. That's just cool, man."
I tell Morris that chemistry gives me a headache.
"Yeah, well, it gives me a headache too," he says, "but the pain is worth it. Most of the time anyway."
When Morris discusses college, I see in him the same attention-deficit kid I met long ago. I see a boy yearning to do something with his life but unsure what that something should be.
But when the subject turns to music, Morris lights up. Morris the student fades away, making way for the triumphant return of Morris the musician.
I point this out to Morris.
"Yeah, I know," he says. "Chemistry can be a bitch. Tough as hell. And music is always fun, despite any setbacks or hiccups that may come along."
When I ask Morris to elaborate, he stops for a moment, looks up at the sky, and smiles.
"As much as I love chemistry," he says, "I'll always love music that much more. And I get the irony in that. I get that chemistry could give me a comfortable ride down the road. But music, bumpy and f**ked up as it often is, man, that's one ride I never wanna give up."
So there it is, folks. That's Bobby Caution in a nutshell. That's the boy I knew and the man I know now—a man who knows exactly what he wants and yet doesn't know a damn thing.
Morris the chemist may never come to full fruition. Even if he does, he'll likely always feel unfulfilled and unhappy. But Morris the drummer will always rock hard, and will forever bear a cheerful grin as he beats his drums senseless.
Come what may, I just want my friend, be he a successful chemist or a famous drummer, to be happy. Whatever you do in this world, Bobby Morris, rock on—and rock hard.
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