Rainer is starting to make his way back

Saturday, 5 April 1997

Bryn Bailer

THE ARIZONA DAILY STAR

These days, slide guitarist Rainer Ptacek is an understandably introspective

man. Beating death and regaining a lost muse will do that to you.

In the past year, Rainer - a humble yet immensely talented musician still

better known in Europe than here - has battled cancer, a

post-chemotherapy bout with what may have been Legionnaire's disease,

and serious memory problems that still make songwriting an arduous

proposition.

The experience has challenged him physically, financially and spiritually.

And while it has not beaten him, it appears to have definitely changed his

outlook on life.

``Really, the difference between living and dying is not all that big,'' Rainer

mused during a recent interview in his modest, midtown home, surrounded

by postcards from friends, photos of family members, CDs and music

tapes, and a trusty, upright vacuum cleaner.

``If you're out there on the verge of death, all it takes is a little flick of the

finger, (and) you're over.''

He paused.

``And it takes quite a bit to come back.''

Fortunately, a number of people, both here and abroad, pulled quite more

than a bit for him. They ranged from longtime friends to barroom fans,

famous rock stars to Buddhist monks.

``All those people are responsible for my healing,'' he insisted. ``I don't

know if I would have healed without them.''

If Rainer Ptacek (pronounced RY-ner THA-chek) wasn't completely

familiar with the blues before February 1996, he certainly was afterward.

That was the month he learned - following a violent, unexpected seizure

that landed him in a local emergency room - that he had a fist-sized tumor

in his brain. And cancer in his central nervous system. And not a shred of

health insurance to cushion the blow.

Medical coverage was not a benefit that his employers at the downtown

Chicago Music Store provided.

February also was the month that Rainer, who was the main breadwinner

for his family, learned he would be unable to work as a guitar repairman,

or as a performer. And it was when he and his wife, Patti, began to fear

that he might not live to see their new baby daughter, Lily Marlena, enter

kindergarten.

Today, sitting at his well-worn kitchen table encircled with Easter cards, a

small envelope marked ``Brain Tumor Support Group,'' and the haunting,

amplified voice of Egyptian singer Natacha Atlas, dying doesn't seem

foremost on his mind.

But living, and creating, are.

Right now, he is particularly excited about the impending release of a new

compact disc, ``The Inner Flame: Rainer Ptacek Tribute.'' The CD, which

Atlantic Records tentatively plans to release in July, features established

artists (including Emmylou Harris, PJ Harvey, Jimmy Page, Robert Plant

and Giant Sand) performing their versions of his songs.

``The whole project is just a labor of love for everybody involved,'' he

said. ``(And) it's going to be so beautiful. Once you see it, you will be

stunned, from the cover shot on.''

That said, he jumped up and returned with a rough, color copy of the

cover: a close-up of his little daughter's pale-blue eye, with a galaxy of

stars spiraling out from the pupil.

It illustrates a concept Rainer has been thinking a lot about lately: how

seemingly insignificant things, when considered from another angle, can

actually be of monumental - even lifesaving - importance.

A tiny baby can be ``the smallest thing, but it's also the largest,'' he

explained, with a smile. ``(All) at one place. At one time.''

Over the past year, it seemed, Rainer's friends and supporters also came

from all places, at all times.

They came on Tucson afternoons, organizing benefit concerts and bearing

bags of groceries so his family wouldn't go hungry. They came for days

from Czechoslovakia to help return his household to order. Friends and

associates faxed from Germany and England, and wrote from Japan, India

and all points American. Arrangements were made for Buddhist monks to

chant for him, and for Masses and Rosaries to be said in his name.

``I really do believe that's the weight that tipped the balance in my favor,''

he said.

Doctors tell Rainer that his lymphoma is in remission. Brain scans show

that the tumor - once located between the brain's two hemispheres, slightly

more to the left - is now little more than scar tissue.

That scar tissue, however, has apparently changed the way parts of his

brain work. Perhaps for a short time. Perhaps for the rest of his life.

Remembering names, dates and numbers is tough these days. Rainer

recognizes, but often cannot name, people he has known for years. His

own age (he'll be 46 in June) eludes him. He is unable to subtract even

small figures in his head.

On the other hand, he does remember that it was 1956 when he and his

parents escaped a not-yet-walled-in East Berlin and sailed to America. He

can recollect how his mother smuggled family pictures and important

papers past border authorities - by placing them underneath his baby

carriage. And he remains a witty, articulate, empathetic person.

Still, his lack of mental sharpness bothers him.

``I can remember things if you give me a day,'' he said. ``But to kind of

think on my feet, and be able recall all these different parts of your life that

have happened to you 40 years ago, and then yesterday...''

His voice trailed off.

What also may be changing is his music, and how he crafts it.

Today, there are sometimes fears and frustrations associated with

performing. And the man Rolling Stone magazine once lauded as ``a

slashing, articulate stylist, and a funny - often touching - lyricist to boot,''

must practice even his older songs before every gig.

``It's not like once the songs are played . . . that they're remembered,'' he

said, sounding slightly exasperated. ``Dexterity in my fingers is a not a

problem for me. Dexterity in my brain, thinking, is a problem.''

Actually, Rainer may be his toughest critic. In January, he visibly wowed

'em at a solo thank-you concert at University Medical Center.

As one haunting, shimmering note after another slid off the strings of his

vintage National steel-bodied guitar, doctors in white coats and nurses in

green hospital scrubs sat mesmerized. By the end of the lunchtime show,

the medical professionals joined university students, businessmen and

sweater-clad older women in giving him a standing ovation.

``I always carried this vision of myself being able to play again,'' Rainer

said recently. ``And I never let that go.'' Neither did his friends or family

members.

Today, one year and two months following his first seizure, playing

melodies still is a breeze for Rainer. It's remembering specific lyrics, or

certain turns of phrase, that still devil him.

That may indicate changes in how messages are routed between the left

hemisphere of his brain (the half that controls logic, language use and

mathematical ability) and the right (the center of musical ability, expression

of emotion and recognition of faces.)

It also could signal that Rainer is on the cusp of yet more innovation.

While songwriting is more difficult nowadays, an earlier, informal recording

session produced ``probably four of my best songs within a week.''

Including the ghostly title cut on ``The Inner Flame.''

Shaping that song involved trying things that he normally wouldn't have

done, he said, because ``you'd want to stick to the rules, the rhyming

patterns, and common words.'' Instead, he rhymed in non-traditional ways,

or dropped it entirely, in favor of an overwhelming inspiration, emotion or

sound picture.

Ironically, Rainer appears to have found some degree of liberation in being

forced to admit he often does not have control of his life.

That experience, along with his catastrophic illness and long recovery, have

forced him to concentrate on more important things: family, friends, and

love - both given and received.

``There are a lot of things you can't protect yourself against,'' he said softly.

``And a lot of things you keep dwelling on that you want to take care of,

but you can't. So you (learn to) live minute by minute.''

He smiled serenely.

``And that really is the only way to be. Everything else will take care of

itself.''