Lancaster-based R&B/blues band Pillars of Society is living proof that one does not need to live the blues to be able to play the blues. Blues bands and musicians, in their earliest forms, conjured up images of older, world-weary, downtrodden black men who took their suffering and set it to music. Blues music comes right out of the mean streets of heartache and desperation, and is the foundation for much of the music we know today. Without greats like Muddy Waters, B.B. King, and John Lee Hooker, we would not have a well of musical soul to draw from today. Today's angry, young rappers, bangers, and gangstas all owe a collective debt to that which preceded them. Pillars of Society tip their hats to this format and style in the most complimentary of ways. "We try to play the blues as they were played originally," says drummer Brian McCaskey. McCaskey, 33, is the unofficial spokesman for the band (he also owns Two Dudes Painting Co.). "We're not looking to do anything but to go out, get together, and have a great time and a lot of fun playing," he adds. Pillars of Society has been around for "... about eight or nine years now, and since last year in it's current incarnation" says McCaskey. "We originally played from '92 to '95, and then family, marriages, kids, and careers took over, and we just got together again last year, and we are all having a great time with it."

Pillars of Society, as a band name, draws a laugh from McCaskey. It is not your typical hard-edged blues band name, and he is the first to acknowledge that: "We got the name hung on us by the old manager of the Blue Star," a regular stop on the Pillars' local tour circuit. "He told us we don't look anything like a blues band, that we look more like 'pillars of society,'" says McCaskey, laughingly. He's right, too. This band, from their appearance at least, looks more like the BadaBing Frat Boys Volleyball Team, not a smoking R&B band. Even they laugh at that. And hence, a name was given. They are clean-cut, white, and scholarly looking, and certainly are living anything but the hardscrabble existence of their blues ancestors. Case in point is lead singer and therapist Tom Graves. After spending his days untying the knots of society's problems, he spends his night with a microphone or a harmonica in his hands, and cuts through the air with a baleful, soulful voice that is gravelly, husky, and tailor-made for the tunes he sings. His voice will recall a young Joe Cocker, a younger Eric Clapton, even a hint of Billy Joel's soul styling (think of tunes like "New York State of Mind" or "Baby Grand") - and he sounds eerily like the Boss on "10th Avenue Freeze Out." "I learned to sing to black gospel music," says Graves. "This is the type of music I love to sing." When the therapist is asked if this is his therapy, Graves gives a wry smile and says, "Yes, I guess you could say that; this is my therapy."

Thankful to be removed from front man attitude and ego, Graves subtly steps away from center stage when it is time for any of his band mates to launch into a solo. The rest of the band is comprised of Tim Dougherty, 34, on lead guitar (an English teacher at Lampeter-Strasburg High School); John Sauer, 33, on keyboards (a banker by day - picture this: "Yes, Mr. Johnson, about your mortgage request, but first, a little honky-tonk ragtime"); Sean Smith, 31, on bass (an architect); and Chris Hynum, 31, saxophonist, and music teacher at Lancaster Catholic High School. Hynum is the most likely to talk about that intangible that all musicians refer to when conveying a love for playing great music well with a band: "It's all about the music," he says. "The energy you get, to be in front of a lot of people and get them dancing and moving is what it's all about, getting that energy from an audience and giving it back."

I can't help but wonder how the prepubescent sect in Hynum's and Dougherty's classes would respond to their profs cutting loose on Hendrix's "Voodoo Chile," which Dougherty absolutely rips up. Dougherty is an interesting musician. Standing over six feet tall, he wields a vicious ax when he straps his guitar on. As a high school teacher, though, he tries to keep this part of his life from his young charges. "We played at [Dougherty's] high school," recalls Graves, "and all the kids kept coming up and wanting to know if we wrote all those songs," to which the band collectively explodes with laughter at the memory.

Dougherty is clearly one of the musical gems in this band; the inside jokes stop and a degree of reverence comes over the other members when talking about Dougherty and his ability to wail on the guitar. Smith and Sauer both chime in to say that Dougherty can really cut it loose, while Dougherty looks painfully uncomfortable with the praise. A look at his T-shirt reveals, in very small print, the word "Introvert." Getting him to talk about himself is like trying to remove an impacted tusk from an elephant without anesthesia. He is shy, and when he is on-stage, he closes his eyes to avoid direct eye contact with anyone. It is at that point that something happens and takes him and the band to new places via the music. Just listen for 30 seconds and you hear Stevie Ray Vaughan all over his licks. His real influence is Albert King, who was once Vaughan's muse. "My dad once told me, when I was a kid playing in my room at too loud a decibel count, that the only thing worse than being Eddie Van Halen in my mind would be being Eddie Van Halen in my room." That advice pushed Dougherty beyond his shyness and out in front of an audience that goes wild over his searing guitar riffs. He is gracious enough to tip his hat to: "My biggest fan, my wife. She goes out and buys me my guitars, and shows up every time we play," he says, not concerned at whatever ribbing may come his way from the others in the band. None comes, and it is clear that there is a respect, and real bond between all the members.

All band members agree that they love to play and have a great time doing it. They have a built-in following of wives, friends, parents, and families, and have a regular group of people that get off on their tunes. Dougherty's 66-year-old mother, Yvonne, never misses a show, even though she says "I have to get up for work at 6 a.m., but I have to see the band, and my son." "Typically, we play every six to eight weeks," says McCaskey. "... We can really cut loose at the Blue Star. That type of crowd, when they are all up and dancing, you feel the vibe and groove, and we feed off that energy and it makes it a great experience."

And they are happy doing just that - like a bunch of old fraternity brothers who have managed to stake a claim in the "normal" world, with all the trappings, and somehow hold onto their dreams and youth by keeping their music alive. It comes across on-stage - no posturing or pretentiousness, just some good old R&B and a great time. It is as much fun to sit and talk to these guys as it is to listen and watch them. Good-natured insults and barbs fly quickly and freely, popping the balloon of anyone who dares to get a swelled head. "We started by playing in high school," say founding fathers Dougherty and Hynum. "Half the band played together in high school, and the other half in college," adds bassist Smith. From there, they just kept going. For them, it is not about big bucks, or fame. It is all about hanging with your buds, drinking beer, and playing killer tunes.