I love rock and roll, and while I understand that it is really only rock and roll, nevertheless I like it. The truth is that I like most music and if possible never miss a chance to hear it live, or as close to live as I can get. In my twenties, which occurred during the bulk of the seventies, I saw a great many concerts, most of which I remember. Sort of. Growing up in the fifties and sixties in San Diego however afforded me and other music lovers a lot fewer opportunities to hear live music but we did the best we could. This is a tale of my love of music and pursuit of exposing myself to it as much as possible.
In the 1950s I had two avenues for the above mentioned exposure to music; the AM radio and my father’s record collection. Dad had big, thick 78s with a variety of classical pieces on them and 45s of mostly Country and Western, singles from movies, and big band stuff. It’s all I knew then and I loved it. I can still hear Gogi Grant’s “The Wayward Wind”, Debbie Reynolds’ “Tammy” and all of that Rachmaninoff stuff that came on the thick, black records that were kept in the heavy pressboard boxes. I mostly listened to what Dad listened to until a guy named Buddy Holly came along.
The second phase in my life of music appreciation arrived with Buddy and the big Bopper and Bill Haley, et. al., and lasted through the great rivalry between the West Coast Beach Sound and Motown. Most of the white guys in my neighborhood were solid Beach Sound, but the Latinos and Filipinos and the few black guys preferred Motown. I came down squarely in both camps. I loved Smokey and David Ruffin and especially the Four Tops, but I loved the Beach Boys and Jan and Dean and others just as much. Every night when I wasn’t hanging out with friends at the local recreation center which we just called ‘The Park’ I would be home listening to KCBQ, hearing my favorite two and three minute songs being spun by the legendary disc jockey Happy Hare.
Then one day I got to see Jan and Dean live. Concerts were rare in those days, in San Diego at least, and when my friend Ellen Marie and I heard that there was going to be the filming of a television show which would be emceed by Elizabeth Montgomery, the star of the TV show ‘Bewitched’, featuring the surf singing duo, and that they needed members for the audience, we signed up as quickly as we could. Ellen was one of my best friends in the neighborhood and we could often be seen hanging out together. We both had braces on our teeth and the other kids joked that if we should get together as a couple we would be the “clash of steel”. We never did have that kind of relationship, but our friendship was more solid and of longer duration than most of the romantic liaisons in my life.
On the big day Ellen and I walked up to University Avenue and boarded the Number Five bus that took us directly to downtown. From the old Horton Plaza it was only a walk of a few blocks to the Spreckles Theater where the show would be filmed. Ellen and I showed out tickets, bought some popcorn and candy for a buck or two, and found our seats in the auditorium. We were not too far from the stage and could see everything very clearly. Ellen and I yammered away with each other until Ms. Montgomery mounted the stage and gave us all instructions on when we were to cheer, when to clap, when to laugh, and so on. Ellen and I sort of paid attention, but we were too excited about seeing Jan and Dean to care very much about the details. Finally all of the instructions were delivered and the crew began to film.
The whole thing seemed a little bit odd to us but we played ball as best we could, clapping and cheering and laughing on cue. Of course, Ellen and I would frequently laugh at the wrong time because the whole thing seemed silly, and to a couple of kids in their mid teens it was truly silly indeed. But at last we came to the payoff. During a break for technical reasons Jan and Dean came out on the stage and the cheering then was genuine. The stars of the show, as far as we were concerned anyway, waved to the crowd and said a few words to the people in the front row.
After a few minutes they disappeared again and it was back to business. The crowd settled down, Ms. Montgomery began her introduction, and Jan and Dean reentered the stage as their cue was given. The “cheer” sign went up, but we were already providing that prop, and this time in earnest. Ms. Montgomery said a bunch of words that nobody paid attention to and then Jan and Dean stepped up to sing. The “cheer” sign was not up, but as the duo broke into “Surf City” a few of the girls screamed and some of us began to sing along with them. That was not in the script however and the “cut” sign was given.
“Please don’t make any noise while the boys are singing” admonished Ms. Montgomery. “The producers want to hear the singers, not the audience.
We settled down again as best we could and the introduction was made again, complete with canned and less-than-spontaneous cheering this time. Jan and Dean burst once more into “Surf City” and this time the audience maintained its cool until the end of the song, at which time we anticipated the “cheer” sign and burst into wild applause. Jan and Dean’s time was precious, and so their closing act of “The Little Old Lady From Pasadena” came right after that. Same format, same admonition when our youthful enthusiasm got the best of us, and same sense of awe as the singers produced, right there in front of us, the songs that we heard at least twice per day on the radio.
After a few more laughs, cheers, and rounds of applause, all delivered on cue, we were excused and filed out of the Spreckles and onto the sidewalk running along Broadway under the brilliant San Diego sun. As we walked back to Horton Plaza where we would wait with the sailors, the derelicts sleeping on the grass, and the pigeons which flocked around the domed fountain which was a fixture in downtown San Diego as long as I lived there, Ellen and I dissected every word, every movement, and every glance that had undoubtedly been aimed directly at us. The Number Five finally arrived and we climbed on board, thumbed our dimes into the box by the driver, and rode that bus back to East San Diego and to the park where we could brag about our adventure to all of our friends, who were jealous as could be but insisted that they really preferred James Brown anyway. And indeed, some of them did.
All of the Motown and Beach stuff came to a screeching halt in January of 1964 when the American release of the Beatles’ “I Want To Hold Your Hand” exploded onto the charts and the English Invasion was under way. My Navy father wouldn’t let me grow a “mop top” but a lot of my friends did, and we listened faithfully to the radio as sometimes two or three new groups with a totally new sound emerged each week to make a splash. The Beatles were nearly everybody’s favorites at first, with the Rolling Stones a very close second. My one and only girlfriend, Rhonda, was much taken with the Stones and I have to admit that I was more than a little jealous of that, so I had to claim some favorite other than them. I chose the Kinks, partly because I really liked their music and partly because they were even uglier than the stones, at least to judge by the bands’ pictures on their album covers. I don’t know why that mattered, but it did.
My relationship with Rhonda ended amicably – no point in being a sore loser – and I was soon in the market for a new girl friend. That mission was a lot like Ponce de Leon’s search for the fountain of youth. I was terribly shy and after my first relationship ended I couldn’t muster the courage to try again. This was a pitiable condition because Teresa Beal, the prettiest girl in the neighborhood by my standards, was unattached. I was on good terms with Teresa and I dropped more than subtle hints of my interest, but never received any indication of interest in return. The thought of just coming out and expressing my interest made me nauseous, so I dithered and plotted how i would eventually make my move.
My opportunity came in May of 1965 when it was announced that the Beatles would perform in Balboa Stadium. The Beatles were an irresistible draw and I was certain that an invitation to go see them would be irrefutable proof of my ardent and undying love, and Teresa would fall into my arms like Snow White into Prince Charming’s, or something like that. Tickets were $3.50, $4.50 and $5.50, and all I could afford were the $3.50 variety. Two tickets added up to $7.00, and that was a lot of scratch for a sixteen year old kid living in East San Diego in 1965. The tickets were procured and rested in my dresser drawer for days and weeks as I struggled to find the right time and right words to ask Teresa to go with me to see the Beatles.
The upshot of this tale is that I didn’t have the cojones to pull the trigger. Beatles or no Beatles, you don’t get a date unless you ask. I tried as best I could but Teresa and I lived in the same neighborhood; if she turned me down I would be faced with that fact every time I saw here and everybody would know. That wasn’t going to happen and so I asked my brother if he wanted to go instead, which he did.
Brad is also an interesting musical tale. My brother spent two years at Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas, and had recently returned from the Army. In Texas Brad learned to like old school Country and Western. Hank Williams, Carl Smith, and Marty Robbins were his sort of acts. A few weeks after returning home Brad walked into our bedroom while I was watching either Shindig or Hullabaloo, which were television shows that featured rock and roll acts playing their music. It was sort of like early videos, only live. Anyway, that night the Rolling Stones were singing “Satisfaction” when my brother walked into the room and my old fifteen inch black and white television screen was filled with Mick Jaggers’ lips, teeth and tongue. “What in the hell is that?” asked Brad in stunned amazement. “Give it a few months” I replied. “You’ll be borrowing my records.” And indeed he was, so when I mentioned the concert Brad leapt to the occasion.
We found our seats and almost had to pay for oxygen, they were so high up. I had never been to a real concert before and had no idea what to expect. The opening acts were all pretty good; Cannibal and the Headhunters was my favorite of that bunch, but soon we got to the main event. Out they came; four tiny figures on a stage down on the fifty yard line who wasted no time in starting the show. The audience wasted no time either in breaking out in pandemonium. Girls were screaming and kicking the sheet metal which surrounded the stadium lights. Guys raced out onto the field only to be tackled by burly security men. It turned out that Ronald Angulo, a kid from my neighborhood, was one of the first idiots to pull that stunt. The Beatles sang twelve songs and that was it. It actually seemed like less than that, but I am assured that we got twelve. And then it was over and I went home again to crow at the park, although it was hollow because I had wanted to be there with Teresa.
My love of music grew over the next decade as music became the medium by which disillusioned youth expressed their feelings to one another and the world. Music had become a complicated business and revolution filled the air along with the sounds of Hendrix, Cream, The Starship and a million others. But I’ll never forget the simple love that I had for the music, just the music, of my youth. No great causes or movements, no subliminal messages, just innocent music. Yeah, it was only rock and roll, but I liked it then. I still do.