Happenings | DannyFaragher.com

My Fifteen Minutes with Andy Warhol

December 18, 2013 in Events, Happenings, Thoughts, Uncategorized

It’s November of 1971. Danny, Jimmy, Greg, and Casey – ‘Bones” – are getting ready to play for a gathering of Hollywood elites for the first AFI Film Festival. The gig turns almost surreal in a most unexpected way. For Danny, issues arise concerning image, performance and staying true to oneself.

On ‘Standby’

We were gathered in back of the stage behind a wall of speaker cabinets. I sat on the left rear corner of the riser behind a P.A. column, facing the back of the hall. We’d already done our sound check, playing to a sea of linen covered tables as young men and women, attired in black slacks and white shirts, scrambled to set out the dinner ware and flower arrangements. The amplifiers were now switched on ‘standby’, their backsides illuminated by the warm glow of power tubes. The horn on my Leslie speaker circled steadily. It brought to mind a ball player pin wheeling his bat as he waited for the first pitch. I turned my head to the left to look at my band mates. Greg, his head wrapped in earphones, sat slumped over his black Les Paul guitar as his fingers pulled and hammered the strings. God, he was diligent! My brother Jimmy, the group’s main lead singer and songwriter, held the top end of a ball point pen to his mouth, deep in thought,before scribbling some words on a piece of paper. He was mapping out a set. Our drummer, the ever cagey Casey Cunningham, stood with drumsticks in hand, laughing and kibitzing with Skip, our new manager.

I loved these guys. We’d been together for four years, the first year as the Peppermint Trolley Company and the following three as Bones. We were tight – both as a band and as friends. Through the good times and the bad times we’d had each other’s backs. Yea, we were survivors. The previous year we’d sequestered ourselves in a Marin County pad intent on wood shedding until we found our own sound. In January we’d moved back down to L.A. and right away, people had begun to take notice and respond. It was exciting to see fans lining up at the local clubs, and to be wooed by record companies and managers. The pace had accelerated palpably. Oh what a heady few months it had been!

Casey, Jimmy, Greg, and Danny. Bones in their prime.

In April, we’d moved into a house high on a bluff in Malibu. The view of the blue Pacific through the large bay window was spectacular. On our first day in the place we saw a whale surface, dive and surface again as it stitched a pathway northward. That spring held some of the happiest moments of my life. It was just the four us – gigging nearly every night (still schlepping our own equipment), rehearsing every day, and making the rent payments. Our lives were totally immersed in the music.

By summer, we’d tossed the dice, made our choices, and signed on the dotted lines. We had a record deal, a production deal, a publishing deal, and a management deal. A lot of our future now lay in other people’s hands. We knocked on wood and held our breath.

Chasing the Dream

It was now November and no longer was it just the core of the band living in the Malibu house. We’d taken on two school buddies, Ron and Billy as a road crew, and brought in a P.A. guy, Bill, and his assistant, Bruce. On top of that, Jimmy and Greg had each fallen in love with a woman who had a small child, and their girlfriends and the kids had now become part of the household. Casey’s ‘on-again-off-again’ relationship with his high school sweetheart was ‘on-again’ , bringing another female face to the mix. In addition, we usually had a house guest or two… or three, and many friends who frequently popped in. Don’t get me wrong. For the most part, it was an amiable bunch of people, and there was a lot of mirth to go around, but I missed the simplicity and singleness of purpose that we had known.

An inevitable feeling of transition hung in the air. It’s funny how we can chase after the future while at the same time fearing what it will bring. I sensed that a fork in the road lay ahead. My brother had recently written a song that expressed what I know we all felt.

Changes comin’! I don’t know if they’re good or bad.. Changes comin’! Make you happy or make you sad.

Skip glanced at his watch. A glint of light reflected off his upturned wrist and caught my eye. Pueblo Indian jewelry was very much in vogue with the counter culture at the time, and his watch band was a fine specimen of stamped silver and inlaid turquoise. He was also sporting several turquoise rings on his fingers.

“They should be arriving any minute.” he said.

We were expecting a crowd of people to be coming from Grauman’s Chinese Theater across the boulevard where they’d been attending the AFI Film Festival’s first ever screening. It was a movie called “The Last Picture Show”. Skip had been at the theater and seen most of the flick before ducking out early.

“It’s really cool.” he said. “It takes place in this West Texas town and they use a lot of old Hank Williams recordings in it.”

“Wow! ” I said.

“Yea. I know you guys like Hank. You’d dig it.”

Jimmy broke into song. – ‘Hey, good lookin’. Wha-t ‘cha got cookin’?’

Greg and I joined in with harmony, “How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up with me.”

The Malibu band house.

Skip laughed. He wasn’t your typical music biz guy. Oh yea, he was smart and savvy. He’d come up through the William Morris Agency. But he didn’t have the edginess that so many of these guys seemed to thrive on. I don’t think I’d ever seen him get riled or lose his cool. He was pretty mellow, and with his beard and long hair he looked more like a hippie than a high powered manager.

” I was just telling Casey, ” he said. “we’re working on lining up a short tour for the band in December. Concerts and club dates. Mostly in the Midwest, including a big concert extravaganza in Indianapolis with Alice Cooper, Canned Heat , of course, and Dr .John the Night Tripper.”

“Yea,” Casey added. “Apparently Alice remembers us from when we opened for him at U.C.L.A. and digs the band.”

“We know we remember him!” Jimmy responded.

“Yea, it’s hard to forget a guy in drag kicking a doll’s head into the twenty-fifth row!” I said.

We all laughed.

The idea of Rock as theater had been bantered about by music critics for years, going back to the Doors and Jim Morrison. Now, bands like Alice Cooper ,and Iggie and the Stooges were making their mark. Although I was cool and open minded about the concept, I knew that the four of us came from a different place. For us it was all about letting the spirit move us, being in the moment, and above all – being real. We were counter culture cats at heart who hated phoniness. We’d performed pro bono at so many peace rallies, sometimes putting ourselves in precarious situations because we believed in the cause. After walking away from our record contract as the Peppermint Trolley we’d vowed never to ‘sell out’. At the same time, in order to keep the creative train rolling, we needed to be commercially successful, which required our dealing with the phony Hollywood music biz scene. It was a dichotomy, and a confusing situation to be in.

Skip continued – “We’ll start spreadin’ the word about the band.”

“Bones hits the road, Jack!” Greg exclaimed.

Bones - Opening for Peace Rally - Oceanside, CA - May, 1970

Peace rally in Oceanside – 1970

“And don’t you come back no more, no more…” Casey answered.

Suddenly I heard laughter, and a rustle of fabric wafting in through the open door at the front of the hall. I peered through a gap between two speaker cabinets and saw people beginning to trickle in. They were elegantly dressed – men in tux’s and women in evening gowns. I ran a finger nervously over the embroidery on my vest, stared down at my feet, and wiggled my naked toes. How was it that I’d started performing barefoot? I couldn’t recall, but the bare feet, along with a wide flat brimmed hat had become part of my stage persona. What’s wrong with this picture? I mumbled to myself.

We were to play for about a half hour as the dinner guests were served cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. It occurred to me that the Mark Five, Jimmy’s and my old prom band from high school would be a more appropriate match for this event, providing some nice non-threatening dinner music.

“Hey, Jimmy,” I shouted.” Shall we open with Moon River?”

He laughed. “No, I think … um… I Left my Heart in San Francisco.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it.” Skip said “They knew who you were when they hired you. Just go on and do the show you always do.”

Filling the Void

We took our places on stage. Greg, stage right, me, stage left and J.P. in the center. Jimmy turned to make eye contact with me, then turned to Greg, and finally to Casey in back. “One, two , three…” he counted, bobbing the neck of his bass. We all entered on the one and off we went with a blast of sound. The song –Honey Baby– which could best be described as rock n’ soul hoedown music, was a number guaranteed to get crowds up and dancing at venues like the Topanga Corral. It was our standard opener. After the four bar intro, Jimmy snuck up to the mic.

“Well, I don’t know why these other women have to treat me low down dirty.” he sang.

I turned my head to face the tables and my eyes began sweeping over the crowd. I liked to work the audience, engage them. Some faces looked a little shocked or perplexed by our performance, while others seemed to dig it. I noticed a smiling young woman bobbing her head to the beat. That was reassuring. I recognized a few actors I’d always admired. There sat Lee J. Cobb, and Gregory Peck, and, oh wow, there was Bette Davis.

Lost in a stream-of-consciousness jam.

“Honey Baby! Oh, Honey Baby. . .”

Jimmy finished the chorus and gave me a nod as he stepped back from the microphone. I pulled out some of the Hammond’s upper draw bars, switched the Leslie to tremolo and swept the palm of my left hand up the organ’s keys in an aggressive glissando that climbed to a wicked right hand flare. I bent at the knees and stamped my feet as the phrases poured through the circuitry from brain to keyboard, some driven by yearning and others by rage. When the solo reached its climax I leaned my head back and gave out a wild cat scream. Casey played a ’round-the-horn fill and Greg picked up where I’d left off.

I lived for the expression that music and performing offered me. I didn’t have much of a personal life. My wife and I hadn’t lived together for two years. Although the marriage was in its last throes, I still clung desperately to the idea of being married. It seemed to stabilize me as I negotiated my way through an environment that was fluid and even chaotic at times. Oh, I’d tried playing the field, but a string of one-nighters with women I had little in common with had left me feeling hollow. Only music could fill the void.

” Cause I’ve got the strangest feeling , girl, I don’t believe you’d ever hurt me. . . ”

Up north I’d gotten into a disciplined regimen of stretching ,exercising, and eating healthy food. I was limber and fit – in the best shape of my life. I’d found myself experimenting with moving and dancing on stage, each night trying out something new and daring. It had gradually evolved into a routine. Lately, though, I feared I might be losing my mojo, that my performance was in danger of turning into shtick.

“Well I’ve been in love before but this love just ain’t like the last one.” Jimmy sang with conviction.

Hear No Evil

I checked out the tables directly in front of me. One face stood out. The man’s pale white skin was almost washed out by a shocking flash of bleach blond hair. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but those dark lenses were focused on me like a laser beam. He began shaking his head with obvious disapproval. Unmistakably, it was Andy Warhol, the artist. “No…no…no.” his body language said, “This does not please me.”… “This cannot be allowed.”

Needless to say, it was a bit disconcerting. I felt like a fly in the ointment , a pimple on the Mona Lisa.

I didn’t know that much about Warhol. I remembered seeing him interviewed on television by Louis Lomax, the late pioneering African American journalist. He was frustratingly uncomfortable and reticent, allowing the women in his entourage to do most of the talking. When I was still in school my roommate had a copy of the Velvet Underground LP, which featured a Warhol rendering of a banana on the front cover and a photo of the artist’s face framed by a tambourine on the back. We’d listened to the record quite a bit, and I did dig the song – Heroine, which featured Lou Reed ‘s hypnotic, and intense monotone.

“Honey Baby!. . . ” We were in the last chorus heading toward the finish.

My eyes fell on Andy once again. In addition to shaking his head, he was now sticking his fingers in his ears to telegraph his displeasure, as if to tell all the world – “I refuse to listen to this”.

“Yea, it’s all about you, Andy!” I thought to myself.

The ridiculous image of this guy plugging his ears with his fingers reminded me of the ‘Hear-no-evil monkey’. In my mind I could see a picture of his face in a Warhol style repeating panel. The idea made me chuckle. On an impish impulse, feeling I had nothing to lose, I smiled and gave him a wink.

Jimmy and I turned to look at each other and started laughing. We played another couple of tunes before Skip told us to wind it up. All the while Warhol stared at me, shaking his head and plugging his ears.

Backstage, we gathered around Skip. “You know,” he said with amusement. ” Warhol was threatening to leave the dinner if Danny didn’t get off the stage.”

“You’re kidding!” I said.

“No, honest to God.”

“We’ll never work in this town again.” Casey said in mock admonishment. “And It’s all your fault.”

” Yea, Danny! Why did you have to go and piss Andy off? Jimmy joined in.

“What’d I do?” I pleaded with palms up, suddenly feeling in the hot seat.

“Our career …” Casey piled on – “up in smoke.” He snapped his fingers.”Just like that!”

“You know what you should do?” Greg said.

“What?”

“You should take a chair up on stage, sit there, and stare him down.”

We all began laughing.

“Maybe he’ll start pelting you with soup cans!” Casey added.

“Isn’t it interesting how quickly everyone wants to kiss Andy’s ass.” I said.

Greg began shouting like a carnival barker. “This way, folks! Form a line! Okay, now down on your knees!”

“It’s like a little kid who threatens to take his ball and go home.” I declared. “What a jerk!”

“Think of it this way, Danny,” Jimmy said. “You’ve managed to be the focus of this little shit’s attention for a quarter of an hour or so. Do you know how many assholes would kill for that opportunity?”

Greg and Jimmy get down as Danny mounts the B3

I nodded and laughed. “Yea. Fuck him!”

All the while we’d been talking, Skip had been cutting lines of coke with a razor blade on the woofer speaker of the P.A. column. This business was hidden from general view by the tweeter which sat on top. He handed me a tightly rolled twenty dollar bill and said – “I think you should get the first toot.” Cocaine, new to us, seemed to be ubiquitous in the music biz in 1971. Everyone was doing it. So there we were snorting and partaking the illicit drug behind the PA speakers at a Hollywood gala. It was bizarro world!

Skip informed us that we would start playing again after the guests had finished dining. I felt hopped up and antsy. I couldn’t wait to get back on. But wait we did.

A Crowd Pleaser

After desert and coffee we again took the stage. I looked out. This time there was no shaking white head. No doubt, Warhol had probably been among the first to split. People were rising to their feet, many shuffling their way to other tables to say hello and schmooze. We’d only have time for one tune. Better cut to the chase. Jimmy called Potatoes., Although a throw-away as a musical piece, the instrumental was always a high energy crowd-pleaser.

An RMI piano sat atop my B3, and the tune was basically built around a funky left hand figure on this instrument. I kicked off with the left hand into. After another four with the band I began punching out the horn- like lead on the organ with my right hand. When we got through the head of the piece Jimmy, Greg, and Casey dropped down into a one chord killer groove as I danced to the front of the stage with a hand held mic. Strutting like a rooster, I began to deliver rhymes in the time-tested braggadocio tradition. After the vocal, I shouted ‘Watch me shake a tail feather!’ and tore into my wild, crazy legged dance. Steaming to a frenzy, I mounted the organ with my right foot positioned on the one inch ledge in front of the keyboard, and my left foot planted on top in the space next to the piano. I slipped a small piece of cardboard in between the organ keys to allow the chosen pitches to continue screaming as I played piano with my left hand. To the audience it gave the illusion that I was playing with my feet. On top of this I began to swivel my hips. I turned my head to caste a cocky glance out at the audience the way I’d seen Jerry Lee Lewis do. Instead of the multitudes Jerry Lee would encounter, however, there were perhaps a dozen or so people standing in front of the stage taking it in. The rest of the crowd had made an about-face to the exit. The room looked like a flood of dresses pouring out the door.

After I dismounted, we played the head one last time, and ended the song with an aggressively sustained chord. As the decibels rumbled, I climbed back up and on the closing hit leaped from my perch to land near the front of the stage. By now the room was nearly empty. The people who’d stayed gave us a small but heartfelt applause. As I stood there trying to catch my breath, a woman approached. I recognized her as an older character actress whom I’d seen many times in film and television. She took my hands in hers and looked directly into my eyes. Surprised by this warm and unexpected human connection I felt the tears begin to well.

“That was wonderful!” she said. “You… are a marvelous performer!”

Bones first album cover.
Photo by Phil Hartman

Art work by Bryan Faragher

I was recently contacted by Bill Brown who was the sound man mentioned in the story. He writes…

Hi Danny,

I am hoping you remember me from long ago when we all shared the house in Malibu … (the house was slipping off the hill, empty swimming pool). I was the guy who had the sound system Bones used. I shared the front room with Casey Cunningham.I read some more of your website and saw myself mentioned ( Chasing the Dream) my assistant was Bruce Darling. We had Earmouth Sound, an off shoot of Bob Luly’s Solid Sound. I ended up going to work as a sound man for Earth Wind & Fire.

I have thought of you guys over the years; hope your brother is well. I remember a brief potential producer relationship with Richard Perry.Anyway, just reaching out…hope all is well!! Best for 2014!!

Regards,

Bill Brown

Incidentally, our two buddies who handled the equipment and busted their asses to make a Bones show possible were Ron Smith and Billy Funk.

D.F.

Tags: 1971, AFI Film Festival 1971, AFI Film Festival dinner 1971, Alice Cooper, Alice Cooper concert - Indianapolis December 1971, Bones, Canned Heat, Casey Cunningham, cocky like Jerry Lee Lewis, Danny Faragher, Greg Tornquist, Hammond B3 organ, Hank Williams songs, Iggie and the Stooges, Jimmy Faragher, Louis Lomax, Peace rally in Oceanside 1970, RMI piano, Skip Taylor, the Counter-culture 1971, The Last Picture Show, the Mark Five, The Peppermint Trolley Company, the Topanga Corral, The Velvet Underground
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A Plunge into the System – Part 3

December 2, 2013 in Thoughts, Uncategorized

A Plunge into the System Part 3

Greg, Paul, and, Danny were arrested for skinny dipping and thrown in jail. Inside, they’ve experienced both the cruel and the absurd. Now they are on their way to the arraignment, joyful to be out of the cage. The story concludes with part 3…

Jackass

We stepped into the open air, that precious commodity, where we were loaded onto a bus. Paul and I were handcuffed and seated together. In the seat directly in front of us Greg was cuffed to an African-American man who looked like linebacker in the NFL. He was probably six – one, and two hundred thirty pounds, all of it muscle.

As the bus turned right out of the alley and onto the main boulevard, the driver eyeballed an attractive woman who was window shopping across the street. A large brimmed straw hat partially covered her long golden hair, and her white shorts revealed a pair of beautiful legs. The cop whistled. It was that two part wolf whistle that I’d heard in the Forties movies and cartoons. The hat whirled to see where the annoyance was coming from. Her pretty face looked surprised to discover that a law officer was the source. The driver flashed a yellow toothed grin, as if to say – “Whadya gonna do, lady, call a cop?” He then looked at his partner riding shotgun. They both chuckled and snorted

What a jackass! I thought.

Greg’s seating partner reached into his shirt pocket and with his free right hand removed a pack of Kools, . He tapped the pack against his chest, and pulled out a cigarette with his teeth. Returning the pack, he retrieved a match book, and with his thumb he flicked out and bent a single match, and rubbed the head against the striker. The match burst into flame. He lit the cigarette, and took a deep drag. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he turned to Greg, and asked “What are you in for?”

“Skinny dipping.” Greg answered.

The big man broke into laughter… “Skinny dipping? Huh!… Hell, I killed a guy!” He paused, and added, “But it was self defense; you understand.” He continued to chuckle as he shook his head and took another deep drag.”Skinny dipping?” Shit!”

San Diego County Courthouse

Convicts

After a twenty minute drive, the bus came to a stop. We spilled out, forming a column of twos, and set off walking down a sunny walkway flanked by green grass and shady trees. We could have been in a park, but the handcuffs reminded me that I wasn’t on my way to any picnic. On the grass to our right a group of young boys and girls approached from the opposite direction. Apparently, they were school kids on a field trip to the courthouse. I lowered my head, suddenly feeling embarrassment and shame, thinking of my mother and how her heart would be broken to see me like this. As our two groups bypassed one another I heard a little girl say –

“Look! Miss Harris, are those convicts?”

“Keep walking, children.” The young red haired teacher replied.

Stork Man, finding himself next to the teacher, suddenly feinted a lunge toward her with his upper body and shouted – “Boogo booga boo!”

The desired effect was achieved. The kids were frightened, and the startled teacher lost her composure.

“You should be ashamed!” she shouted.

Stork Man guffawed and turned his laughing head left and right as if to let everyone know he was the cause of the chaos.

We were taken into a building, and led to a room which adjoined the courtroom, where we were de-cuffed from our partners, and re-cuffed, hands in front. The three of us were sitting, waiting amongst a sea of orange uniforms, when the bailiff walked over. He was a tall middle aged man with blond wavy hair, spectacles, and a friendly, intelligent face. If not for the beige uniform, he could be mistaken for a likeable professor.

Leaning down and speaking quietly he asked, “If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly was the nature of your alleged crime?”

We told him.

“Ah, yes, Black’s Beach… My wife and I like to swim there on occasion. Great spot!” He smiled a knowing smile, then asked,

“Did you mouth off?”

We told him no, but that the women had ticked the cops off .

The Bailiff shook his head slowly.

Paul spoke up. “I think a case should be made that the human body is not obscene. The naked form has been considered beautiful since the ancient Greeks. Look at Michelangelo’s David, or the Sistine Chapel.”

“Look,” said the bailiff, “I’m inclined to agree with you intellectually, but that argument’s not going to score you a touchdown with the judge. A public defender will be here soon. Trust his knowledge and experience. I’ve also found Judge Gray to be a fair man. Good luck, gentlemen.”

A bit later we were approached by a man in a black suit carrying a leather briefcase. His salt and pepper hair was combed back, and with his horn rimmed glasses, he reminded me of a shorter, stockier Clark Kent.

He extended a hand, and with a congenial smile he said, “Hi, I’m Gerald Rafkin. I’m here to defend you.”

We all shook his hand, and he began inquiring about the circumstances. At a certain point he asked (as I almost lip synched along) …

“Did you mouth off to the arresting officers?”

We filled him in, and he nodded his head, saying, “It’s obviously a harassment arrest. It’s ridiculous, but don’t underestimate the seriousness of the situation. If convicted on these charges, even if you serve no time, you will have a sex crime on your record for the rest of your lives.”

There was an audible gasp among the three of us.

He continued – “Our best bet is to plead guilty to a lesser charge. Get it reduced to a misdemeanor, and allow the judge to make a ruling here and now. Gray is a pretty fair judge. Do I have your ‘go ahead’ on this?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m going to talk to the D.A., and see where their heads are at.”

In the court room next door I could hear the session being called to order by the bailiff.

“All rise. The court is now in session. The honorable Jonathon Gray presiding.”

My heart beat faster and my stomach began to twist as I watched the parade of prisoners marching in and out of the door.

After what seemed like ages, the bailiff stuck his head in, and motioned for us to enter. As we filed across the courtroom to sit on a bench to the left of the judge, I heard stifled giggles. Looking out, I saw our friends. Yes, I supposed Greg and I, young and cute, might appear comical in our orange clown suits, and handcuffs… perhaps like a routine in the Monkees TV show, where suddenly, and absurdly the boys might appear dressed in striped jailbird attire, wearing oversized ball and chain props. But this was real. This was my life, and the giggling made me ill at ease.

The bailiff whispered a few words to Judge Gray, who, with reading glasses perched on his nose, began looking over what was next on the docket. The judge gave what seemed to be a sigh of exasperation.

The prosecutor gave his presentation, seeming to sleep walk through it. “They willfully broke the letter of the law, your honor, and blah, blah, blah…”

“Are the arresting officers here?” Gray asked.

“No, your honor, they are not.”

The judge did not seem pleased.

Rafkin stood to defend us. “Your honor, this is a case of friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long while. Feeling happy to be together, they decided to go for a swim in the ocean… only… they didn’t have bathing suits with them… But they really wanted to go swimming… so …” – he shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms up – “…they went in without any clothes on.”

It was so concisely put; beautiful in its simplicity.

Judge Gray told both sides to approach the bench, and the three men spoke in hushed tones. At one point I overheard the judge say “I don’t want to waste any more of the court’s time, Mr. Bennett.”

The huddle broke up with all three men nodding before resuming their places.

Judge Gray asked us to rise. ” On condition of a plea of guilty, I am reducing the charges to ‘Disturbing the peace’. Do you agree to this?”

“Yes, your honor.” we replied.

He looked straight at us, and said “You are each sentenced to thirty days in county jail.”

My heart sunk. I began to pray.

Judge Gray continued, “The sentence is hereby suspended.”

He struck the gavel forcefully down on the wooden block, as if to say.. Case closed! Get it off my bench! Get it out of my courtroom! I’ve serious work to do!

‘I Shall be Released’

I had never felt such relief. I wanted to get down on my knees, sing halleluiah, and kiss the floor. In my naiveté, I thought the cuffs would come off immediately, and we’d just walk out the door of the courthouse to join our friends. Not so, we were informed. We had to retrace our steps back to jail to be processed out. We would have to wait until all the ‘i’s were dotted and the all the ‘t’s were crossed.

After being allowed to use the restroom, I was handcuffed to Paul once again, and we were paraded back to Jackass’s bus for the return trip. My jubilant spirit began to ebb like a deflating tire, leaving me feeling heavy and exhausted. Stork Man was sitting across the aisle and several seats up. I could hear him bragging.

“Did ya see that teacher jump? I scared the livin’ shit out of that bitch! Did ya see it?”

Someone in back of me had heard enough and yelled. “Hey, man, why don’t you just shut the fuck up?!”

I recognized the voice… It was Loser from the mug shot bench.

Stork Man turned his head. Everyone averted their eyes. He looked confused, more pathetic than confrontational. He didn’t say another word. Loser had done his good deed for the day.

The bus entered the alley from the other end. Up ahead on the left, a Latino painter was standing on a low scaffold facing a window, holding a brush in one hand, and a can in the other. As the bus drew even with the man, the driver stuck his head out the window and yelled, “Hey!” at his back. The shaken painter wobbled, almost falling from the platform, and spilled paint on his clothes and shoes. Jackass looked at his partner with a grin and they both cracked up.

We were led down the familiar yellow line, entering the tank just after dinner had been served up. My mind was not on my empty stomach. The three of us sat on stools facing the front bars, knowing we were no longer members of this sad community, but officially belonged on the other side. It was now up to the desk jockeys to slide the paper work through the system’s slot in a timely fashion. We sat, waiting.

Greg turned to me.

“Have you noticed how all the trustees have that ‘eyes turned inside out’ look?”

“Yea.”

“I feel like I’ve been getting that same look for a while now. My dorm room has been a jail cell. I’ve just been doing what’s expected of me; hoeing my little row. I watch flocks of birds in flight… They seem to be calling me. There’s nothing keeping me here. This bird is going to fly north to be with you guys. You can bank on it.”

“You won’t regret it, Greg.”

I looked into his dark eyes. The waters beyond ran deep. I knew that he’d dealt with real sorrow in his life, having lost his mother while still a boy, and I could sense the longing in his soul. I felt as close to Greg in that moment as I’d ever felt to anyone.

A group of guards walked by. Paul tried hailing them.

“Excuse me. Could you inquire about our release?”

They ignored him. We waited.

A good deal of time went by. No word. No acknowledgement that we were any different from any of the other fish in this tank. Another group of guards came by, shouting that everyone should get ready for lockdown. When one of them saw us remaining in our seats, he instructed us to get in the back, to be locked in with the rest of the prisoners.

Paul spoke up, “We are scheduled to be released.”

“Can’t we just remain here until the paper work goes through?” I asked.

The guard pondered for a moment, then took pity. “I guess so. Just don’t make any noise.”

“When will they come to get us?” Greg asked.

“Well if it’s not in the next fifteen minutes you’re out of luck. You’ll be with us at least another night, and maybe even the whole week-end. Sorry.”

Oh, God. I didn’t think I could bear it. I felt an oppressive cloud descending upon us, and my heart began to race. I wanted to run. I wanted to fly. More minutes passed. I said a little prayer.

“Lights out in five!” I heard a man shout.

We had given up hope when I heard footsteps approaching. A guard called out our name. The iron door slid open. It closed behind us. We were out!

Moving Toward the Light

Jimmy and Casey, and Emily and Betsy were waiting for us outside. We all hugged.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I proclaimed, “I give you the newest member of our musical aggregation.”

Greg stepped forward.

“It’s great to be aboard, but the initiation rite was a little much, don’t you think?”

There was laughter and applause. Greg then formally introduced Paul to the gang. The latter already had the ubiquitous cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“Paul helped us get through this.” I said.

Jimmy shook his hand and kidded him saying, “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

Paul chuckled. ” I believe I’ll attempt to stay clothed in public for the foreseeable future.”

The guys had bought some fast food from Taco Bell. The sight of the food made me suddenly aware of my growling belly. I thrust my hand into the cardboard tray and grabbed a burrito.

“What? No fish and chips?” Paul joked.

We three mates began scarffing down the fast food. It was delicious.

Paul had made a call, and a friend was coming to pick him up. Greg and I shook his hand. Jimmy handed him our phone number and address.

The older man smiled, and promised to pop in when he was up in area in a few weeks.

Greg was going to spend the night with Emily. This was good-bye. Jimmy gave him a hug and said – “You’re the piece of the puzzle that’s going to put the picture all together. We’ll make some great music.”

Casey patted him on the back. “Call us, and let us know when you’ll be coming up.” Lowering his voice, he added, ” And don’t go falling in love in the meantime.”

“Fat chance of that happening.”

Casey caste a sideways glance that spoke a thousand words.

Greg and I hugged. The experience had made us blood brothers for life.

“See you in a week or so, for pancakes.” I said.

The Peppermint Trolley Company – November, 1967

“You’ve got it!”

Paul left with his ride. We said good-bye to Emily and Betsy, and Greg took off with the women in the Bug. It was just the three of us once more.

Before starting the car, Casey paused and turned to us. “I was serious when I said that to Greg. Have you ever known him not to have a girlfriend in his life? I just hope he keeps hanging with Emily until the day he leaves for L.A.”

“He’ll come.” I said.

“Mission accomplished.” Jimmy said, embracing my optimism.

Once on the freeway, my brother, sitting in the middle, fired up a doobie, and offered it to me.

I waved it off. “Thanks, but it’s just too soon after too much weirdness. I could use a beer, though.”

The guys had been staying with two male college friends of Emily and Betsy’s in a two bedroom house near the beach in La Jolla. That was where we were headed. “They’ve been really cool.” Jimmy said.

The house was a little white clapboard. We gathered in the living room, sitting down on an oriental carpet that partially covered the hardwood floor. Bill and Alan were really nice guys. They were surfers – intelligent, book reading surfers (Imagine that!). Ironically, I would later learn that Bill was the man with whom Emily had had her tryst. Alan, who was over twenty-one, came back with a case of beer and set it down in the middle of the carpet. I pulled one out, popped the top, and poured the liquid down my throat, as Jimmy began humorously describing the events in the courtroom. He had Rafkin’s speech down.

“They decided to go for a swim in the ocean…. only they didn’t have bathing suits with them. But they really wanted to go swimming… ” he shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms up in imitation. “so…they went in without any clothes on.”

Everyone broke into laughter.

I’d thought I would be in a mood to party, and at first I tried to maintain the extroverted good time charley act, telling my absurd coffee cup story. But Greg and Paul were not there. No one present had shared the experience with me. I found myself wanting to draw inward. I felt my eyes “turning inside out”. I grabbed another can. It began to dawn on me just how traumatized I was by the event. Though I had not suffered any physical abuse, the idea that I’d been caged like an animal was painful to recall. I’d gotten through the experience by having companionship, maintaining a sense of humor, and desensitizing myself. I thought back to the courtroom. What if those thirty days had not been suspended? I would still be behind bars. I had not even allowed myself to prepare for that possibility. Whew! I’d lucked out.

We had fallen into the slimy underbelly for only a brief moment, but I would never view the world in quite the same way. Things were not going to change overnight. Institutions and systems were rigid. Corruption ran deep, and prejudices seemed to be chiseled in stone. In spite of everything, I truly believed that change was as inevitable as the continental drift, and that ever so slowly, we were moving toward the light. In the meantime, one had to fight the good fight, and sing the good song. I reached for another beer.

I held the can in my hand, and looked at it. Hamm’s Beer it said “From the land of sky blue waters”. I’d heard the product’s jingle throughout my childhood. I began to sing the melody softly to myself.

From the land of sky blue waters…

I knew that the reference was to the lakes of the Northern Midwest, but in my mind I saw the blue Pacific moving under clear California skies. I remembered the feeling of elation on the trip down. “Never forget it” I told myself.

I could still smell that nauseous jail odor. It had settled in my hair, as if trying to pull me back in. It was the smell of captivity, of the desensitized soul. I wanted to purge myself of it and all its negativity, to be baptized in the ocean waters. I imagined I was diving into a rising wave, emerging to feel its salty spray on my face, digging my toes into the sand, and turning my head upward to gaze at a pelican circling the sky…

Free.

Graphic Design by: Bryan Faragher

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Thoughts on the Fiftieth Anniversary of JFK Assassination

November 22, 2013 in Thoughts, Uncategorized

I’m sitting here tapping out my thoughts to a screen on a Friday morning. Looking out my window I can see the trees swaying in a cold and cloudy sky. It’s November 22, 2013. My mind flies back fifty years to another Friday, another November 22. My memory is divided into the time before the JFK assassination and the time after.

I was a junior in high school, sitting at my desk in English class. We were taking a test, and I was having a hard time concentrating. I was still high from having sung and performed with my brother in the small auditorium on the nutrition break. Many of the questions on the test had to do with the killing of Alexander Hamilton by Aaron Burr in a duel. What a waste! I remember thinking. How strange that history can be altered by a single act, by a single bullet.

The room was quiet. I could hear the big hand of the clock click each passing minute. Our teacher, Mrs. Sales, sat at her desk as we scribbled. She was a bespectacled woman who wore her grey hair in an old fashioned bun at the back of her head. She must have been approaching retirement age. Odd now to think that I’m probably older now than she was at the time.

Suddenly the door cracked open, letting in a beam of sunlight in which there appeared a woman’s face. The face was wearing glasses, the large ones that secretaries used to wear. I recognized her as the receptionist from the school office – a pleasant friendly person. It was odd to see her here now. She didn’t say a word, but her body language and serious demeanor conveyed to the teacher that she needed to speak with her immediately and quietly outside.

Mrs. Sales approached the other woman and the door closed behind her. I could see her head framed in the small window in the wooden door. It was one those windows that had chicken wire inside the glass. I observed her as she listened. After a few seconds she gaped and placed her right hand to her breast as the color drained from her face. I knew something terrible had happened. What is the worst thing that could happen? I wondered. An assassination of the president did flash in my mind, but I quickly convinced myself that that was a ridiculous thought.

Mrs. Sales came back into the room and for the next ten minutes she quietly paced, uttering almost inaudible sighs. When the bell had rung she told us that the President and the Governor of Texas had been shot in Dallas. The news turned some of us numb and others to shout in anger. Everyone seemed in a daze. People cried “No, oh no!”

It was the lunch hour and I wondered over to a bungalow where a radio was tuned to Walter Cronkite. When the newscaster announced that the President was dead, I put my head down into my arms on the desk and tried to stifle my sobs. Some girls broke into open wails of sorrow.

It all still seems like yesterday, and time has not eased the sting of grief and pain of that dark Friday. A single event, a single bullet changed everything. Such a loss! And the question still echoes in my mind – “Why?… Why?”

Tags: Danny Faragher, Fiftieth anniversary of the JKK assassination, JFK assassination, rembering the JFK assasination
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A Plunge into the System – Part 2

November 22, 2013 in Happenings, Thoughts, Uncategorized

Danny, Jimmy, and Casey have driven down to San Diego to persuade their buddy, Greg to join their band. They’ve payed a visit to two female friends and the six of them have gone down to Black’s Beach at night for a swim. Now the cops have shone up, shining their flashlights as Greg, Danny and an older man are stuck out in the water. Greg tells Danny that whatever happens, he’s going to join the band…

Short Fuse

As soon as I saw Paul’s nude and slightly flabby body silhouetted in the flashlight’s glow, I knew it was a mistake. After what appeared to be a brief conversation, the lights suddenly swung in our direction, dancing over the charcoal water until they found their mark. We were in the spotlight. The jig was up.

“Get out and approach slowly.” A stern voice commanded.

Any definition of vulnerability should include having to stand stark naked before a policeman with one’s hands on head. A tall officer stood waiting for us. His cap was low over his eyes. His partner remained in back with our friends. The cop shined his flash light point blank into my eyes. “What’s your name?”

I told him.

“Let me see some I.D.”

Suddenly Emily piped in. “Obviously, he’s not carrying any I.D at the moment.”

“Stay out of it!” the cop snarled.

Shut up Emily! I wanted to say. I’d learned from experience with cops that it’s best to melt into a state of obedience, to become egoless, and speak only when spoken to. Above all, never, ever use sarcasm. One did not want to get on a cop’s bad side. I got the feeling that Emily and Betsy had already succeeded in doing so. This cop obviously had a short fuse. He was biting his lip.

“Go get your clothes on.” he said with disgust.

“People have been swimming nude at this beach for decades.” Betsy felt compelled to point out.

“If I want your opinion I’ll ask for it?” Short Fuse said.

He stood over us we got dressed. I quickly pulled up my jeans, and struggled to put socks and boots over my wet, sandy feet. After being frisked, we showed our I.D.s. I could feel sand rubbing against my toes, and in my crotch.

Short Fuse grabbed and jerked me around by my right arm, and clamped a handcuff to my wrist.

“You’re under arrest.”

“Are you doing this for show, or is this just part of your routine?” Betsy asked.

I felt the cuffs tighten, digging in to the skin.

“Why are you arresting them?” Emily asked.

“You’re charged with ‘Indecent Exposure’, and ‘Lewd and Dissolute Conduct’.

I detected a smirk.

“Two felony counts.”

After all three of us were handcuffed, we were led down the beach.

Our friends shouted to us. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out!” “Keep the faith!” “You’ll see us soon!” The voices grew fainter until they faded out completely.

A quarter mile down we made a left, and began ascending the bluff by a different pathway, one that was paved , and wider. The black and white sat a hundred yards up the road. We were packed into the back seat. The car took off, climbing up and away from the beach area, and accelerating as it hit the surface streets. I vainly attempted to find a comfortable position, feeling numb as I watched the street lights flip by. It all seemed surreal.

Upon arrival at the police substation we were marched into a small room, and told to sit on a bench as an officer with sleepy lidded eyes began quietly filling out the paper work . A german shepherd lay curled at his feet. I had the urge to pet the dog. The cop was just doing his job, and I felt no animosity toward the man. The half hour or so of quiet time gave me a chance to take a deep breath, compose myself, and summon an ounce of strength.

All the while, in an adjoining room, Short Fuse frantically turned pages in some kind of code book. He slapped the book against his thigh and called to his partner, “Damnit, Mike! We could have arrested the girls. Accessories to a felony! Shit!”

Sleepy Lids drove us to the county jail, with Rin-tin-tin riding shotgun. As the San Diego skyline drew near, I thought about Emily and Betsy. They were blissfully unaware that they’d dodged the bullet. Guys are a little more prepared for the possibility of something like this happening to them. I was happy that they’d lucked out.

We’re ‘Fish’

Sleepy Lids escorted us into the San Diego County Jail, to be booked and processed. After our pockets were emptied, and the contents placed in little cardboard boxes, we were told to ‘Follow the yellow line.’

Being fingerprinted was the first step. The officer behind the desk said, “Just relax and let me do the work.”

I pretended I was getting my first manicure.

The yellow line led us further on to a bench outside the mug shot room. To my right sat two guys about my age with dirty overgrown hair – rebels without causes. I picked up bits of their story. It included a stash of drugs, and a car chase.

“I shouldn’t ‘a tried to ditch ’em.” One of them said. “I freaked out.” he admitted with a shaky laugh.

His buddy nodded.

No, you shouldn’t have. I thought to myself, Bad choice.

He continued, “I got a feelin’ we’re gonna be in here for a long, long time. Huh, huh, huh.”

I’d heard laughs like this before. It was the laugh of a loser.

The mug shot moment was an odd experience. How does one pose for such a photo? Having my picture taken had always been about presenting a happy image, about looking good, and my vanity always kicked in before a snap shot. At this moment I was feeling sad, humiliated, and without the slightest desire to say ‘cheese’. I just stared open eyed into the lens, not caring to put on a mask, but trying to muster a little human dignity as the camera clicked.

We moved further down the yellow line to a room where we exchanged our street clothes for orange jumpsuits. There was a toilet and a small urinal against a wall. I had to pee, and realized that this might be a last chance to relieve myself. To avoid leaving a mess, I chose to use the urinal. Afterwards, upon zipping up and turning around, I found myself staring into the eyes of one the guards, his face six inches from mine.

“You just pissed in the sink, dummy!” He said incredulously.

A chubby, round faced guard burst into laughter as he swung open the far door.

“Where to now?” Greg asked.

“You’re going to the fish tank.” he said with a chuckle…. “You’re fish!”

So here we found ourselves – in the fish tank.

The first thing I noticed was the odor – that distinct jail smell – a mixture of sweat, breath, excrement, cigarette smoke, and bad food, with a strong dash of Lysol for the upper tones. It is an odor that permeates everything over the decades. It smelled of confinement. It was nauseating.

We were in a large cell which was divided in half lengthwise. The back portion was split further into several sub cells which served as the sleeping area. The toilets sat in these sub cells. These “bedroom quarters” were already full and locked down when we arrived, so we were each given a mattress and a blanket, and told to bed down in the large communal section in the front. Then came the ‘Lights out!’ call.

Going over the events of the last two days had exhausted me. Was it really only last night that we’d laughed at Joe Pyne? I grew drowsy. An image of Sleep Lids, and his napping dog came into my head and I was soon asleep.

Born Free?!

At what must have been 6:00 a.m. I was awakened by music. An orchestra hit a chord on the downbeat… bom, followed by a choir answering with… “Born free”, then another chord … bom and answer…”Born free”.

Born free, as free as the wind blows

As free as the grass grows

Born free to follow your heart…

I couldn’t believe it. We, who had just spent the night in a cage, were being awakened by the song, ‘Born Free‘. Was it just a coincidence, or did someone have a keen sense of irony? Or were the gods mocking us?

I heard keys ringing, irons doors sliding, and feet shuffling. Someone called out in a flat Midwestern drawl –

“Get up! Roll up your mattresses and bedding and stack them near the front on the left”.

I rose, complied with the order, and turned to see the speaker. He was sitting on a cot in the far right inner cell. The puke green bars cast shadows that ran down his face, and over his blue uniform. He had broad features with straight black hair, and dark, sad eyes that didn’t seem to focus on anything in particular. He looked like he might be part Indian. Cherokee, I thought. Who is this guy? I wondered. Someone next to me seemed to have read my mind, and said in low muffled tone,” He’s a trustee.”

I looked over at Greg.

“Well , here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us in!” he said.

I laughed, and answered his Oliver Hardy with a Fats Waller line…

“One never knows, do one?”

Timothy Leary Poster

The two of us were close. I flashed back to an incident in January, when the son of an old family friend, a guy I’d known since kindergarten, was visiting. When we were alone, he revealed to me that he was a disciple of Timothy Leary, and persuaded me to drop L.S.D. right there in the family home. As the acid began to kick in, I did not experience the calm oneness with ‘the way’ I’d been promised. Rather, I became aware of a latent existential rage which threatened to boil to the surface. Close to a real freak out, I called Greg, who dropped whatever he was doing, and rushed over. He got me out of my folks’ house and over to my older brother Johnny’s place. His calming presence helped me to ride out the rest of the trip. Greg had my back. I was lucky to have a such a good friend with me in this place.

We greeted Paul good morning and the three of us hunched down to chat for a few minutes. Paul’s speaking voice was bright and nasal. To my uninitiated ear the dialect sounded Northern England, perhaps Liverpool or Manchester. Back home he’d been a school master, teaching English literature, and had an upcoming interview for a position at a private school in Glendale. He seemed to be intrigued by the band thing, and told us that he, too, was a musician… a church organist.

Uncannily, “A Whiter Shade of Blue” started playing on the intercom. The B3 organ part seemed to soar majestically over the cell.

“This is an interesting pop record.” Paul said. ” The organ line is quite similar to several Bach pieces I’ve played.”.

He raised his right hand and fingered the air as if he were playing. The Procal Harum tune was the first decent music I’d heard. Alas, it was to be the rare exception. The previous song had been a Nancy Sinatra record, and the next one up was the Royal Guardsmen’s Snoopy vs. the Red Barron. After that I tuned out the sound.

Smell the Coffee

“Get ready to line up at the bars to receive breakfast!”

Carts pushed by trustees came around loaded with greasy scrambled eggs, watery cream of wheat, and powdered milk. I suddenly realized how famished I was. When had I last eaten? I eagerly got a tray and requested all of the above, as did Greg, and Paul. Next came a cart with a huge vat of hot coffee. I loved coffee. My mouth watered and my head rushed as I anticipated the dark brew.

“I’ll have some of that coffee.” I said to the guy.

“Where’s your cup?” he asked.

“My cup? I don’t have a cup!”

The stocky Latino looked at me like I was the biggest dumb fuck he’d ever met.

“No cup, no coffee.”

“Well, can’t you give me a cup?”

“What’ve you got?

“I don’t have anything.”

“Sorry.” he said.

I wondered – How do you get to first? If you can’t bring in any possessions, then how do you acquire anything with which to barter? It must start with a favor. I didn’t want to contemplate the nature of what a first favor might look like.

We gobbled down breakfast and settled in for the day.

Two older men, one thin and gray-haired, the other overweight and balding, were sitting at one of the tables in front, playing checkers. They were discussing their experiences in different county jails. Suddenly a six foot- three, geeky looking guy with glasses, dark kinky hair, and a wild look in his eye approached and insinuated himself into their conversation. Leaning his torso forward, and stretching his neck, he got in their faces, saying,

“I’ve seen the inside of a lot of jails, and this is nothing. It’s a luxury hotel compared to some I been in.” he thumbed his chest.

The two men just looked at each other.

His proclaiming it as if it were a badge of honor struck me as really bizarre. This stork man looked more like a mad scientist than a criminal, but apparently wanted to be seen as a bad ass. I made a mental note that he was volatile and unpredictable, someone to avoid.

Cherokee gave everyone a rag, and instructed us to start polishing the bars. I worked on my little section with vigor, glad to be busy, but with the knowledge that no matter how diligently I rubbed, the bars would always retain their sick green hue.

Number One

I began to take notice of a certain energy coming from the cell on the far left. The center of this buzz was another blue trustee. Handsome, probably in his early thirties with a dark, well groomed pompadour, the man was instructing two younger trustees.

Unlike Cherokee, who kept to himself, this guy was constantly engaged in muted conversation with various people, both prisoner and guard. He appeared to be number one trustee.

A little later a guard walked quickly by, making eye contact with Number One, and extending all five fingers on his right hand.

“Inspection in five!”

At this, the trustee and his two aids jumped into action. Out from under the cot came dozens of items: candy bars, gum, peanuts, crackers, plugs of chewing tobacco, packs of cigarettes, cards, cups, dirty pictures, and a bit of cash. They spread out a white towel and wrapped the contraband inside. A minute later, a trustee came lazily by, pushing a laundry cart filled with towels. Number One and his men reached through the bars, placed the wrapped items under several layers of towels, and off rolled the cart. This all happened in less than two minutes.

As if on cue, a few minutes later, a team of guards unlocked the doors and came in to inspect. They entered Number One’s cell and looked under the cot. “Clean here!”

No sooner had the team left, when the laundry cart reappeared. The goods were removed and tucked back under Number One’s cot.

I turned to Greg and Paul, “I bet they do this dance every single day.”

Greg laughed, “Yea, it’s insane!”

“So precisely played.” Paul added.

Wiggling his index finger in the air, Greg paused in contemplation. “This guy seems to know everything that goes on here. I wonder if he could find out something about our situation.”

“It’s certainly worth inquiring.” Paul replied.

Greg was comfortable engaging strangers in conversation. I trusted his instincts, and followed him into Number One’s cell. Paul stayed outside.

One of the aids looked at us, not sure if it was cool for us to be there. He turned to Number One, who gave him a nod, and we approached. From his cot, the trustee looked up at us with light green eyes and said simply,

“Yea?”

My ear picked up an urban accent. Philadelphia? His speech was soft but intense.

Greg spoke up, “Uh, we were wondering if you might know something about our case, like when we’re going to be arraigned.”

“So what are you charged with?”

“Indecent exposure and lewd and dissolute conduct.”

“What did you do, unzip and pull your dongs out at the mall?”

“No, we were caught skinny dipping at Black’s Beach.”

He laughed, “Man, somebody rubbed somebody the wrong way. You mouth off?”

I piped in, “No, but I think maybe the girls we were with made the officers feel inferior.

“Pussy, my friend, will do you in every time. You poor bastards! Write down your names, and I’ll see what I can find out.”

His body language told us our time was up. We thanked him, and stepped out of the cell.

Mates

Three empty stools at the front were suddenly unoccupied, so the three of us sat down to claim them. Paul, sitting in the middle, started drumming his fingers on the table.

“I’m climbing the walls for a bloody fag.” He abruptly said.

Greg and I made eye contact. I knew at that instant that he, too, thought Paul might be gay. It wasn’t that we misunderstood the British slang for cigarette; it was the mere act of looking at each other at the sound of the word. I’d never really had a friendship with someone homosexual; at least that I was aware of at the time. I suddenly felt shame for any past lack of sensitivity. I liked Paul. The man was a stand- up kind of guy. I don’t care what anybody thinks, I silently declared. We’re mates! I vowed never again to laugh at a ‘fag joke’.

“You want a smoke?” Greg asked.

“Yes, I need me pack-a-day.”

Tobacco, like coffee, was provided, but cigarette papers were not. Thus papers, like coffee cups were a form of currency. It was crazy! It encouraged a jailbird black market system.

Paul picked up a hardback book that had sat neglected on the table, and began thumbing through the pages. It was the only book in the place.

“What is it?” I asked.

It’s a novel by Daphne du Maurier.”

I wasn’t familiar with the author. “What’s the writing like?”

“Oh, quite suspenseful, in a Gothic kind of way. Stories about tragic love affairs that take place in dark mansions on stormy nights, with crazy wives hidden in the attic.” He laughed.

It sounded a bit claustrophobic for my current state of mind, but I was intrigued by the title, “Jamaica Inn”. It hinted at adventure (Perhaps smugglers outwitting Red Coats?) and, oh, how I wanted to be carried away. I began reading. I’d gotten to page twelve when Greg nudged me.

Number One was waving us into his cell.

“I’ve got good news for you gentlemen. You’ll be on a bus to your arraignment within the hour.”

We both thanked him. Greg hesitated, but then asked, “Do you think you could spare a few Zig Zags for our friend over there?”

“The Limey?”

“Yea.”

He pulled out a partially used pack. “Here” he said, “Keep it.”

Then Greg surprised me by saying, in that easy, ingratiating manner of his, “You really seem to make the best of your situation here.”

Number One responded, “I’ve been in and out since I was seventeen. Most everything I know, I learned in the joint. I smoked my first pot, and tried my first smack behind bars. Yea, I know my way around.”

Nodding uncomfortably, and rocking on our feet we muttered, “Oh, really?” … “Wow!”

Again we thanked him, and left.

Number One had done us a favor. Perhaps he’d felt sorry for us, acting out of compassion. More likely, he did it out of self interest. Extending a favor to a fresh fish was like money in the bank. We would owe him, and he could always call on the favor to be returned. Multiply that by twenty of thirty, and it’s a lot of favors. He had nothing to lose, and something to gain.

Paul was grateful at getting the Zig Zags. He pinched out some tobacco from the communal can and began rolling a fag, as he would say. With his wire rimmed glasses, and cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth he looked like John Lennon in How I Won the War. It was an image that made me feel good. Paul’s unrattled maturity was reassuring. I resumed reading the novel.

I’d read another dozen or so pages of the book, when I heard our names being called. We rolled out of the cell just as the food carts were rolling in, so we would miss lunch. I didn’t care. It was a sweet sensation to be leaving the cage, even if just temporarily, and I followed the yellow pathway feeling as perky as Dorothy setting off for the Land of Oz.

The story continues on Part 3…

http://www.dannyfaragher.com/plunge-system-part-3/

Graphic Design by: Bryan Faragher

Tags: Black's Beach, Casey Cunningham.The Peppermint Trolley Company, contraband in jail system, Danny Faragher, Fall 1967, Getting booked into county jail, Greg Tornquist, jail black market, Jimmy Faragher, Joe Pyne, Police harassment of Hippies, San Diego County Jail, Skinny dipping at Black's Beach 1967, The Peppermint Trolley Company, Timothy Leary, Zig Zag papers
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A Plunge into the System – Part 1

November 13, 2013 in Happenings, Thoughts, Uncategorized

It’s the fall of 1967. The ‘Summer of Love’ has come and gone. Jimmy, Casey and Danny of the Peppermint Trolley Co. set out to recruit a new guitarist. A carefree act of celebration plops Danny and a buddy into hot water. Strong bonds of friendship and a sense of humor helps to get the boys through the ordeal.

Another Fine Mess

The mattress was thin. I could feel the cold cement floor beneath. I’d unrolled it a few minutes before, just prior to the lights going out. Now, in the dark I could hear the low muffled breathing and shuffling of forty other men – men I would be spending the night with behind bars. It was quiet, but it was not the silence of serenity, for everyone’s brain was probably humming like a high tension wire. No, we were mum because one of the guard’s had yelled “Lights out! And I don’t want to hear a fucking sound!”

I told myself, Hey, this is just an adventure into the unknown. Disassociate yourself from what’s happening, and you’ll be fine. You might even learn something. I tried looping a comforting melody in my mind. It was no use. I kept hearing the metal door being slid shut behind me, and the keys jangling as they turned the lock. I felt like a caged puppy. I longed to be in my girlfriend’s arms, and to feel her hand gently stroking my head. As I lay there in agitation, my mind flew back over the chain of events of the last thirty hours. It had begun one hundred twenty-five miles north in Los Angeles.

In front of Buster. Redlands boys L.A. bound

Fade to Black

Jimmy, Casey and I sat watching the little rabbit-eared black and white television. Joe Pyne, a locally syndicated talk show host had brought one of San Francisco’s Diggers on his program as a guest. Angry, narrow minded, and right wing, Pyne was years ahead of his time. As usual, the host was acting the boorish bully, hurling epithets at his guest as the peanut gallery laughed and applauded each familiar insult. “Why don’t you take a bath, dirt head?!” Pyne asked. “Ah go gargle with razor blades!”

“How much would you pay to watch Joe Pyne and Al Capp run a three legged race together?” Jimmy deadpanned.

Capp, the cartoonist, once a liberal, had made a hard right turn, and was now a rabid conservative. He, like Pyne wore a wooden leg.

Casey and I cracked up. It was one of those off color, slightly shocking jokes my brother liked to throw out. One could not help but laugh, but always with a twinge of guilt at being complicit in its inappropriateness. Jimmy’s dark and caustic sense of humor was in sharp contrast to the idealism, and romanticism of his song lyrics.

We were a band. Jimmy played bass and sang lead, I handled keyboards, harmony and second lead, while Casey played drums. My brother and I had been in bands together for four years, and the three of us had been a unit for about eight months. Just recently, we’d added our buddy, Patrick, on guitar. We may have been green, but we possessed what few young groups ever acquired – We had us a record deal.

We’d moved from sleepy Redlands, California, just a few short weeks before to try our luck in the big city. The Silver Lake rental house we lived in may have been a rat infested dump, but it was our rat infested dump, and we were excited about our new direction. Life, though, always seems to throw you a curve when you least expect it. Pat had come bearing bad news. Our spirits sank with the late afternoon sun, as he informed us that his girlfriend was pregnant, and that he was leaving the band to get married.

After he left, the three of us had sat there in the retreating light, feeling numb. Many minutes passed before one of us flipped on the lights to break the gloomy spell. We began to brainstorm, going through a list of possible replacements. No one available from back home was up to the standard required, and none of the musician’s we’d met in the Hollywood recording scene seemed to fit. I dreaded the thought of auditioning strangers. Feeling exhausted, and needing diversion, we’d turned on the idiot box.

Without saying a word, Casey suddenly got up and turned off the TV. Joe Pyne’s angry face disappeared into a tiny white dot which soon faded to black. Knowing he had our attention, he wiggled an index finger vertically and declared “I have the solution. We’ll recruit Greg.”

Greg was our dear friend from Redlands. He and Casey had played together in a Stones cover band in high school. A folkie, he was great at finger picking, and could sing harmony. Yes, I told myself. Greg just might work out. True, he hadn’t played much lead guitar, but, hell, he could pick it up. The problem was – he’d just started the semester at San Diego State. He was living in the dorms for which his dad had probably had to shell out for.

Jimmy was quick to respond. “Hey, man, Greg’s in school. Why would he want to chuck everything and join us.!”

House warming party for the Silver Lake band house. August, ’67
Jimmy mugging in front. Patrick standing 2nd from right. Greg, 4th from right. Emily in straw hat.

“Hold on!” Casey replied with a calming downward motion of the palms. “I think we have an excellent shot, especially in light of what’s happened in his love life recently. You know Greg. He’s capable of making sudden sharp turns.”

He was referring to the fact that Emily, the love of Greg’s life, had thrown him over for another guy just the week before. The word was he was heartbroken. After all… Emily, who was a student at UCSD in La Jolla, had been the reason Greg moved to San Diego. Casey was always analyzing, always strategizing, and always several steps ahead.

“Well, I guess it’s worth a try.” Jimmy said. “Okay, let’s give him a call.”

“Absolutely not!” Casey shot back. “We’ve got to drive down there tomorrow and talk to him in person”

“I agree.” I added. “On the phone he could just say no, or tell us he’ll think about it, which would amount to the same thing.”

“That’s right! We need to do some friendly persuading. We’ve got to sell him on the idea.” Casey said.

Jimmy laughed – “Yea, anyone thinking clearly would have to say no.”

We all agreed on the plan.

A Breeze Down the Coast

In the morning I awoke to the delicious aroma of pancakes. I threw on some clothes and ran down the stairs. Stepping into the kitchen, I saw Casey pouring batter, and flipping cakes on the electric griddle. Jimmy was brewing a pot of cowboy coffee.

“Eat ‘em while they’re hot and hardy, boys, we’re taking a little drive” Casey declared.

The three of us descended the steep stairs, which were so typical of the Silver Lake neighborhood in which we lived, and jumped into Casey’s silver ’66 Chevy van, which we called ‘Buster’. Giving names to inanimate objects, be it a car or a coffeepot, served as a reminder that life should be an adventure. Jimmy had called shotgun, so I sat on the engine cover between the two bucket seats. It was always a butt warming experience, but as it was late October, and the air was cool, it would be just fine. At the bottom of the hill we made a left on Sunset Boulevard, skirted around downtown and caught Interstate 5. Within minutes we were slicing southeast through Orange County, ground zero of the country’s conservative movement. We’d started with a full tank of gas, so there would be no need to leave the safety and anonymity of the freeway, and risk our being hassled by overzealous cops.

“We should have an old ‘Reagan for Governor’ sticker we could put on and take off.” I said.

Suddenly, Jimmy cranked down the window, extended his right arm toward the windshield, and turning his face to the right with raised chin, began yelling… “Heil Reagan!”… “Heil Reagan!”

Casey and I joined in with gusto. “Heil Reagan!”… “Heil Reagan!”

South of Dana Point the highway drew closer to the ocean, hugging the coastline. I looked to the right. Beyond marshy wetlands, the blue Pacific came into view. A brown pelican was scanning the sea. The sight took my breath away.

“There she is… Ah… Mother Ocean.” I said with a sigh.

“Yes, and Father Sky!” Jimmy joined in with a quasi reverent tone.

“Oh. Brother Mountain, Where art thou?” – Casey chanted.

“Shut up!” I shouted with a laugh.

Jimmy reached into his pocket, pulled out a joint, and lit up. He took a hit, and passed it to me. I partook and passed it on to Casey.

Releasing my breath, I said – “I hope Greg will be open to it.”

Jimmy and Casey both nodded in agreement.

It was unspoken, but I knew all three of us felt a bit manipulative. After all, we were carrying out an ambush, albeit a friendly one. Using the element of surprise and a spirit of camaraderie we intended to get him on our bandwagon. A cynical observer might look at the situation and say to Greg “They just want to get you down in the same hole that they’re in.” to quote Bob Dylan. Indeed, Greg would surely lose his student deferment from the draft like the three of us had. But look at the opportunity we were offering. It was chance to make records, to be creative, to live the life of an artist, outside the system. Hey, the four of us were all on the same wavelength! We knew it, and soon he would, too.

Casey took a drag and turned his head our way. His face was framed by wiry black hair, and sunlight danced in his light blue eyes. “I just hope he doesn’t fall in love with someone else. Have you ever known Greg not to have a girlfriend?”

We pondered for a few moments until Jimmy broke the silence,

“Hey! Don’t Bogart that joint!”

“Whadya mean…‘Don’t Bogart that joint’?” Casey asked.

“Well, what do you mean…’Whadya mean… Don’t Bogart that joint!’?”

“Well, what do you mean…’Whadya mean, Whadya mean…Don’t Bogart that joint!’?”

They carried this out several more times, getting broader with each extended line. It was definitely pot humor, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

Jimmy and Casey

Selling the Idea

We pulled into the Cal State San Diego campus, around 2:00 p.m , and soon located his dorm room. We knocked on the door. No answer. A student in the hall said he thought Greg was in class, and would probably be back soon. We walked around, killing time until shortly after 3:00, when we spotted a dark haired figure coming down the walkway. It was Greg! We hid behind some shrubs, and just before he reached the steps, Casey, donning crazy google-eyed glasses, popped out from behind, and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Pardon me, but could you kindly direct me to the R.O.T.C. headquarters?”

Greg turned. Caught by surprise, he shouted “Casey?! Casey! What the hell are you doing here?”

I approached from the other side. “Have you heard the good news about the kingdom Christ has in store for you?” I asked with the creepiest smile I could muster.

His brown eyes got bigger. “Danny!”

Jimmy appeared from behind a tree, showing an open wallet. “F.B.I.! We’d like to have a few words with you, if we might.”

“Oh my God! Jimmy? You guys. I can’t believe you’re here.”

After he’d calmed down, we began to talk seriously. We gave him our spiel. Patrick had left the band. We needed someone to fill the slot, and he was the perfect fit. We were scheduled to begin recording in about ten days. The record company was excited and totally behind us. We had a great producer. We’d met a community of creative people – singers, songwriters and musicians. It was an opportunity to make music and be free. The only caveat was that we needed to know right away.

Danny

“Take all the time you need.” I said. “Take five minutes!”

Everyone laughed.

His mind in high gear, Greg suggested that we go for a drive, get away from the campus, and let the information sink in.

“I was planning on going over to Emily’s in La Jolla to hang out. Why don’t we go there?”

“Emily’s?” I said. I thought you two were…”

“Split up? Yea, we are, but we’re still close. She’s the only real friend I have here. Man, you don’t know how lonely it gets in that dorm room.”

I realized I’d been harboring a slight resentment toward Emily. My instinct was to circle the wagons around a buddy. The split, however, seemed to be mutually accepted. If Greg was cool with it, then I’d sure better be.

We all hopped into Buster. Greg, receiving the V.I.P. treatment, rode shotgun. I retained my spot on the engine, while Jimmy lay down in the back. We were off to La Jolla.

Emily lived on the UC San Diego campus, sharing a dorm room with Betsy, another high school friend from Redlands. Some curious co-eds eyeballed the four of us as we walked down the dormitory hall. We crowded into the room, feeling slightly awkward at bringing our male scruffiness into the clean and tidy feminine space. We greeted and hugged the girls.

Emily sat in front of her desk. With her short strawberry blond curls, blue eyes, and porcelain skin, she was as pretty as an old fashioned doll, but she could hold her intellectual ground with anyone. Betsy was kicking back on the bed. Her honey colored hair was cut in bangs that nearly reached her big brown eyes. She had a wicked sense of humor, and those eyes lit up as she joked about a horny professor.

“He’s definitely a ‘hands on’ kind of teacher.” She said, using air quotes. “He really ‘reaches out’ to his students, especially those wearing skirts.”

We cracked up.

After some chit chat, Emily turned to Greg and asked, “Are you up for going for a swim at Black’s Beach?”

She explained that it was a great beach. The location also happened to be a notorious nude bathing spot. One had to descend a high bluff to access it, so it tended to be more private than most. It was nearby, and lots of students went there to skinny dip, especially after dark. It was a thrill just walking down the trail to get to it.

Greg turned to us and said, “You guys want a little adventure?”

“Sure!” we said. “You only live twice.” Casey added.

Black’s Beach

We followed the girls’ VW Bug the short distance to the sea, and parked on a bluff. Standing near the edge, I could see the waves rippling frothy white to the shore, and hear the water hissing as it retreated back to the sea.

Emily called out, “The trail ‘s over here. Watch your step!”

By now it was dark. It was a moonless night and the pathway was steep. I imagined that we were Eighteenth Century smugglers trying to evade and outwit the Red Coats. The trail twisted and turned, inevitably winding its way down to the beach.

I saw the figure of a man running into the surf.

Who was game?

The girls passed on taking a dip. I think they were put off by the fact that we were not alone. Casey, who, surprisingly, had a strong streak of modesty in him, declined, as well. Jimmy, who was always fighting a cough or cold, thought it best to take a rain check. That left just two of us.

Greg turned to me, “I’m going in!” he said.

“So am I!” I replied. I was genuinely eager, but I also thought that the act might serve as a symbolic ritual to seal the deal.

In the dark, Greg and I shed our clothes, stashed them behind the railroad ties at the foot of the bluff, and made a dash for the surf. The water was cold, and my breath quickened at the shock, but to my naked twenty-year-old body it felt all the more invigorating. There was always something restorative about jumping into the Pacific, something that brought clarity of thought, and moments of epiphany. The dark, moonless sky delivered an extra thrill to the game. I dug my toes into the sandy bottom. God, I felt free!

We dived beneath a wave, emerging to a surface that foamed, and shimmered in the starlight. We found ourselves next to the man we’d seen running into the water. He was extending his arms for balance, and keeping his head above the waves. Older, perhaps thirty-five, he was wearing wire rimmed glasses, and a cigarette dangled at the far corner of his mouth. His few words of greeting told us he was British. His name was Paul. We made small talk as we caught our breaths.

Black’s Beach

Suddenly, we saw two flashlights making their way along the beach to the right. We gasped. Oh God! It was the cops, and they were approaching our friends. The three of us got low in the water. Perhaps they’d ask a few questions and move on.

The minutes went by. Had they found our clothes? I began to shiver. I hugged myself to get warm. Greg and I looked at each other. More time passed. Had they seen us? At one point the flashlights turned seaward, making a sweep over the waves. We ducked lower into the water. What the hell was happening? Had they found Jimmy’s stash? Were our friends being arrested? My instinct was to stay put, to wait it out, but my teeth were beginning to chatter. I turned to Greg. In his eyes I could see the same deep fear that I was feeling. His lips were turning blue. All three of us were freezing. We were trapped, naked in the water with our backs to the sea, and nowhere to run.

Paul suggested that he go speak with them, adult to adult. Perhaps it would smooth the way for us to get out, and possibly get off with just a reprimand. Not knowing what else to do, and thinking that the cops had spotted us, and were just biding their time, Greg and I gave our nod to the idea. Paul began wading to the shore.

Greg turned to me and whispered, “Danny, whatever happens, I’ve decided I’m coming with you guys. I’m going to join the band.”

The story continues on Part 2

http://www.dannyfaragher.com/a-plunge-into-the-system-part2/

Graphic Design by: Bryan Faragher

Tags: Al Capp, Black's Beach CA, Bogart that joint, Cal State San Diego 1967, Casey Cunningham, Danny Faragher, Fall 1967, Greg Tornquist, Hollywood recording scene 1967, Jimmy Faragher, Joe Pyne, La Jolla in 1967, Patrick McClure, Redlands CA, Silver Lake, skinny dipping at Black's Beach, The Peppermint Trolley Company, the Summer of Love 1967, UCSD
Comments Off on A Plunge into the System – Part 1

Wheels

September 27, 2013 in Happenings, Thoughts, Uncategorized

It’s the summer of 1962. Fifteen-year-old Danny sets off on an excursion accompanied by two other boys and a Driver’s Ed. instructor. During the course of this brief trip he makes an unexpected human connection, and finds inspiration in a song. California car culture, baseball, rock and roll, and teen-age tragedy all intertwine in this coming-of-age story.

Stealing Second

The July sun was climbing to its zenith, as the ’62 Valiant headed southeast through the low rolling hills toward the desert on old Highway 99. I could feel the heat in my nostrils as I breathed in the new car smell. My madras shirt was already soaked with sweat, and my back was sticking like adhesive tape to the vinyl seat cover. I leaned forward, peeling away from the back seat, and cranked the window open a crack. I felt instant relief as a flood of air rushed down to cool my spine. This was my second summer spent in the relentless inland heat. I was growing accustomed to it. My family had relocated from the California city of Long Beach to the inland town of Redlands, and the cool breezes of the coast were becoming a distant memory.

In front of me sat Mr. Hoppe, the Driver’s Ed. instructor. Thirty-ish and handsome (I thought he looked a bit like the actor, Cornell Wilde), the congenial Mr. H. was considered one of the cooler English teachers. We’d really lucked out. We could have been teamed up with Coach Baird… “Big Bad Baird”, the former Marine sergeant.

“Well done Ted.” Hoppe said, adjusting his sunglasses. “Pull over, and let’s give Billy a shot.”

Ted looked carefully over his right shoulder, flipped the blinker, and, began to maneuver the car to the right lane. He down-shifted the column stick to second gear, but his timing with the clutch was slightly off, and the metal teeth scraped.

“Hey! Grind me off a pound!” Mr. Hoppe chuckled. We all laughed. This was our group’s little running joke.

I’d already had my turn behind the wheel, negotiating the vehicle through the sleepy streets of Redlands and out on to the highway. Not a perfect run, but no white knuckle moments, either. Once on the road I’d begun to relax my grip on the wheel and enjoy the sensation of moving through the landscape under a bright open sky.

The three of us were about fifteen, and going in to high school. Learning to drive was definitely a high priority, and the high school Driver’s Ed. classrooms were filled to capacity with girls in summer dresses and boys in white Levis and cotton plaid shirts – all eager to learn. It was a rite of passage. Each of us knew that on our sixteenth birthday we would be taking the test and getting our license. Driving meant freedom and a bigger world in which to play. There was also a strong sexual component. I fantasized about parking with a girl somewhere under the stars…making out…maybe more. At the moment, my girlfriend and I were still on first base, but there was this irrepressible urge to steal second.

We stopped along the shoulder, and the boys swapped places. Billy was shorter, so he needed to adjust the mirror down a little. I could see his face reflected in the rear view. His light green eyes contrasted strikingly with his olive complexion and dark hair, and gave the impression of an inner intensity. Ted and I were casual friends. He was a drummer, and we’d played in the band together. I didn’t know Billy that well. He’d only just moved to town about six months prior. He was a quiet kid, but he seemed completely comfortable behind the wheel. He started up the car with a calm authority and wasted no time getting back on the road, steadily accelerating until the speedometer clocked at 65. He eyeballed the meter and threw a quick glance at the teacher, who kept looking straight ahead.

“Smoothly done. Keep it right there.”

The Valiant’s Slant Six engine purred steadily; the white lines scrolling quickly by.

Hoppe began making conversation as if to avoid any awkward silence.

“Did anyone catch the Dodger game last night?”

This question opened a gate to a small wave of conversation. I loved baseball, and the night before I’d sat on the porch with my dad, listening to the game. The smell of my father’s cigar and the comforting lilt of Vin Scully’s voice calling the play-by-play always seemed to epitomize a summer evening. Word was… the rival Giants had watered down the first base side of the infield at Candlestick Park in hopes of slowing down Dodger shortstop, Maury Wills. The wily and speedy Wills was on fire. His base stealing ability was bringing energy and excitement to the game. The whole car agreed it was an unsportsmanlike and a dirty prank for the Giants to pull. The words “chicken shit” came to my mind, though I didn’t speak them. Our Dodgers had won the game, and we were sure they would go on to take the pennant. “Take that San Francisco!”

After this brief spike, the conversation again subsided, trickling back into silence. I knew some boys who could converse with an adult on an almost equal footing. I was not one of them, and neither were Billy and Ted.. Mr. Hoppe always did his best, though, to keep a pleasant conversation going, asking questions about what was happening in our lives, talking about sports, or whatever else came to mind. He genuinely wanted to make our little outings a fun experience.

We’d gone about fifteen miles, when Mr. H. said “Hey, You guys thirsty? Let’s stop and get cokes. It’s on me. There’s a burger joint right up ahead.” Turning his head toward Billy he said “Hang a right at the next turn off.”

Billy made the turn, but hadn’t braked early enough, and the car swung into the drive with a little too much torque. We were jostled to the left in our seats and the Valiant bounced as it entered the lot.

“Easy does it!”

The rubber tires met the gravel, making a loud satisfying sound, both slippery and crunchy, as we coasted to a parking spot.

We got out and stretched our backs. I was struck by how quiet it was. Looking around, my first thought was “Man, this is nowhere!” The restaurant was a white stucco, backwards ‘L’ – shaped structure. An arcade, supported by wooden posts, ran its length. The waist high windows were cranked open; their green painted frames peeling in the dry air. In red, above the arcade appeared the name “The Ranch Stop”. The green Seven-Up sign on the door looked vintage 1940’s.

It was surprisingly cooler inside. Several standing fans were humming, constantly moving the air. We ordered our drinks from the service counter, and walked to the right, turning left into the rectangular dining area. I took note of the red and yellow juke box which sat in the angle. The room was set with picnic style wooden tables and benches. There were a dozen or so people sitting and eating. We found a spot on the window side and settled in, straws in mouth and paper cups in hand. Flies buzzed in the window screen.

The Fat Man and the Kid

The conversation flitted about and eventually settled on automobiles: the new line of Fords and Chevys in particular. “I think the Galaxy is an outstanding car for the price.” Mr. H. was saying. Although I was excited by the thought of driving and all that came with it, cars in and of themselves held little intrinsic interest for me, and I began to tune out and focus on the sounds now emanating from the juke box behind me. I recognized the singer immediately – the one and only Fats Domino. My brothers and I had bought his singles back in the Fifties and had literally worn out the grooves. The Fat Man’s voice was full bodied masculinity combined with a playful tenderness … and sweet as honey. The New Orleans piano, and driving rhythm section, made me want to jump up out of my seat and start dancing. “How could anyone sit still and not zero in on the music?” I thought. The song was “My Girl, Josephine”, one of my favorites. The heroine’s French name alone conjured up a Creole world in my mind and I was transported from the California desert to the Louisiana Bayou.

“Hello, Josephine, How do you do?

Do you remember me, Baby, like I remember you…”

The record ended, but twenty seconds or so later, it started up again. I turned my head to see who was playing the song. In front of the Wurlitzer stood a boy who was probably a year or two older than me. Tall and thin, he was wearing a black bowling shirt with silver trim, blue Levis, white socks and black leather shoes with pointed toes. His dark brown hair was greased into a jellyroll, and a black comb was visible in his right back pocket. Two or three years earlier he would have been considered the height of cool, the picture of teen-age rebel chic. It was a style popularized in the mainstream by James Dean and Elvis Presley. But times had changed …. The surfer look was on the rise. It was as if teen fashion had emerged from the dark alley and into the California sunshine, leaving this kid hopelessly out of style. More than that…. Although adults had long associated the image with juvenile delinquents and switch blade knives, young people were now turned off by it, as well, but for reasons that had more to do with class snobbery than fear.

Boys like this are not college bound. They fill the auto shop classes, join car clubs, get in to trouble, settle for jobs pumping gas, and ultimately wake up one morning and, seeing their future as a dead end street, march themselves to the nearest Navy recruitment center, signing up to “see the world”. The kid is low class… a greaser… a loser.

He planted his palms on either side of the juke box, and leaned in, as if to get the sound resonating in his chest. Closing his eyes, he began to sing along…

“You used to live over yonder by the railroad track.

When it rained you wouldn’t walk. I used to tote you on my back”

I was surprised. The kid was good. He knew the whole song, all the words, all the phrasing, his voice was on pitch, and he put a lot of feeling into it.

When the tune ended, he took a pack of Winston’s out of his shirt pocket, tapped out a cigarette, and lit up, pausing in thought as he took a deep drag. Then, with cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, and eyes squinting, he pushed the buttons. I could see the record being pulled out from the stack. I recognized the black labeled Imperial 45. The disc was slapped on the turn table. Needle met groove, and the song started up again. He sang along in full voice, and after the first chorus, began to shuffle his feet from side to side, and snap his fingers, as he backed away from the juke box. He wasn’t performing for anyone. The kid was in his own world. He inhabited the song. I wondered if he had a particular girl in mind, his Josephine; someone he was yearning for…

“I used to walk you home; I used to hold your hand

“You used to use my umbrella every time it rained…”

“You gentlemen ready to hit the road?” Mr. Hoppe’s voice snapped me out of my dreamlike state.

As we filed out the door I could hear the song playing yet another time.

Mr. H. put on his sunglasses and, looking at Billy, said “I know you’ll study hard, and get that dream car you talked so passionately about.”

I‘d been oblivious to their conversation, and I realized that they’d probably not even noticed what had unfolded at the juke box.

I started up the car, turning left at the drive-way; back toward home. Shifting into second, the gears scraped a touch. “Hey, grind me off a pound!” I laughed along with my passengers, but in my mind I was singing along with Fats and the kid.

A Sharp Turn

The following May, on my sixteenth birthday, I took the test and gained the much prized California Driver’s License. I now had third dibbs on the family wheels, behind my Dad and my older brother, Johnny. Through the summer of ’63 I felt high on the freedom of zipping around town in the sleek silver toned ’59 El Camino with the cool ‘V’ shaped wings in the back, or even lumbering through traffic in the green ’58 Plymouth station wagon with the gaudy vertical fins. It felt cool to be the one driving when my buddies and I would pull into the Burger Bar parking lot. I still drew inspiration from the memory of the kid at the juke box, and would take breezy drives out through the San Timeteo Canyon, singing at the top of my lungs.

Indeed, there were a few passionate moments spent under the stars, the windows steaming up… and, yes, stealing second base. However, it seems I was destined to graduate with my virginity still intact: at the time I considered it a dubious honor for an eighteen-year-old male, and one I was not eager to brag about.

As for my two Drivers Ed. mates; Ted and I played a couple of gigs together. We were also in some of the same classes, and remained acquainted. I never really got to know Billy very well, although we would talk on occasion. In our junior year, I was surprised to see him playing bass guitar in a surf band at a Friday night stomp. The bass looked huge on him, but he plucked the strings aggressively, if not lyrically, and I found myself yelling “Go, Billy” when he played a two bar cadenza.

The fall after graduation, during Thanksgiving break from college, my brother, Jimmy, dropped the local newspaper in front of me as I sat at the kitchen table. “You’d better take a look.” I unfolded the paper. There on the bottom half appeared Billy’s senior picture. Never a good sign. My heart sank as I read the short article. He’d apparently been speeding in the foothills. He’d taken a curve too fast, too aggressively, and had sailed over the edge, the car rolling down the slope. He’d been killed instantly.

My throat dropped to my stomach. I imagined the horror he must have felt as he lost control of his Corvette (The one his folks had bought him upon his graduating); the panic of feeling the forces pulling him to the right, skidding away from the safety of the highway; too late to take back the reckless choice he’d made. As the car became airborne, was there a millisecond of acceptance … of resignation to his fate? Was there a realization that the white lines would continue on, but his road was destined to end “right here and right now”?

Wheeling On

I dream at night of being constantly on the road… in a car, on a bike… running, trying desperately to get somewhere, but never arriving. I dream of searching for something, but never finding it. “What?” I wonder. Perhaps I yearn to get back home. But what is “home”? It occurs to me that we are all wheeling down a highway that stretches through our own desert landscape – some of us in donkey carts, some of us in Cadillacs – each of us a small speck under a vast sky. Sometimes we pull off the road and are surprised by our connecting with another, finding inspiration, having an epiphany. Mostly we play it safe, following the white lines as they stream by.

Decades later I think back on that seemingly insignificant little road trip, and realize that it’s a memory that triggers multiple layers of thought and emotion. Like the hub of a spoke wheel, it connects with the whole. As the moment circles back around in my mind, I feel it, see it, hear it all again… The wheel rolls, the car glides down the highway, the record spins on the juke box, and so many issues get stirred: growing up; sexual awakening; the smell of freedom; class distinctions; the transcendent power of music; the inevitability of death. I remember swinging vainly at the curve-balls life threw me. I think of the kid at the juke box, who was singing his heart out in the middle of nowhere, and I wonder what became of him. I ponder Billy’s death. Cut short at eighteen, never to experience a career, a cause, marriage, children… all those things that bring us joy and bring us tears. The road had rolled on, events and cultural touchstones had flipped by: Sgt. Peppers, the Summer of Love, Vietnam, the draft, the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, Watergate, punk rock, disco…

I remember my speeding around canyon curves, and wonder – “How is it that I am still here, and Billy is not?”

I grow old…

In a waking dream I drive through the desert night on old Highway 99, a moon on the horizon, my fingertips on the wheel of the ’62 Valiant. As I pull off the road, I hear the familiar sound of tires slipping and crunching on gravel. I park, kill the ignition, and sit for a moment. I open the door and start walking. As I approach the warm amber glow of the roadhouse door, I hear the sound of crickets cross fading into a rolling piano groove. It’s Fats! I enter and turn to the right. There, palms on the juke box, head cocked back, the Kid is singing. I stand there for a moment, spellbound… then, closing my eyes, I join him, singing in full voice, throwing out a harmony line as I snap my fingers …

Hello, Josephine. How do you do?

Do you remember me, Baby; like I remember you?

You used to laugh at me, and holler woo, woo, woo.

Additional Editing by: Kathryn Albrecht
Graphic Design by: Bryan Faragher

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In the Studio with The Peppermint Trolley Company – Part I – Moonglow Studio and the Hollywood Recording Scene in 1966

August 21, 2013 in Happenings, Thoughts

At the Corner of Selma and Cosmo

There are moments in life when a specific place takes on great significance. For me the corner of Selma and Cosmo in Hollywood during the sixties is such a location. I remember it fondly. Indeed, the memory of it holds an almost mythical place in my mind. Looking back decades later, I can see that this corner represents a crucial intersection in my life, and the road I ultimately took.

Corner of Selma and Cosmo, home of Moonglow Studios

Moonglow Recording Studio stood on the northeast corner. Revell’s Coffee Shop was right next door on Selma , and around the block north on Cosmo was the underground rock club, Bito Lido’s, where Love, and later the Doors performed. Moonglow was just a stone’s throw from numerous other studios : Jesse Hodges’ Hollywood Sound Recorders, Wally Heider’s, Gold Star, Sunset Sound. A block south on Ivar, was the headquarters of Bob Keene’s Mustang Records. A little brass figure of a galloping horse hung over the door. Keene, who had released Richie Valens’ hits in the fifties, was riding high with the Bobby Fuller Four. Sadly, Bobby’s mysterious demise (Murder? Suicide?) would soon pull the reins in on Mustang. Rene Hall, the great African-American guitarist and arranger, famous for his work with Sam Cooke, had an office on the next block east on Selma. It was a scene, the tail end of the golden age of Hollywood studio rock, and my brother, Jimmy, and I were fortunate to have played a small role in it.

Moonglow Studio is where we spent countless hours honing our musical craft between the summer of 1966 and the summer of 1968. We were just a couple of green, but ambitious kids from the hinterlands drawn by the allure of the big city and the dream of making records. It was such an exciting, fertile time, and we met so many interesting and creative people. Music was all around us, and all our focus was on making sonic magic and striving to capture those good vibrations on tape

Moonglow had had its beginning in 1958, when an enterprising Belgian émigré, R.J. Van Hoogton, a.k.a. Ray Maxwell, decided to try his hand in the music business, building the studio, and starting a record label of the same name. In the early sixties he signed a duo from Orange County called the Paramours, who went on to have several hits on the Moonglow label as the Righteous Brothers, including Little Latin Lupe Lu, and My Babe. Bobby Hatfield and Bill Medley moved on to bigger things, however, and the label folded in 1963. When we entered the picture Moonglow was a studio for hire. The room was small, but comfortable. with a warm, clean sound, and like most of the other studios in the area it had an Ampex four track machine.

A Lesson in Simplicity

Dan Dalton pictured far right. Lois Fletcher beside him.

July of 1966 was when we hooked up with producer, Dan Dalton, a tall Irish-American with fire red hair, a gift of gab, and charm by the bucket load. Dan had heard our band the Mark V when we auditioned for him over the telephone. We were rehearsing with a local folk singer named Mickey Elly whom we occasionally backed. Mickey, upon hearing us do a rendition of our latest original was so jazzed that he thought the producer he had met and recorded some demos with should hear it. He immediately phoned Dalton. The tune, Bored to Tears, penned by Jimmy, was an unusual hybrid of folk, rock, and…yes… Dixieland. Digging what he heard , Dan put his wife, singer Lois Fletcher on the phone to take a listen as we played the song again. The couple had then driven from their pad in Silver Lake to West Covina to meet with us. They were as impressed with us and we were with them, and within the week , Dalton had booked a session at Moonglow.

Dan, who played tenor banjo and twelve string guitar, had been part of a folk trio with brothers Jack and Wally called the Dalton Boys, and more recently, was a member of the Randy sparks ensemble, The Back Porch Majority, a group which also included his future wife Lois, and Kin Vassy (who later worked with Kenny Rogers, Frank Zappa, and Elvis). The Dalton’s had paid their dues in the urban folk music circuit, rubbing elbows with a lot of musicians and singers who were now crossing over into and changing mainstream pop and rock.

For the previous year and a half, Dalton had been in partnership with Daniel (Danny) Moore. Together they had produced twenty-five acts, and had secured record deals for fifteen of those acts, including Moore’s brother, Mathew, with the Capitol release – Another Face in the Crowd . For our date, Dalton brought in studio musician’s to record the basic track – Danny Moore, Buzz Clifford, and James Fleming on acoustic guitars, Mathew Moore on the piano, Larry Brown, a protégé of Hal Blaine’s, on drums, and an old school Fender bass player, who’d brought along an acoustic bass and tuba, just in case (sorry, I don’t have names for the last gentleman). The engineer on the session was a young cat named Phil Yend. In those days, most of the instrumental parts would go on the basic, which would be pre-mixed before cutting and recorded on to one or two tracks, leaving two or three tracks open for lead, background, and any solos.

Buzz Cifford – What a voice!

We watched from the booth as they recorded. It was a lesson in simplicity. The emphases was on laying down a cookin’ little two beat rock and roll groove. Matt pecked out an intro on the piano, and off they went. The drums popped and the guitars jangled with rhythmic propulsion. Within a couple of hours the basic track was down.

We came back the next day to overdub the horns and vocals. Dave, Steve, and I gathered around one mic with trumpet, clarinet, and trombone respectively. We were pretty good at blowin’ Dixieland, and within an hour we’d waxed the parts. Dan wanted me to add a hooky glissando smear with the bone. My sense was that it was a bit much, but who was I to say? Ask and ye shall receive. The lick, along with some Herb Alpert hits on trumpet, was most likely combined with the other horns as they were “ping ponged” to an empty track.

It was then time for Jimmy and I to do some singing. As a producer, Dan favored vocals that were clean and precise, which was no surprise, given his folk background. We’d been used to the loose atmosphere at Impression, where our records could best be described as garage rock. Three or four of us would gather around the mic to sing our parts without much direction from the booth. At Dan’s request, only Jimmy and I would be singing on the record. We simplified and fine tuned the parts, and began doing takes. When we got a keeper, we doubled it, using the remaining track. We had us a record, boys!

Lollipop Train

Now we needed something for the flip side. Around this time Dan had gotten hold of a song called Lollipop Train. It was written by P.F. Sloan, a hot songwriter who’d had a string of hits, such as Eve of Destruction by Barry McGuire, the Turtles You Baby, and Where Were You When I Needed You? by the Grass Roots. Dalton had already recorded a basic track for the tune, and tried out several singers on the lead, without success. He thought it might be a good fit for our band, and played it for us. Upon hearing it, Jimmy and I liked the song, which featured a time signature change from 4/4 to 3/4 at the end of each chorus. A date was booked to add instrumental overdubs.

When we arrived for the session, we found horn charts already written out on music stands just waiting for us to play. Dalton had hired a professional. The arranger, a friendly middle aged gentleman with glasses who looked like a college professor, had recently charted the arrangement for Bobby Hebb’s smash hit, Sunny. We were duly impressed. As we played, I could hear in my earphones how well the parts worked over the basic. It was exciting and dramatic, and I loved every second of the process. With the horns now in the can, our pianist, Brad, began fiddling with the drawbars on the Hammond organ, and quickly came up with a calliope like sound that worked well with the theme and time signature. In one pass it was printed. There was one last thing. The track featured a two bar drum turnaround after each chorus with a four on the floor from the kick. Dan, wanting to fatten up the sound of the bass drum, asked our drummer, Dick, to beat a steady four using a mallet on his drum case. It did the trick! Making records in those days required ingenuity, and a willingness to fly by the seat of one’s pants. When it worked it was outasight!

James Fleming Rasmussen

To record the vocals, my brother and I drove into town alone a few days later. It was decided that Jimmy would sing the lead. I observed from the booth. The engineer clicked the start button on the machine. “Rolling” he said. Jimmy cupped his hands around the earphones, closed his eyes, and out came this edgy voice that perfectly captured the song’s angry tone. It was a ballsy, snarling lead in the folk rock bag, and I must say, it took me a bit by surprise. I’d never heard him sound quite like that before. I was proud of him, no end. The record was coming together!

All that was left were the background harmonies. I was paired with Buzz Clifford to work out the parts. The singer /songwriter had already been in the business for a decade, and had played a part in rock and roll and doo wop’s wild early years. In 1960 he’d had a crossover million seller with the novelty record Baby Sittin’ Boogie, which I remembered dancing to in junior high, and had survived years of disappointment and obscurity by staying creative, and keeping current with what was happening in pop music. I was both overjoyed and intimidated to be working beside such a pro. Buzz was cool, though, and really put me at ease. The man was relaxed yet so focused, a truly great studio singer. He knew exactly what direction to go in, and I followed. I learned from Buzz to pinpoint my concentration like an archer, yet at the same time to jump in and sing with abandon, holding nothing back, and having unbelievable fun in the process.

Coffee at Revell’s

Valliant Records promotion for the Peppermint Trolley Company

After the session, we all went next door to Revell’s for a bite. The old style coffee shop was owned by a Greek family. Mr. Revell, the amiable white haired patriarch manned the cash register. Like so many Greek owned restaurants, the food was fresh and delicious. Jimmy and I shared a booth with Buzz and James Fleming Rasmussen. James was a bespectacled Dane with a Beatle’s haircut. in his late twenties, he had been a pop star in Denmark, having started the first Rock and Roll band in that country, James and his Jamesmen in 1955. He’d only been in America for a year, and spoke with a heavy Danish accent, which we found amusing.

The waitress, who addressed me as “Honey”, brought us our coffee. Buzz, who was in the middle of one of his stories, grabbed the sugar jar and, talking all the while, began pouring what seemed like an endless stream of white granules into his cup. James’s head began to bob up and down as his magnified eyes followed the sugar flow. Jimmy and I started to laugh. Buzz finally ended the pour with a twist of the wrist. Noticing that we were cracking up, he asked with a puzzled look – “What?”

James, turning his head to look directly at Buzz, said ” I can see you like a little coffee with your sugar. I thought that would never end.” the Danish accent added to the hilarity of the situation. I sipped my coffee and savored the moment, enjoying the company of our new friends, whom we learned had met each other in this very cafe about a year before.

At Dan’s request we changed the name of the band. The moniker was chosen by committee, but I remember Jimmy piecing it together. Regrets about the name? Absolutely, but one must keep in mind that in the pre counter culture, pre hippie days of July, 1966, the Peppermint Trolley Company was a much hipper sounding name than it would appear to be later.

Dalton had decided that Lollipop Train was the stronger of the two, and should be the A-side. There was no disagreement there. He shopped the disc, and got us a singles deal with Valiant Records, a small L.A. based independent, and the home of the Association, whom we had met when we played Disneyland the previous June. We loved the band, and were thrilled to be on the same label.

Young club goers protest police harassment.

Dan Dalton and Danny Moore were no longer working together as co producers. We weren’t privy to what exactly went down between them. Perhaps Dan’s decision to produce us alone had something to do with it. I can say that Jimmy and I respected and liked Moore, and would continue to have some relationship with him for several years.

“Hippie Riots” on the Sunset Strip

During this time that we were recording at Moonglow, the Hollywood Rock club scene was in its apex. Teens were flooding the sidewalks of the Sunset strip and elsewhere to get into places like The Trip, Pandora’s Box, and Ciro’s. This manifestation of a burgeoning youth movement really freaked out the established elites and their enforcers, the L.A.P.D., who never seemed to miss an opportunity to escalate a situation and ultimately come down with a heavy hand. The cops began an intense crackdown on the kids. We witnessed some police harassment around the corner at Bito Lido’s. A teen-age girl wearing the straight long hair that was all the fashion had just exited the club singing the Lovin’ Spoonful’s Summer in the City.”Hot town, summer in the city.” she sang as she snapped her fingers, “Back of my neck’s gettin’ dirty and gritty”. Her happy mood must have pissed off a nearby cop, because he promptly threw her against a squad car, cuffed her, and pushed her into the back seat, no questions asked. Arrested on suspicion of having too much fun.

Throughout the late summer, we felt an exciting momentum. We shopped for stage clothes, had photos taken, auditioned for agents , and played some gigs. In September the record was released. I remember gripping the 45 in my hand and eyeballing with satisfaction the red Valiant Label with our band’s name on it. The local inland Empire radio stations, KFXM in Riverside, and KMEN in San Bernardino put in into rotation. It sounded absolutely wonderful on the car radio.

Label for the 45 Single of Lollipop Train

Autumn

I’m afraid I got my hopes up too high, though, and put my eggs in one basket yet again. Just as in the previous year when our record I’m Through With You was released and got airplay at the end of summer, so it was with Lollipop Train. And just as the Mark V single fell out of rotation as summer turned to fall, so it was with the Peppermint Trolley Company release. I was in my second year at community college, Jimmy was a freshman at UC Riverside, living in the dorm, no longer at home. All the other guys were in college as well. I went through a period of deep disappointment, and looking back now I can see just how seriously depressed I was. I was lost, lonely, and without direction. We continued to do the occasional gig, but that fire was gone. Music was not a hobby for me. I wanted it to be my life. I wanted swim in it. I yearned to get back into the studio, and found it difficult to concentrate on my studies. I would go for long walks through the streets of Redlands and take solitary hikes into the hills.

In mid October, Dan called to say that he and Lois would like Jimmy and I to come to town and be their house guests for a week-end. Jimmy and I hopped into the family’s green ’58 Plymouth station wagon with the huge vertical fins, and headed for the city. Interstate 10 was to me as the Mississippi was to Mark Twain. It represented entry into a wider sphere. Yes, it was a world filled with potential pitfalls, but it was also a world ripe with possibilities. Riding the freeway’s westward flow always got my adrenalin going. My heart would race as we passed the old Brew 102 plant, which stood at the edge of downtown L.A., with its huge sign, and its aroma of malt mash.

We had a productive stay with the Daltons. Dan emphasized that he could see a future for Jimmy and me as artists. The two of us had a great blend, he said, like the Everlys or the Beatles , and he believed in us. He pitched some ideas and songs. It was a nice pep talk and really gave a boost to my flagging spirits.

Our record in rotation on San Bernardino’s KMEN

In November, I came down with a serious case of mononucleosis. Man, was I delirious! Psychedelics got nothin’ on mono for hallucinating like a fiend. I was confined to bed for weeks, and had to drop out of school. After the fever broke, I settled into recuperation mode. I listened to a lot of music, from Simon and Garfunkel to James Brown and everything in between. I read books: Henry David Thoreau’s Walden Pond, Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, and the words of Jesus. I also watched TV, mostly junk, but did happen to catch a rock musical written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David called On the Flip Side, which starred Ricky Nelson and Joanie Somers. It was inspiring to see characters who looked a bit like me singing “Fender mender, fix my guitar. I want to be a real big record star.” It made me wish I was back in the studio.

New Beginnings

By mid December, weak but recovered, I was able to get up, get out, and move around. It felt so good just being alive and healthy. Our drummer friend, Casey Cunningham, urged Jimmy and me to rehearse with him and a couple of great local rock musicians, Bobby Anglund on guitar, and Pete Sampson on bass. I moved from trombone to keyboards. Though this unit was short lived, and didn’t go anywhere, it was a great experience and whet my appetite for putting together an original rock band with Casey and Jimmy.

The year was coming to a close. The Mark V had been together since 1962. It had been a great run. At the time I didn’t know, but in a few weeks Dave would leave the group, leading us to disband shortly thereafter. On New Year’s eve 1966, we played one of our last gigs, a private party in Beverly Hills. On the drive back home in the family’s ’59 El Camino, seated between Jimmy at the wheel, and Brad riding shotgun, in a sleep like state, I stared at the glowing AM dial as it filled the cab with beautiful sounds – Pretty Ballerina by the Lefte Bank, and Ruby Tuesday by the Stones. Ah, I thought – Jimmy, Casey, and I could make music like that. We were driving through the night, and into the new year. I vowed that 1967 was going to be a year of change, of growth, of pursuing the dream. The radio began playing a new record by the L.A. band, Love, a strange, and dreamy song called Orange Skies.

Back on the Corner

My mind drifted back to the summer, to the corner of Selma and Cosmo …

I was hanging out in front of Moonglow. The sun was going down. A figure came walking up the street. He was an African-American, dressed in wild clothes. He wore tinted granny glasses on his nose , and a blue scarf draped around his neck. I recognized him right away as Arthur Lee of Love. He rounded the corner and headed north on Cosmo, on his way to Bido Lito’s.

Forty -six years later my mind would again drift back to the moment and I would write a song about this brief experience:

Arthur Lee of Love in shades.

In the twilight a figure approaches
Blue scarf flowing wild and free
On the corner of Selma and Cosmo
I cross paths with Arthur Lee.

Shades of Love
Colors of the moon
A voice in the wilderness
But who’s to hear the tune?

In the twilight the music is playing
A mystic chant so wild and free.
On the corner of Selma and Cosmo
I crossed paths with Arthur Lee.

Danny with brother Johnny and friends in the summer of 1966

Tags: '66, 1966, Arthur Lee and Love, Baroque Rock, Bito Lido's, Bob Keene, Bobby Hebb, Bored to Tears, Brad Madsen, Buzz Clifford, Casey Cunningham, Dan Dalton, Daniel Moore, Dave Kelliher, Gary Montgomery, God Star studio, Greg Tornquist, hippies, Hollywood Studio Scene, Jack Dalton, Jesse Hodges' Hollywood Sound Recorders, Jimmy Faragher, KMEN Radio, Lois Fletcher, Lollipop Train, Mark V, Mathew Moore, Mickey Elly, Moonglow Records, Moonglow Studio The Righteous Brothers, P. F. Sloan, Pandora's Box, Paul Parish, Pete Sampson, PTC, R.J. van Hoogton, Randy Sparks, Ray Maxwell, Rene Hall, Revell's coffee shop, Steve Hauser, Sunset Strip, Sunset Strip Curfew Riots, Sunset Strip Hippie Riots, Sunset Strip Youth Protest, Sunshine Pop, the Back Porch Majority, The New Christy Minstrels, The Peppermint Trolley Company, The Sixties, The Trip, Valiant Records, Wally Heider's
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A Blur of White Helmets – The 1967 Century Plaza Police Riot & Brutality in the Summer of Love

August 4, 2013 in Happenings, Thoughts, Uncategorized

On Friday, June 23rd, 1967, in the beginning of what came to be termed ‘The Summer of Love’, I, alongside my brothers, my friends, and tens of thousands of other citizens marched in Century City to protest the war in Vietnam. What ensued was a shocking and horrifying example of law enforcement going berserk. In the immediate aftermath, the media shamelessly turned the riot on its head, blaming the demonstrators. Sadly, this historic and tragic event is seldom mentioned today. I was at ground zero, however, and remember it as if it were yesterday. Here is my story…

We Are But a Moment’s Sunlight

President Lyndon Johnson arrives by helicopter.

Jimmy, Patrick, and I rode to the event in my best friend Mike’s coffee-colored VW, the one with the peace symbol white washed on the side. Jimmy’s and my older brother, Johnny, and his fiancé, Judi, followed in his black ’55 Bug with the small rear window. As we rolled west on Interstate 10, I imagined we were a humble Beetle motorcade for peace. President Lyndon B. Johnson was being honored with a thousand dollar-a-plate fete at the Century Plaza Hotel, and we were traveling the eighty miles from Redlands to West Los Angeles to voice our opposition to his war in Vietnam.

When we arrived at Cheviot Hills Park that Friday afternoon, we were surprised by how festive the gathering was. Vendors were selling hot dogs and lemonade. Giggling children romped and played on the grass as kites bobbed overhead in a summer breeze.The good vibes reminded me of the Monterey Pop Festival which Jimmy and I had been to exactly one week before. But whereas that happening reflected a burgeoning counter culture, this one had a distinctly middle class face. The crowd, mostly white, was multigeneralization. It included people of all ages, from little tots to grandparents. I remember thinking,“This could be a Fourth of July Picnic. Hell, it could be a Norman Rockwell painting!”

At the park before the march. From left: Patrick, Jimmy, unknown, Danny, unknown, Johnny, Mike. Judi is behind the camera.

The rock band that was set up on a stake bed truck was putting out some solid sounds. The lead singer, an African American, had a soulful voice which reminded me of Stevie Winwood. I noticed they were performing a lot of songs that featured the word ‘Love’, like the Deon Jackson tune, Love Makes the World Go ‘Round, and the Beatles’ The Word. It seemed ‘Love’ most definitely was the word on people’s lips.

I was digging on the music, when Jimmy tapped me on the shoulder. “Look, there’s that couple we saw at the Peace March in San Francisco!”

I turned and recognized the middle-aged hippie couple who were dancing at the edge of the crowd.The man’s dark eyes and eyebrows matched his long black hair and mustache. He was wearing black tights and pantaloons, a black shirt, and high heel shoes with silver buckles. A bright red cape which he swung theatrically was draped over his shoulders. The image brought to mind Captain Hook, or perhaps Salvador Dali. His partner was dressed in a mid-calf cotton skirt and peasant blouse, and wore a feather headband around her long, graying blond hair. The silver bangles around her wrists glistened in the sun. While the man’s wild and jerky movements were decidedly unfunky, the tall, willowy woman seemed to float like a hanging sheet in the breeze.

A TV camera crew was soon Johnny-on-the-spot to catch the action.

“Guess who’s going to be the public face of this demonstration,” Jimmy predicted.

“WILD HIPPIE PROTEST!” I pronounced in quasi news anchor tones. “Film at eleven.”

“Yes,” remarked Mike. “We can always count on the establishment media to keep us informed.”

“The medium is the message,” Patrick added, with air quotes.

Men of Words

As the sun began its plunge to the horizon, the speeches commenced. First on the roster was Dr. Benjamin Spock, the famed pediatrician and peace activist. He was my grandmother’s age, yet here he was taking a stand against the war.

“We do not consider the Vietnamese people, North or South, to be the enemy,” the dignified, bespectacled Spock said. “They wish no harm to the United States. The enemy, we believe in all sincerity, is Lyndon Johnson.” Oh, did this ever get the crowd fired up.

When the next speaker was introduced, he was immediately met with roaring acclamation. The Champ jumped on to the stage waving and smiling to the crowd. Muhammad Ali was the country’s most famous conscientious objector. His words that evening — off the cuff and from the heart —were a plea for peace and for justice.

Before saying good-bye, he added,”I hope there’s no trouble, but if there is, I know it won’t be coming from you.”

Muhammad Ali inspired the crowd with his message of nonviolence.

The Champ’s affirmation of nonviolence reflected perfectly the spirit of the crowd, which responded with wild applause. He smiled and extended his arms as if to embrace us all. To feel wrapped in his brotherly hug gave one courage,and we all yelled and cheered at the top of our lungs.

“Damn!” Johnny said. “Isn’t he somethin’?”

After Ali, H. Rap Brown addressed the audience. His was a very different message.There were nods of agreement as he made the correlation between the fight against racial discrimination and the struggle against the war. But when, further into his speech, he said, “If the pigs meet us with violence they can expect us to respond with violence.” the audience reacted with an audible “No!” Brown, taken a bit by surprise, paused to look out at the sea of faces, shaking his head and smiling, as if to say, You poor saps!

“Y’all may have some hard lessons in store for you,” he declared.

C’mon People, Now!

When evening began to fall we marchers prepared to take off. Our group of five was positioned fairly close to the head of the procession. As I stood waiting, a young woman approached me. “Weren’t you at the Monterey Festival?” she asked.

I returned her smile. “Yes, I was.”

She said she had seen me doing my crazy-legged dance in the middle of a drum circle.

“My friend and I thought that was really cool,” she said.

I had actually felt a little embarrassed about that impulsive raving moment, but was flattered by the compliment.

Her name was Lauren, and with her medium-length, sandy blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, she was an attractive girl. She was wearing a sleeveless top, with a long skirt, and a flower in her hair. I learned she was from West L.A. This was her turf. I felt a bit like a small town boy beside her aura of calm self-assurance.

“I love this,” she said, pointing to the bright yellow sunshine button pinned to my shirt. “Where’d you get it?”

I told her that my thirteen-year-old sister, Patsy, had crafted it out of paper mache. “It’s become a kind of talisman for me, a reminder to tap into the flow of positive energy.”

Suddenly Johnny, who with his cavalry hat and moustache looked very much the leader, called out “Let’s go, Danny! Time to march.”

“Do you mind if I walk with your group?” Lauren asked me.

“Of course not. The more the merrier!” I responded.

The plan was simple: We were to walk from the park to the hotel where we would respectfully file past its opulent facade on Avenue of the Stars, and return by way of Santa Monica Boulevard. The organizer’s had gotten a city permit, so no one expected any trouble. After all, this was Southern California, not Selma, Alabama.

We walked north on Motor Avenue. To the west the last vestiges of sunlight had all but disappeared. The bells around Lauren’s ankle jingled with every other step of her sandaled feet, producing a cheerful, uplifting sound. As we marched, we were cheered on by scores of normal-looking folks hanging out of their doors and windows. Many of these people spontaneously joined our ranks. I was struck by the empowering thought that we were fifty-thousand strong, united in a common purpose, and on a mission to deliver our message of peace. Who could ignore such a throng? Oh, what a glorious summer evening it was! We made a right onto Pico Boulevard.

There was such exhilaration among the marchers. Folks carrying signs or American flags proudly held them high and pumped them to the cadence of our tramping feet. Jimmy began singing the title song from the Beatles’ new album. “We’re Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” he sang; “We hope you will enjoy the show.” Patrick and I joined in and soon our whole group was singing at the top of our lungs. Our spirits were sky high. After a short distance we swung left onto Avenue of the Stars.

As the 20th-century Modern structure of the hotel appeared on the hill up ahead, butterflies began dancing in my stomach. Drawing nearer, I could see that there was a strong police presence. White helmets were everywhere. I tried to calm my nerves by reminding myself how cool the Monterey police had been.

The Hard Lesson

Everything went without a hitch until we got to the bridge which extends over the Olympic Boulevard underpass. There, the police had closed off three of the lanes, and were funneling everyone into a single lane on the right. The pace slowed to a crawl. We were about three-quarters of the way over the bridge when the march came to an abrupt halt. We waited. I truly believed that it was probably a traffic snafu of some kind. “Be patient,” I told myself; “they’ll soon sort it out, and we’ll be on our way.” We were just short of the hotel. We could have filed past and been done in ten minutes.We continued to wait.The elegant fountains that bisected the avenue up ahead filled the summer air with a fine misty spray. Meanwhile, more and more marchers streamed in, swelling the ranks.

“They’ve completely blocked the street,” I heard someone say.

An eerie murmur rolled through the crowd for about half a minute before we started to sway. The motion grew with violent crescendo until we were rocking like a turbulent sea. The sound of a thousand gasps and cries was overwhelming. People were packed so tightly that at times both my feet were off the ground and I felt as if I was caught in an undertow. Lauren fell. I reached out my hand. She grabbed it and I pulled her back to her feet.

Then came a sudden, violent surge from the left side as if we’d been slammed into. High pitched shrieks of terror and screams of pain pierced the air. I could hear what sounded like dozens of baseball bats bouncing on a field, and my stomach turned at the realization that each ‘clunk’ was a nightstick whacking a human skull or shoulder. I got on my toes and stretched my neck . A phalanx of white helmets was just a few yards away, and alongside each helmet was a swinging baton. We were under attack! The cops were stepping over the wounded to penetrate the next layer of humanity. Clubbed heads splashed a fine bloody spray. For a moment I was frozen with disbelief at what was happening.

“They’re going to kill us!” a woman shouted.

A voice within my primitive brain cried out, Run! Run for your life! But there was nowhere to run to. We were flanked by cops on our left and in the front. To the right was the bridge railing and a precipitous drop, and to the rear more marchers kept coming. We were boxed in! Trapped!

Relentlessly, the L.A.P.D. carried out their vicious attack, prodding and pushing us back against the railing. As we gradually inched forward beyond the bridge they channeled us down a steep dirt embankment on the right to a vacant bean field that lay at the foot of the hill. Scores of folks, including seniors, and mothers with children, were pushed or slipped and tumbled down the slope. How the seven of us managed to descend unscathed will always be a mystery to me.

The bean field offered no respite from the onslaught. In fact, the situation there was even worse than above. Cops, high on the adrenalin of the chase, were running people down and beating them mercilessly. I thought I saw a figure fall from the bridge. We watched in horror as three motorcycled officers riding in ‘V’ formation intentionally plowed into a group of people. It was a surrealistic, nightmarish scene beyond my wildest fears. People lay bleeding on the ground, as traumatized children bawled. The seven of us huddled close to one another and kept moving forward. It sounds strange to say, but It almost felt as if we were invisible as we made our way through the pandemonium and horror.

We passed a middle-aged housewife with a badly skinned knee and elbow. She’d gotten back up and was brushing the dirt off her torn and blood soaked dress when she suddenly sank her face in her hands and began weeping uncontrollably. It was all just too much — the pain, the terror, the humiliation. Her husband wrapped a consoling arm around her.

The police had formed a continuous line that snaked down the hill, around the bean field, and far out along the underpass. They stood with billy clubs in hand, sneering and making mean comments to the passing protesters who were forced to walk this gauntlet. On angry impulse, Johnny aggressively approached the line of white helmets.

“Johnny, no!” Judi screamed.

My brother, seething with rage, got up close to a cop and, pointing an accusing finger, shouted, “Fascist!”

Beneath the helmet, the young face flinched and his bottom lip quivered. I could see that he was frightened, just like the rest of us. In an instant, Jimmy grabbed Johnny by the shirt and whisked him away before something terrible happened.

The Angels Cry

The return trip was a solemn one — the slow retreat of the defeated.People moved as if in a sleep-walk, and the sibilant sound of whispers and sobs washed through groups of marchers. Lauren and I walked with arms around each other’s waist. The bells at her ankle now rang a sad knell.

Back at the park, the band on the truck was playing a song which I hadn’t heard before nor heard since. Perhaps it was an original. Its refrain repeated the word ‘Love’ every two bars. People in the crowd began chanting along. Lauren and I clung to each other and swayed to the beat as I closed my eyes and joined in the chorus. ‘Love’ – I sang with heavy heart -‘Love’. The word echoed back to me like a forlorn plea.

“Hey, look who’s here!” Jimmy exclaimed. It was Kathy, a good friend from Redlands who was a student at UCLA. What a welcome sight! We all gave her a hug. She and her boyfriend invited us over to his apartment in Westwood after the rally wound down.

Just then, dozens of black-and-whites with sirens screaming and red lights flashing, began converging on the scene, intent on adding insult to injury.

“Fucking pigs!” I heard myself say.

“We’ve got to split, you guys!” Johnny shouted.

Lauren and I looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, then hugged and kissed. This had been an extraordinary way to meet someone, and we both wanted to see each other again under happier circumstances. She offered her phone number but there was nothing to write with. The cops were already rousting people, and we needed to fly. I told her I’d commit it to memory.

She recited the number and I repeated it back to her twice. My friends were waving me to come.

“Good-bye,” I said.

“Good-bye,” she whispered back.

I was sprinting away when she called out to me. I turned and repeated the number one last time.

We got in our cars and beat it. Just in the nick of time, too, for the police were corralling everyone in the park. We soon put distance between ourselves and the barbarians and headed for Westwood.

“God! I thought we were going to be killed!” Mike said, gripping the wheel with hands trembling.

“Yea, so did I, “Jimmy responded. “I now know what they mean by ‘police brutality.'”

Mike paused for a moment in thought, then continued. “Most of those people at the rally were just citizens, just regular middle-class people. And the cops tore into them with absolute savagery. Can you imagine what they would have done had we all been black?”

We Were Talking

Kathy and her boyfriend, Rod, welcomed us at the small apartment. Everyone gathered around the kitchen table to look at photos they’d taken at Monterey, while in the distance, sirens wailed through city streets. Someone switched on the eleven o’clock news, and suddenly there was footage from the afternoon in the park. Captain Hook appeared on the tube, rocking back on his heels as the missus willowed in his wake.

“Shit! I knew it!” Jimmy exclaimed.”What’d I tell you?”

Everyone laughed, but when the reporters went on to describe the event as a riot by protesters, the mood turned to anger.

“What march were they at?” Mike shouted.

Judi’s jaw dropped. “It was the police who did the rioting!”

“Don’t you know?” Johnny quipped. ” If it’s not on the TV, it didn’t happen.”

Suddenly there was a clip of Police Chief Tom Reddin congratulating his men on a job well done. “Thanks, Chief.” replied the men-in-blue with pride.

“It’s just a fucking football game to them!” said Patrick.

“Yea,” I added “and they just won one for the Gipper!”

One of us noticed a copy of the Sgt. Pepper’s album lying on the coffee table. Kathy picked it up and passed it around. The cover held the sweet, pungent smell of marijuana.”Have you heard this tracked all the way through on a great stereo system?” she asked.

None of us had.

“Prepare to have your minds blown!” she exclaimed.

We smoked a couple of joints and lay on the floor as Kathy put the disc on the turntable. For the next thirty-seven minutes or so, I was in a different world, and not for a second did the terror of the police riot enter my mind. It was amazing! Just a short time before we had been in fear for our lives, and now here we were mentally waltzing with Henry the Horse. No one but the Beatles could have carried us away like that.

“And the time will come when you see we’re all one,” George Harrison sang as I entered a mild hallucination. I was peering out through the window of a space capsule. The Earth below was achingly vibrant in swirls of blue and white. I saw a world with no boundaries, no divisions. We were all connected —my family, my friends, all of humanity. At the close of the last track, A Day in the Life, as the E chord on the piano slowly faded away, I felt the urge to call out, Please don’t leave. Don’t let this end. I longed to stay in this musical universe. The needle entered the looping inside groove, and the speakers hummed with a warm, scratchy sound.

So much had happened that day. My mind was overwhelmed. The rally in the park now seemed like a distant memory, an idyllic moment fading in the waning summer light. I remembered fondly how that light had sparkled in Lauren’s eyes.

On the turntable the needle continued its loop.

A replay of the attack suddenly flashed through my brain like a blur of white helmets. I clenched a fist in anger as I recalled the brutality and stupidity of the act. Why did they have to do it?

Kathy made her way to the stereo and lifted the hinged acrylic top.

“Hey, Kathy,” I said. “Play it again!”

Additional Editing by: Kathryn Albrecht
Special Thanks to: John Mack Faragher, Jimmy Faragher, Mike Fouch, Patrick McClure, Kathryn Albrecht
Graphic Design by: Bryan Faragher

Tags: 1967, 60s, anti-establishment, Avenue of the Stars, Century City, Century Plaza Anti-war Demonstration, Century Plaza Hotel, Century Plaza Police Riot, Cheviot Hills Park, counter-culture, Danny Faragher, Dr. Benjamin Spock, George Harrison Within You and Without You, H. Rap Brown, Jimmy Faragher, John Mack Faragher, June 23rd, LAPD, Los Angeles, Lyndon B. Johnson, Mohammed Ali, Monterey Pop, Olympic Blvd., Peace Movement, Police Chief Tom Reddin, Sgt. Peppers, Summer of Love, The Peppermint Trolley Company, The Sixties, Vietnam War
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A Sprint Through Paradise – Monterey in the Summer of Love, 1967

May 10, 2013 in Happenings, Thoughts

A Memory of June 16th, 1967, Monterey, California

It was a mellow summer night. Orange colored pennants fluttered in the benevolent breeze as I walked down the midway. I breathed in the cool Pacific air, and released a sigh of satisfaction. In the middle of the grassy lane a short, chubby policeman stood like a smiling Buddha, nodding amiably at passers-by. It was Friday, and the Monterey Pop Festival had just kicked off its opening night concert. I was still high from performances by the Association, Lou Rawls, Eric Burden, Simon and Garfunkel, and others. It had been a happening only slightly marred by a group of hippies in the bleachers who chose to accompany the ultra cool Rawls with some very uncool tambourine playing. I’d squirmed with embarrassment at each jangling accent on the one and three. The square moment had soon been forgotten, though, as I let myself flow with the evening’s good vibes.

Simon and Garfunkel at the Monterey Pop Festival, 1967

My brother, Jimmy and I, along with friend and band mate, Casey, had driven up the coast from L.A. the night before. After the concert we’d temporarily parted company to stroll solo and take in the sights. I looked around. Canvass booths lined each side of the midway, but for such as important event, the concession stands were meager. A few tents offered food or drink, while some hawked clothing, or crafts. Others simply passed out literature for left wing causes. The Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper’s was blasting from one of the booths. I stopped to listen. “I’ve got to admit it’s getting better, just a little better all the time.” Paul sang. The music and the moment made me buzz with elation. I was moving among kindred spirits. No one here was going to hassle me for wearing my hair long, or for taking a stand against the war. I wondered – Were things only to get better from here on? Were we at the dawn of a new day? A new paradise?

Up ahead a circle had formed around two long-haired musicians. I approached to check it out. A shirtless man with sandy hair, headband, and painted face was playing a set of pan pipes. With eyes closed and lips puckered, he played a percussive pentatonic melody. Next to him, a dark-bearded man, wearing a long white robe, sat before a single conga drum, patting out a rhythmic accompaniment with his palms and fingers. Their lack of technical skill was more than made up for by primitive passion, and the crowd was right there with them. When the music reached a climax, the two made eye contact and brought the improvised piece to a conclusion. The circle, me included, broke out in applause, and the tribe began to scatter.

Moving along, I suddenly felt a brush of fingers on my forearm. Tingling at the touch, I turned and found myself looking into a pair of green eyes, deep and intelligent. The girl’s face, free of make-up, was lovely. Her brunette hair was wrapped in a multicolored scarf, and she was wearing a cream colored halter top with shorts. She literally took my breath away. The girl discreetly placed what I suspected was a joint in my right palm and folded my fingers back around it. Then, grabbing my free hand, she gave a tug and we set off running. I could hear the bells around her ankles jingle as her bare feet touched the grass.

We ran down the lane to the end of the midway and into the darkness, laughing as we went. It felt as if we were the first couple, tripping through paradise. Ever the hopeless romantic, I willingly let myself get carried away, imagining that we would find a secluded spot to gaze into the starry sky and into each other’s eyes. Our hearts would race in anticipation as our lips drew nearer. We would kiss and talk for hours and spend the whole week-end together. I would never forget her. I would stay up until three in the morning to write her torrid love letters and poems and hitchhike for hundreds of miles in the pouring rain to see her. I would…

We swung left into a field behind the fairgrounds where we were immediately hit by the sweet odor of cannabis, and scent of sandalwood. As my eyes adjusted to a darkness lit only by a crescent moon, I could make out perhaps a dozen groups of people sitting in circles. We approached one of the circles.

“Hey, Linda, who’s your friend?” a girl asked.

Linda leaned in close to my face with questioning eyes.

“Danny.” I whispered.

“Everyone, this is Danny!”

“Hi, Danny!” the group hailed.

A friendly guy on the opposite side of the circle stretched an arm in invitation. “Hey, man, have a seat and join us!”

A guy and a girl sitting directly in front of me scooted apart to make room.

“Thanks.”

Linda made her way around the circle to sit beside the young man who’d spoken. He turned his head her way. “Hi there”

She smiled back. – “Hi.”

With a sagging feeling of disappointment, I recognized that these two were a couple. I was embarrassed at my having misread the situation, and felt a bit like a stray puppy someone might bring home. I was also surprised that her boyfriend seemed so straight. While his fellow travelers looked half hippie, his hair was short, and he was wearing an Ivy League shirt.

“I’m Todd.” he said. “This is Stuart and Meghan, and Bob and Susanne. ”

Just great. I thought. Three beautiful couples… and moi.

We all nodded and smiled.

“Danny’s come bearing gifts.” Linda suddenly announced.

For an instant I was confused , but then remembered the joint in my hand. I held it up between thumb and finger to everyone’s delight as long-haired Stuart, on my left, produced a lighter. I stuck the number in my mouth and leaned in to the flame. The Zig Zag paper crackled as I took a deep hit and exhaled. Wow! It was good shit. I passed it to Susanne on my right.

Across the circle Linda hugged her knees to her chest and looked over them at me. Oh, those eyes. I said to myself, hoping my sigh was inaudible.

From their conversation, I learned they’d come down from San Jose. I gathered they’d all gone to school together.

“Where are you from?” Todd asked.

“L.A.”

I told them I was part of a band. We were up here together.

“Far out! What’s the name of the group?” Bob asked.

I told him, and added that we’d just cut a single we were really excited about.

“Are you guys gonna play the Fillmore?” Stuart inquired as he passed the joint.

“I wish”

Ah, the San Francisco scene – the Airplane, the Dead, Quicksilver – Lately it was on everyone’s lips.

Janis Joplin Performing at Monterey Pop Festival

Janice Joplin on stage.

“I can’t wait to see Janis sing tomorrow. ” said Susanne, as she blew smoke, and fingered her long brown braids.

Todd saw the puzzled look on my face. “Joplin.” he said… “Janis Joplin, the singer for Big Brother and the Holding Company.”

“She’s so cool!” Red-haired Meghan chimed in. “We saw her in the ‘City’. That girl can sing the blues!”

“I’ll definitely watch for Janis, and the band.” I said. “I’m also really looking forward to seeing Laura Nyro perform. Have you heard her?”

It was their turn to look puzzled.

“She’s a great songwriter and singer. Very soulful. I’ve really gotten in to her album.”

With eyes slightly glazed, all present nodded politely.

Was I high? I knew from experience that asking myself the question meant that I probably was. I could feel my center lowering, and my body being enveloped in a warm sensuality. I yearned to hear some good music. Todd must have read my mind. He turned on a transistor radio and, seconds later, the Jefferson Airplane’s song, Embryonic Journey, flowed from the tiny speaker, wafting through the air like wind chimes riding a gentle breeze. The acoustic guitar work was gorgeous, and filled me with longing. I snuck a glance at Linda. For a second, our eyes met but, just as quickly, we both averted our gaze.

After the song ended, there were a few seconds of silence before the DJ began playing a track by Country Joe and the Fish. It was very psychedelic and full of tonal color. I was digging on the Farfisa organ, when I abruptly heard what sounded like a monstrous washing machine running out of balance. With quick crescendo, the sound grew in strength until it was right on top of us. I looked up and saw an army helicopter pass in front of the moon. The chopper began circling the fairgrounds like an ominous bird of prey. Its light blinked as its blades sliced through the air. Stuart looked skyward, and with a sneer, flipped the bird, pronging his finger emphatically. You had to love the guy! The craft circled a few more times before making its way back to from where it had come. I suspected they were probably on a joy ride from nearby Fort Ord, out to rain on our parade. It was a jarring moment, a stabbing pierce through the veneer of a peaceful night.

Susanne shook her head – “God, I hate thinking about what’s going on in Vietnam.”

“Yea, me, too.” Everyone agreed.

The war. That damned evil war. It was tearing us apart. I remembered back to a few months earlier, when I had carried out a one man anti-war protest at my community college. Placard in hand, I had naively thought I could convince people of the war’s folly simply by laying out the facts. I was wrong. While some students were cool, others had wanted to confront me, corner me, and shout me down with the spittle flying. I was called a commie, a freak. Most people, however, were just plain old apathetic. I now looked upon it as a brave, but forlorn act. Although it had meant something to me, had I made a difference? I doubted it.

eGFuaGNkMTI=_o_monterey-pop-festival-1967---part-1

Tent city at The Monterey Pop Festival

“Hey, guys.” Todd said. He paused, and took a deep breath before continuing… “This may sound crazy, but I’ve decided to join up. I don’t like this stupid war either, but… hey, I’m 1-A, and it’s just a matter of time before they draft me. My uncle thinks I have a decent shot at getting in to the Coast Guard. If that doesn’t work out, I’ll take the Navy. I might as well get it over with so I can get on with my life. Just wanted to let you know.”

Everyone was quiet. Linda placed a hand tenderly on his arm.

He added with a nervous laugh – “Right now, though, I just want to enjoy the mellow vibes and beautiful people.”

“Hey, man, I’ll always be your friend” Stuart declared. Others joined in with words of support.

I was at first surprised by Todd’s declaration. I could never do that, I thought. Although I, too, had received 1-A status from the draft board, I had vowed not to kill another human being on someone’s command, and I refused to become cannon fodder for a war I thought was immoral and unjust. I would go to jail first. But I realized that Todd was looking at the larger trajectory of his life, and making a pragmatic choice. I respected him for that. Was I making long term choices or just chasing my dreams? I couldn’t really say.

Once again my ears tuned into the music on the radio. “Wouldn’t you love somebody to love? Don’t you need somebody to love?” Grace Slick was shouting.

I could feel it was time for me to make an exit. I got up, and brushed the dust from my jeans.

Linda looked up to make eye contact – “Oh, you’re not leaving already?”

“Yea , I’ve got to meet up with my buddies. Thanks for being so welcoming.” Then, making it clear that I was addressing everyone, I said “You’re beautiful!!” even as I winced inwardly at the triteness of my own words.

The circle bid me good-bye.

“Peace and Love” Stuart said, showing the finger “V” peace sign.

“Peace and love” I responded, giving the peace sign back.

On my way out, the booth was still playing Sergeant Pepper’s as I passed by. “With our love we could save the world .” George sang. “If they only knew.”

Three weeks later…

Yes, if they only knew. Although I was high, my mind could see clearly. No doubt, for some of us this event would be a life changing experience, but for most it would simply be an entertaining diversion. The warrior culture runs deep, and we were not going to transform the world with just a song and a magical moment. I sighed. I knew in my bones that this happening was ephemeral. Like my brief encounter with lovely, green-eyed Linda, it was a beautiful, but fleeting thing – A sprint through Paradise.

Tags: '67, 1967, anti-establishment, anti-war movement, Big Brother and the Holding Company, California, counter-culture, Country Joe and the Fish, Danny Faragher, Eric Burden, hippies, Janice Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, Laura Nyro, Lou Rawls, Monterey Pop Festival, Psychedelia, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Simon and Garfunkel, Summer of Love, The Animals, The Association, The Fillmore, The Monterey International Pop Festival
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The Faragher Brothers on The Steel Pier Show in 1976 Part II

April 26, 2013 in Happenings, Thoughts

I first heard “It’s Alright” when the Impressions performed the song on Casey Kasem’s TV show, Shebang in 1966, and immediately fell in love with it. It had the simple gospel sound I’d listened to as a youngster. The melody and lyrics were so infectious, uplifting, I wanted get up, clap my hands, and sing along. The Impressions became one of my favorite groups. Love those unison falsettos! When Jimmy and I joined with our brothers to form the Faragher Brothers in 1973, this was one of the first tunes we worked up. Recorded in 1975, and destined to be on the “Yellow Album”, it was the only cover song we ever included on an album.

The 1976 tour was definitely a yin/yang experience , and there was more than enough yang to go around, believe me! From the perspective of four decades later, the mishaps seem a lot funnier, and I’ll share some of them another time. On the positive side, we got to see some sights, like D.C. during the Bicentennial… We got to play beside some great artists, like Tower of Power, Toots and the Maytals, and disco queen, Vicki Sue Robinson… And we were privileged to perform at some great venues, including the Steel Pier Show from Philadelphia.

At the end of the day one has to say in the words of Curtis Mayfield… “It’s Alright”.

Tags: 1976. The Faragher Brothers, Curtis Mayfield, Danny Faragher, Davey Faragher, Ed Hurst, Gospel, It's All Right, Jimmy Faragher, Philadelphia, Shebang, The Impressions, The Steel Pier Show, The Yellow Album, Tommy Faragher
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My Fifteen Minutes with Andy Warhol

A Plunge into the System – Part 3

Thoughts on the Fiftieth Anniversary of JFK Assassination

A Plunge into the System – Part 2

A Plunge into the System – Part 1

Wheels

In the Studio with The Peppermint Trolley Company – Part I – Moonglow Studio and the Hollywood Recording Scene in 1966

A Blur of White Helmets – The 1967 Century Plaza Police Riot & Brutality in the Summer of Love

A Sprint Through Paradise – Monterey in the Summer of Love, 1967

The Faragher Brothers on The Steel Pier Show in 1976 Part II

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