Thoughts | DannyFaragher.com

The Big Shoot

September 8, 2014 in Events, Happenings, Thoughts

On August 6, 2014, Danny Faragher and son Bryan, along with Shervin Ahdout, and Alex Echevaria shot video footage for ‘Too Much Pressure’, a song featured on the soon to be released album – ‘Dancing with the Moment’. Here are Danny’s impressions of the experience.

Shervin, Bryan, and Alec

I woke up earlier than I’d planned. Had I even slept? I lay in bed while my mind scrolled through the day’s agenda. It was Sunday, the one day that I allow myself the luxury of sleeping in, and my body was tired. It would have been wise to try to catch a few more winks, but I had a video to shoot, and my brain was just too active. I could feel the clock ticking. I swung my legs off the bed and rose to my feet. Owe! I felt a pain. Glancing down, I was shocked to see that the little toe on my right foot was purplish in color and swollen as a sausage. The night before, In my haste to get things ready, I had stubbed it badly, perhaps even dislocating it. Canceling the shoot, however, was out of the question. It had been difficult enough to set a window of time that worked for everyone involved, and we’d already rescheduled twice. I’d just have to bite the bullet and deal with it.

After a shave, shower, coffee, and breakfast – I learned long ago not to jump into the day on an empty stomach – I dashed off to pick up my son, Bryan. He and I had been creative partners for the last seven years, working together in the studio on my now completed album, Dancing with the Moment. The two of us had already shot a couple of videos for two of the original songs – The Sad Man, and Song in the Night. Now we were focusing on Too Much Pressure, a funky tune with a soulful vocal and a message in the lyric. We both felt that the track was an important one and wanted to create a video that captured its excitement. We’d brainstormed and come up with a bold idea. As I had played most of the instruments on the recording, Bryan thought it would be cool to have me visually make up the band by combining individual shots into a composite. We could also feature close-ups of each character. To assure a professional look, we’d approached a videographer friend of his, Shervin Ahdout. who had a lot of experience both as a cameraman, and as a lighting tech. Shervin’s input had already been invaluable, and the three of us had mapped out a basic course to follow. Also coming to the shoot to offer his help was Alec Echevaria, a piano student of mine. Alec, too, was a videographer, and had, along with Bryan, had a hand in the writing of the song, so it was fitting that he be involved.

Upon arriving back at my place, Bryan and I began loading the truck, checking off each item on the list: musical instruments, amps ,mic and stand, props, costumes, hats, etc. It was a lot of stuff, and a lot of things to keep track of. I always have a nagging feeling that I’m forgetting something. it was a good thing the location was nearby. For our film site I had chosen the concert room at West Valley Music Center in West Hills, where I teach music five days a week. The owner, Jeff Gold, was more than cool. When I’d asked him if I could rent the space, he’d waved me off, saying – ‘Nah, Don’t worry about it. I don’t need anything for it. Knock yourself out!’

Me, wearing Faragher Brothers shirt and channeling my brother, Davey, on bass.

Me, wearing Faragher Brothers shirt and doing my best to emulate my brother, Davey, on bass.

The store is in a little strip mall that lies at the foot of a wooded hill. Just beyond is the kick off point for a hiking trail that winds into the Santa Monica Mountains. The August sky above was unusually dark, and as we unloaded the gear, a few big drops began to fall to the asphalt . Although it would shower off and on throughout the day, luckily for us the threatened downpour was never to materialize.

After a few minutes, Shervin arrived with camera and lighting equipment. He and my son greeted one another as they always had – ‘homey to ‘homey’ – with a ritual that included bumping fists. ‘Hey, Bryan.’ he said.

Looking respectfully my way, he extended a hand. ‘Hello, Mr. Faragher.’ he said, addressing me with an old world courtesy and formality. Shervin and Bryan had met as sixth graders not long after the former’s family had emigrated from Iran. Shervin is intelligent, soft spoken, and to the point. When he speaks, it’s because he has something definite to say. I respected his opinion and had a lot of confidence in his ability.

A few minutes later Alec pulled up. The young man, in his mid twenties had been studying with me since he was about seventeen. He’s smart, talented, and artistically curious. I admire him. I introduced him to Shervin, and the two of them were soon conversing in film speak. This was a relief. One never knows if two people are going to or hit it off or rub the wrong way.

There was a lot to do before we could begin. Dozens of rental instruments, a few pieces of furniture, and a wall of hanging pictures had to be removed before we could open a space to set up. The fact that there was so much grunt work to do was a good thing. Keeping busy helped to calm my pre-performance jitters, and keep my mind clear of doubting, and second guessing.

I was to play eight different characters, and that meant eight complete and separate costumes , including shoes and hats. My wife, Jeanne Harriott, is a professional set costumer. When I’d run my ideas past her she had given her stamp of approval. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it under control.’ she’d said, This did wonders for my confidence. I’d always loved wearing costumes (After a third grade Thanksgiving play, I was loath to stop wearing my Pilgrim attire), so it was going to be fun. At the same time, I knew that the process had to be quick and smooth. Having observed Jeannie working on projects, I knew how important it was to be organized. She’d gotten me a clothes rack, which I set up in the office. It would help immensely.

As for make-up, I couldn’t afford a professional, so I was on my own. I’d learned the basics of applying make-up when I was acting in a theater production, so I wasn’t completely at sea. If I had it to do over again, however, I would be sure to bring a good sized magnifying mirror with built in lighting. As it was, I had only a little traveling kit shaving mirror, and the light in the room was far too dim to see properly. I told myself I’d just have to do my best, and pray I didn’t come out looking like Bozo.

Shervin Ahdout

Meanwhile, Shervin and Alec were setting up for the first shot -an intro scene which occurs before the song kicks off. This was chosen not for chronological reasons, but because they wanted to take advantage of the sunlight coming through the blinds. In this scene I am dressed as a janitor sweeping the floor dressed in coveralls – an older man forced by circumstance to take on menial work. Bryan is playing a roadie who is busy winding a cable. He accidentally bumps the table and causes a drum machine to begin playing a funky groove. The two characters look at each other for a moment, then smile and start moving to the beat until the track kicks in. We are then transported to a parallel world in which the janitor becomes each member of the band, and the roadie turns into a D.J. creating the drum and percussion tracks. At the end of the song the carriage turns back into a pumpkin and the two characters return to their chores. We were going to shoot both the intro and the outro.

Bryan and I both spent long stretches of time standing in place as Shervin and Alec tweaked the lighting and camera angle of each shot.

‘Now you know why there are stand-ins.’ Shervin remarked. ‘If you were big stars, you’d be back in your trailers with your groupies.’

We all laughed. It brought to mind the old adage about the experience of shooting a film – Hurry up and wait! Indeed we did a lot of standing and waiting as Shervin and Alec did the hurrying. Ultimately, though, in between those tedious periods would come the moment of truth – the instant when the clapper snaps, ‘Speeding!’ is shouted, and one has to summon the actor inside. This rapid tandem from left brain to right brain can come as a shock to the uninitiated. It’s suddenness can leave a person feeling like the proverbial deer in the headlights. It took a few times to begin to feel comfortable.

‘This time I’d like you to wait two beats before you react.’ Shervin directed.

Ah, yes… react naturally, as you would in life. Such a simple thing, but so difficult to achieve. Just as in music or any other art, you don’t think about what you’re doing, you just do it. We did multiple takes on a number of shots – Bryan and I together, the two of us separately, long shots, close-ups, over the shoulder, etc. – until we reached the point where Shervin felt he had the right footage in the can.

Cowboy Dan

After this experience, the four of us were exhausted and hungry. Time for lunch break. I looked at the clock. God, had it really taken that long? We hadn’t even started to film the actual song sequences yet. This was going to be a race against the clock. I could feel the time beating with each throb of my toe.

After a lunch of foot long sandwiches, we were ready to roll, starting with the lead singer. I changed into a nice shirt with vertical strips and black jeans. Simple but slick.. My toe smarted a bit when I crammed my right foot into the pointed shoe.

About a week prior I had bought a high quality camera with the intention of using it on the shoot. A lot of time could be saved by shooting with two cameras simultaneously. Shervin removed it from the box, inserted a battery and a card. and attached it to the shoulder mount. When he turned on the camera, however, it refused to go into video mode. He handed it to Alec, who gave it a college try, but It was no dice. The camera stubbornly refused to cooperate..

‘Mr. Murphy makes his entrance.’ Shervin said, referring to Murphy’s Law. ‘Were’ going to have to continue without it.’

My heart sank. I knew that the stationary camera could not be moved until every character was shot, otherwise a composite would not work. That meant we would have to film all the characters in the full body shot, then remove the camera from the sticks to film the close ups. I would have to put on and take off each costume twice, more than doubling the time.

While we were processing this unwanted detour, Bryan suddenly announced – ‘ I got it to work!

‘Wow, no kidding? How did you do it?’

‘I just kept trying things. Shutting it off and restarting.’

‘Bryan saves the day!’ I shouted.

I felt a sudden rush of elation. I was ready to sing. ‘Okay,’ I exclaimed. ‘ Let’s do it!’

We ran through the song.

‘I’m just getting warmed up. I said. ‘ Let’s run it again.

Dressed in Eighties hipster suit.

On the second take I began to settle into my element, grabbing the mic for effect, gesturing , and most importantly, feeling and believing the words I was singing…

Too much. Too much pressure
All around, all around ,
All around, all around…

Now the rich and greedy keep goin’ to town
While the rest of us – just movin’ on down
Empty pockets and empty dreams
Where’s my chance to make the scene?

When we got to the section where the harmonica solos, I started moving my feet. Dancing for me has always meant liberation and expression. Now, some folks may believe that men of a certain age shouldn’t dance, they should play golf. But all my life I’ve loved to move, and I’m not ready to stop, yet. Just give me fifteen minutes, and a four by four area of hardwood floor where I can kick off my shoes and slide my feet, and I’m in seventh heaven.

As I came out of the break down and into the last verse, I braved a pivot spin and pulled it off. Lord, I was feeling good, truly dancing with the moment, and I let myself really get down as the piano took over.

‘Those J.B. moves are great’ Alec said, ‘but it would be cool to see you come out from behind the mic stand so we can get a better view of your feet.’

‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘Let’s take another one from the breakdown.’

I jumped into the shot. By the end I felt as if I’d sprinted a 440. Tired, but energized. The lead was by far the most important shot. It was satisfying to know I had a good performance in the can. I was just starting to hit my stride, and wished I could do another half dozen takes, but I knew that time was flying by and we had to press on. Over the next five hours or so we filmed another eight characters: the harmonica player, Bryan’s ultra cool DJ, the guitarist, bassist, pianist, trombonist, sax player, and cornetist.

In Peppermint Trolley jacket

By the time we’d filmed the last shot (me with silver cornet, wearing my Peppermint Trolley band jacket), packed the equipment, and returned objects to their place, we were into the wee hours. We’d worked a fourteen hour day. I knew that the next day I would be useless, a zombie, and that I would have to deal with the injured toe. Right then I just wanted to savor the moment. The four of us hugged. We had worked well as a team. For me it had been a demanding but gratifying experience. Now it would be up to Bryan to work his magic in the editing room. I had every confidence in his ability to do just that.

Tags: Alec Echevaria, Bones the Rock Band, Bryan Faragher, Danny Faragher, Danny Faragher album - Dancing with the Moment, Danny Faragher song - Too Much Pressure, Danny Faragher video, Davey Faragher, Shervin Ahdoot, The Faragher Brothers, The Faraghers, The Peppermint Trolley Company
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my mark

August 14, 2014 in Coping, Poetry, Reflections, Thoughts

my mark

to make my mark… to be seen and heard
was my purpose, my desire
to blaze like a meteor across the sky
so young, so full of fire

but with the years I’ve shed this edgy
need to prove that I exist
watching, listening, I now hear and see
the myriad things that I have missed

‘hit your mark and tell the truth.’ –
so said the actor sage
it resonates less in the heat of youth
than in the cool of age

Tags: Danny Faragher, Danny Faragher poetry, Danny Faragher's poem of the week, poem on seeking fame
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Rosewood Redemption

May 15, 2014 in Events, Thoughts, Uncategorized

It‘s New Year’s Day, 1980. The opening fanfare of a new decade finds Danny ill in bed, adrift and rudderless. Here is a a small testament to the resilience of the human spirit…

Rosewood Redemption

An angry Santa Ana was whistling through the overgrown mulberry tree. I could hear the branches whip and scrape violently against the house. The dry, stifling air seemed to invade through every crack and crevice, engulfing all in its suffocating presence. My scalp tingled with static electricity as I tossed and turned on the bed. There was just no getting comfortable: My back was sweaty, my head hurt, and I was semi-delirious with fever. I could hear nothing with my infected right ear, and my swollen throat was only capable of an occasional moan or sigh. I lay in my jockey shorts with the sheets peeled back, feeling hot and bothered as the sunlight sliced through the blinds and over my sick body.

‘A Happy fucking New Year!’ I mumbled sarcastically to myself.

The Faragher Brothers at the Starwood – Sept ’79. One of our last gigs.

The small black and white TV which sat on the dresser was broadcasting yet another bowl game. I couldn’t muster enough strength to get up and turn the station. In my prone position I’d watched the myriad helmeted crews bash into one another. It all seemed so pointless, so absurd. The realization that millions of people had an emotional stake in this exercise made me feel all the more isolated. Still … I watched, waiting perhaps for that breath of fresh air, the long pass. I did love to watch the ball sail down the field and fall safely into the cradling arms of a man running like the wind. The play served to break the brutal monotony and claustrophobia of a game I otherwise hated.

A new decade was dawning. Nineteen-eighty. It felt strange to shape the sound.

It’s just an arbitrary number. Why do we place such importance on these things? Do you think this goddamned wind, which will still be blowing long after we have disappeared, knows or gives a shit?

It dawned on me that this would be the first year since 1960 that I wasn’t a member of a band. I let my memory scroll back in time nearly twenty years to when I was a thirteen -year-old. My family had just moved from Long Beach to Redlands, and I was a new kid in town. Kennedy had been elected president, and the hope and optimism of the time was contagious. Bursting with new-found energy, I’d succeeded in putting into action a dream I’d nurtured for three years – I started my own band. It was the beginning of a musical thread that was to continue through two decades and six different groups. The Faragher Brothers, the final ensemble, had officially broken up this last Thanksgiving day,.

Where do I go from here? I wondered.

Many of my contemporaries had completed their education and were settling in to their careers; my career was ending. I was thirty-two, married with two children, and had no visible prospects on the horizon.

Suddenly a strong gust of wind bore down on the house, shaking the windows with impunity, as if to remind me of my humble place in the scheme of things. When the force subsided, I raised my arms to stretch, flexing my fingers – fingers that were half numb from repetitive work . Patches of gooey down still adhered to their tips, the residual of countless hours spent crafting feather jewelry and roach clips. For several years I’d been supplementing the music income by selling my wares to head shops, hair salons, and hip clothing stores. Production was slow and tedious. Sweatshop work. I’d spent many a night seated at my garage work bench burning the midnight oil with feathers flying and the pungent scent of glue in my nostrils. In fact, it was the act of pushing myself to fill a huge order for Christmas that had gotten me ill. I thought of Bobby Darin’s song about the little girl who succumbs to the cold in a tenement house.

‘Artificial flowers… artificial flowers….fashioned from Annie’s despair.’

I sighed. The poor will always fall under the radar in this mean, cold world.

The whoosh of the wind and the noise of the stadium crowd on the television seemed to merge into a common stream of white sound. My eyelids grew heavy and I began to feel I was body surfing that stream. The ride accelerated and soon I was rushing through a twisting tunnel… down… down…deeper and deeper…

I found myself sitting in the garage fashioning jewelry. Instead of feathers, however, I was attempting to use palm fronds. They were huge and unwieldy, but I just had to get this order made. I kept trying. I gradually became acutely aware of the wind picking up outside. I could feel it was building to a crescendo. Suddenly there was a crashing sound as the roof flew off, and the fronds took flight, disappearing into the blue…

I awoke with a startle. The room was dark. The silhouette of a tree branch danced on the moonlit wall as the wind continued to blow. On the TV screen the news was showing a photo of the Ayatollah Khomeini. To me he looked like a bearded Sean Connery, though sans the twinkle in the eye. ‘Oh, yes,’ I remembered – ‘the Iran Hostage Crisis.’ This stressful stand-off was bringing out ugliness and intolerance from all quarters. It felt like we were moving backwards. I clenched my fists.

What a fucked up world!

With my clear left ear, I detected a faint sound of music coming from our daughter’s room down the hall. She had her radio tuned to KROQ. I recognized the song. It was a cover of the Johnny Rivers tune, Secret Agent Man, sung in a robotic monotone. I identified the sound as Devo. The band was a part of the new movement – labeled Punk, New Wave, or whatever moniker some self-proclaimed prophet of pop wanted to call it – which was considered to be the epitome of post modern chic. Personally, I found the choked throat singing of Devo or David Byrne of Talking Heads to be the equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard. Oh, I’d tried to dig it, as my younger brothers had, but to me it was a case of the Emperor’s Clothes. This trend seemed more defined by what it wasn’t than what it was. Yes, I was aware that it was purposely meant to be ironic and detached. I just didn’t give a shit. I was too warm blooded, and this music just left me cold. For me there had to be a visceral connection, an emotional spark. Wit and irony on top of that I could buy.

I gave out a sigh as the mechanical thumping droned on. Eventually the beat seemed to lead me on a pathway down into the rabbit hole and back to a dream world…

My Brothers and I were getting ready to play at the Hollywood Bowl. We were on in five minutes. Where was my Hammond organ? Oh God, it was up in the seats! I realized I would have to play from up there. How would I plug in? I started running up the aisle. Though I was sprinting in leaps and bounds and huffing and puffing, I didn’t seem to be gaining any ground. I could hear my brother counting off – ‘One… a-two…a-one , two, three…’

I woke up in a cold sweat with my heart racing. Upon realizing it was only a dream, I uttered a laugh of relief, and began singing the old Jimmy Clanton tune in a gravelly timbre. – ‘Just a dream, just a dream’. My panic subsided. The perspiration served to cool me down. I began to reflect on the past year…

1979 had started off with such promise (My God, Israel and Egypt were even talking about peace!). We Faragher Brothers had a great album in the can and were contracted by Polydor to record another. We appeared on American Bandstand and shot a video. Then the bottom seemed to fall out of the music business; the album got lost in the shuffle. Sadly, the ties that had held the band together began to unravel. No longer did we trust one another. Although we did record one last LP, it was done with record company bottom liners breathing down our necks and with palpable tension in the studio. In November we’d gotten word that our contract would not be renewed. It was the end. All those years of work and sacrifice… all for naught. It was over. A line from James Taylor’s Fire and Rain rolled through my mind…

‘Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground.’

It was over.

I realized that for the past month I had been in denial about my reality. Now the stark truth hit me hard. It just broke my heart! Without warning I found myself crying. At first, a lone drop here and there, but soon the tears began to pour. There in my dark, sick isolation I wept unabashedly, grieving both the loss of my musical career, and the tear in the familial fabric. Gradually the sobs began to taper off. I could hear the washing machine agitating on the service porch. The steady rocking lulled me and I drifted into sleep once again.

I dreamed I was in my folk’s Victorian era house in Redlands.

The staircase at the Faragher House. Photo by Jerusha Faragher

I walked into the long rectangular living room with the high ceiling. In front of me, my parents sat facing the other way; my father in his easy chair, reading the paper; my mother in the family rocker, darning socks and watching television. I smiled. My heart warmed at the sight of these two beloved people. I made an about face and tip toed to the family piano which sat in the room’s near end. I reached my fingers down to the keys and struck a beautiful chord. ‘ It all began here.’ I said to myself. I turned to the right and walked through the large entry way and into the foyer. The staircase angled directly in front of me. To the right of that was a small paneled area in back of the floor furnace grate. I noticed a rosette in the corner of the panel. In its center was a rosewood button. Curious, I just had to touch it. I rubbed my finger over its smooth surface. It felt springy, so I pushed it. Suddenly the wall opened inwardly, exposing a secret room . I marveled. ‘Hey, I didn’t know this was here?’ The room was lit by candle light. I gave a spin to a huge globe of the earth and watched as the continents rotated. In the warm glow I could see shelves filled with wonderful objects – leather bound volumes from the Nineteenth Century, musical manuscripts, ancient maps of vellum, bronze sculptures…. Beneath the bookcase were six dark walnut drawers. I opened one and removed an oblong case. Inside was a rosewood recorder nestled in velvet lining. I fit the two segments of the instrument together , and set the flats of my fingers against the holes. It felt magical in my hands. I raised it to my mouth and blew a gentle stream of air. Out came a melody that was both sorrowful and sweet. My head swayed as the music filled the room….

When I awoke, the lamp was on and the TV was broadcasting an episode of Happy Days. On the sitcom, Richie was setting up a joke for the Fonz, who swiftly delivered the punch line to audience laughter. Both the wind and my fever had subsided. The lilting melody from the dream was still wafting through my brain and I was filled with an overwhelming sense of well being. I became aware of three beautiful pair of brown eyes looking in from the doorway.

‘How are you feeling?’ my wife, Jeanne, asked. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

‘Better.’ I responded.

“That’s good.”

Deena, our fourteen -year-old, was holding her baby brother, Bryan, in her arms. He laughed as she bounced him playfully. “Hey, Bry-Bry…” she coaxed. – “say ‘Get well, Papa!’ ” He giggled some more.

“Do you need anything?” Jeanne asked

“Just some water.”

“Okay.”

Deena grabbed Bryan’s hand and moved it in waving motion. “Bye, bye! We love you!” she said in sing song tone.

“I know. I love you ,too.”

The words replayed in my mind – I love you, too.

Love…. I pondered the ‘L’ word.

‘Faith, hope, and love abide; these three, but the greatest of these is love.’

The words of Paul that I had been required to memorize at nine years of age to receive my allowance now breathed with life on my lips.

Perhaps my faith, and hope were running a little dry at the moment, but like an underground stream , my love was still flowing freely. Indeed, I loved and was loved in return. This was just as true as the reality of my strained circumstances. Within my core I knew that this realization would be enough to get me through the rough days ahead.

Love, and Family… I pondered the word, this other ‘F’ word. I realized that for me it was and always had been about family. I was fortunate to have been raised in a loving one, and as a result, I viewed my relationship with the world as being a member of the largest of all families – the Family of Humankind.

I sensed that I was at a crossroads. The direction my future would take was entirely up to me. It would be so easy to choose the path of bitterness and cynicism, and to become someone who pisses and moans about the world having passed them by. I knew that wasn’t me. I recognized that life, by nature, is about change, and to resist change is to stop growing. In essence, it is to die a slow death. I vowed I would travel the other path. There would no doubt be surprises and challenges behind every bend, but… hey, I’d always had a resilient streak in me. I felt eager to get back on my feet and work my way down the road.

As for music. Though I would have to put my artistic career on the back burner for a while, not for a moment would I ever stop singing, or stop dreaming. Are you crazy? It was an integral part of who I was.

I would eventually rebound. I would reinvent myself. I would reach out and explore different genres. I didn’t need to be a star. I just wanted to become the best I could be.

As I lay there, the melody that filled the secret room continued to play within my mind, filling my heart with love and a generosity of spirit. My siblings and I were destined to veer off in different directions, but we would always share the familial bond and I knew that one day we would once again be close. Every fiber of my being still vibrated with the sound of the rosewood recorder. Energized and optimistic, I could feel the healing process commencing.

Happy New Year! I cried.

‘Hey, maybe I’ll even give Devo another listen.’

Tags: Danny Faragher, New Year's Day 1980, The Faragher Brothers
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‘Broken Hearts and Hopeful Dreams’ – Remembering Patrick McClure

April 18, 2014 in Events, Happenings, Thoughts

I Remember Long Ago

It was the spring of 1967. A whirlwind of change was in there air. The art scene, music in particular, was exploding with creativity. Conversely, the war in Vietnam continued its steady escalation, and the draft hung over young males’ heads like a sword of Damocles. Having become increasingly distressed by the conflict, and committed in my opposition, I planned and carried out a one-man anti-war protest at the school I was attending. San Bernardino Valley College was a very conservative campus, and as I stood on the walkway with homemade placard in hand, very few students offered any words of encouragement. Most were apathetic, and an angry few met my demonstration with outright contempt and hostility. Some were even confrontational, yelling point blank in my face – the spittle flying. I was feeling truly alone in my forlorn folly when I was approached by a guy with an easy going manner. The eyes behind the wire rimmed glasses were intelligent, inquisitive, and friendly. He introduced himself. His name was Patrick McClure. Right away he let me know that he was in solidarity with what I was doing. As we became engrossed in conversation, the act of chatting served to break the tension.

“Fuckin’ commie lover!” a passerby shouted, extending a middle finger.

The insult was like water off a duck’s back. I was otherwise engaged – thank-you much!

My friendship with Patrick appeared like an oasis in a vast wasteland, and In the weeks that followed, we became fast buddies. I learned that he and his family had moved to Redlands from Santa Cruz, and that they lived just several blocks from my folks. In addition to similar political views, we also shared a passion for music. Being from the Bay Area, he was much more exposed to the San Francisco scene. He had a copy of the Jefferson Airplane’s Surrealistic Pillow. I remember lying on the floor in his room, listening to the record, marveling at the sound which seemed to encapsulate the spirit of the time. He’d figured out and could play Embryonic Journey on acoustic guitar. I could see that he liked to tinker with music: Take it apart, analyze it, understand it. I admired this immensely. We also hung out at my little pad in Riverside where I introduced him to my brothers and friends. We jammed, talked, and, I’m embarrassed to say, even tried smoking banana peels, getting nothing but headaches and charred throats for our trouble.

I discovered that Patrick not only talked the talk – he walked the walk. In June, he was with us to share the beautiful experience that was the Monterey Pop Festival, and one week later stood alongside my brothers and me as the police mounted their vicious attack at Century Plaza. These seminal events served to strengthen the bonds. We developed a strong sense of knowing we had each other’s backs.

A Lazy Summer Day

Rehearsing for first concert. From left to right, Patrick, Danny, Casey and Jimmy.

My brother Jimmy and I had a recording contract as the Peppermint Trolley Company, and had brought our friend Casey Cunningham into our group to play drums. In July, our single, A Lazy Summer Day, was getting some airplay locally and our manager booked us on a concert as the opening act for Big Brother and the Holding Company featuring Janis Joplin at the Kaiser Dome in San Bernardino. We needed a guitarist, quick, fast, and in a hurry, and asked Patrick to join the band. To our delight, he agreed. Pat’s parents and siblings were out of town so we holed up in his house and woodshed like crazy for a week straight, managing to put together a set of perhaps eight or nine songs. Try as we may, there was just no hiding the fact that we were green. I know that it was difficult for me, so I can’t imagine how daunting a task it must have been for Pat. To have never even played in a band before, and to be suddenly thrust on stage in front of five thousand kids is a scary proposition. That takes balls – or naiveté… or both! (read more at the Peppermint Trolley Company bio)

On the night of the concert, we managed to complete a very jittery performance that was largely held together by Casey’s solid drumming. I’m sure we were dreadful, but at least we’d gotten through it and survived. To top off an absurd night, Big Brother was a no show. The promoter, a program director of a local radio station, pleaded with us to get back on stage. We replied that we had no more material worked up, that we’d shot our wad, and weren’t eager to repeat the experience. By serendipity, some musician buddies of ours, a band, were in the audience at the time and took the stage to perform some covers. This appeased the crowd somewhat, but then our friends began cracking smart ass jokes about the incompetence of the radio station. As a result, the promoter, who was livid, dropped our record from the play list.

A few weeks later we opened for the Buffalo Springfield at the Swing Auditorium. This time the headliner showed up! I felt a little better about our performance, but knew we were no great shakes as an act. Shortly after this we made the move to Los Angeles. There is a photo of the four of us posing in front of Casey’s Chevy van. The picture was taken in Redlands just minutes before we took off. We look like babes in the wood.

Sadness Within Your Eyes

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

No sooner had we settled into the Silver Lake rental house, when our manager landed us a featured spot as a hippie band on the Beverly Hillbillies. There we were on the tube all decked out in whatever silly wigs and mismatched apparel the Paramount costume department could find. It was a kick, and we made a little cash, but there was always that nagging feeling that we needed to get to work and come up with some new material to keep it all rolling. Patrick was pretty disciplined about sticking with a musical idea and developing it until it was a completed song. Jimmy has spoken about how much he was influenced as a songwriter by Pat’s dogged example. I recall our trying to work up a couple of his tunes, but deciding they weren’t quite right for the band.

In October, Patrick shocked us all by announcing he was leaving the group to get married. Shortly after this Greg Tornquist joined to take over the guitar slot. Sounds like the end of the story, doesn’t it? The irony is that Pat would have much more creative input to the PTC after he left than before. He continued to be a frequent presence at the band house, and both he and Jimmy began what was to be a creative surge. The first collaborative effort was Pat’s Song – a beautiful and deceptively simple melody. Jimmy, after being frustrated with his first attempts to put words to it, decided to write the lyric about Pat’s leaving. It was a perfect match. The result was both sophisticated and poignant.

You don’t have to tell me. I already know.
Sadness within your eyes says it’s time to go.

Many more tunes were to follow. I still carry the image in my head of Patrick and Jimmy sitting in the living room , guitars in hand, facing each other as a new song came to life. Patrick would be involved in the writing of seven of the band’s nine original songs on the1968 Peppermint Trolley Company album.

Pat wasn’t one to come up with a chord progression first and write a melody over it.He would start with a fragment of a melocic idea, and let everything ripple out from that center, exploring different chord progressions and key modulations along the way It was a process that seemed to be driven equally by emotion and intellect. The result was something interesting, but always honest, and straight from the heart.

Sunrise was penned solely by Pat. It is a song that spoke to me, and which I had the good fortune to sing lead on. Years later he provided the back story of its creation. He’d been up north dealing with the draft, and had driven back through the night. Just before dawn he pulled off to the side of the road, grabbed his guitar, opened the back door of his bread truck, and sat there strumming as the sun rose. The words and music came simultaneously, and the song was completed within minutes.

Today let me down but I know that the sun will shine.

These lyrics bear the imprint of a McClure song: Sad, but always hopeful. In my opinion these tunes are timeless. In a just world they would be recognized as the musical gems they are.

Harmony

Pat also became a good guitar player. I think his strongest suit was acoustic finger picking, and a lot of his songs were based around this style. He was floored by Mason Williams’ Classical Gas when he heard it on the radio, and after figuring the song out, he went on to compose his own piece in the same style (I wish I had a recording of it). A finger picker, yes, but he also grew as an electric player and became proficient in the blues slide style. In 1972 he became the fifth member of Bones (Same band, different name). The Waitin’ Here album features some great guitar licks by both Greg and Pat. The cut, Harmony, features the duo of Greg on acoustic, and Pat on electric slide backing Jimmy’s haunting lead. It is a beautiful example of Bones’ ballad sound. (Read more at the Bones Bio)

Patrick also played electric guitar on several tracks of the Faragher Brothers first album – the ‘Yellow Album’ This was a completely different style – R&B and soul – but he’s right in the pocket, scratching out solid and exciting rhythm on tunes like Best Years of My Life. (Read more at the Faragher Brothers Bio).

I deeply regret that after the mid Seventies we fell out of touch. One thinks – “Oh there’ll always be time to reconnect.” – but time melts away. Thanks to his brother Michael we got in touch with each other about seven years ago and began corresponding via email.Patrick mailed me a CD of original songs. I loved it! As a songwriter he still had the goods. In 2008 the five of us Bones brothers were reunited for Greg’s wedding where we performed Harmony. Sadly, it was to be the last time we would all be together.

He fought valiantly for years to beat the odds in his battle with cancer. I believe he fought so hard because he loved life so dearly. It was inspiring to hear family and friends testify to his loving and unique character at the event celebrating his life. He was a wonderful brother, father, friend and colleague. He possessed an artistic soul, a keen intellect, and a generous spirit. He was also a man of action, a man who loved biking, playing baseball and soccer, and traveling the world. In short, he was a renaissance man.

I look at a photo of Pat and I see a person who engages the camera, just as he engaged the world – with confidence, energy, and curiosity. Someone who is comfortable in his own skin. Someone who is able to reconcile the yin and yang of being both a realist and an optimist.

I thank my lucky stars that he approached me that spring day so many years ago. He was a friend, band mate, and fellow activist. Oh how we sang the good song and fought the good fight. We were young artists driven by the creative urge, and the world was our oyster. How I cherish those memories. How I will miss him. He was a brother, and I loved the man.

On the Waitin’ Here LP there is a song written and sung by Pat. It’s called More or Less. It has become my favorite cut from the record. The tune hearkens back to that Northern California sound of the mid to late sixties. It begins with a fingered guitar weaving a woodsy spell followed by Greg’s mystical flute part answering the call before Patrick enters to sing the simple and direct words that say so much.

Love in life is all I want
Not a car or a restaurant
And so I love you more each day
You help me find my way

The rain will fall upon the land
No matter where you chose to stand
The sun will come again one day
To help us find our way

And it’s more or less as it seems
The broken hearts and the hopeful dreams
My question is – Will our dreams come true?
Come true

We are all stardust.

Tags: 1967, Bones, Bones the Rock Band, Casey Cunningham, Century Plaza Anti-war Demonstration, Century Plaza Police Riot, Danny Faragher, Greg Tournquist, Jimmy Faragher, Monterey Pop Festival, Patrick McClure, Peppermint Trolley Company, San Francisco Sound, Summer of Love, The Monterey International Pop Festival, The Peppermint Trolley Company, Waitin Here
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My New Album – ‘Dancing with the Moment’ – It’s a Wrap!

March 20, 2014 in Events, Happenings, Thoughts, Uncategorized

sometimes on a sleepless night
the elusive muse appears before me
and with seductive charm implores me
in sweet persuasion I can’t fight
she reaches out to extend the touch
of fingertips beneath my chin
and gently lifts my gaze to hers
to command with whisper – ‘Write’.

D.F.

The Moment

It had been a productive session. Now we could sit back and enjoy the fruit of our labors. The track rolled… Suddenly over the studio speakers voices rang out with joyous urgency – “Dancing with the moment, and the moment sets me free.” Bryan, his hands on the soundboard, turned to look over at me –

Danny laying down a track.

“I think we’re on to something!” he said.

My son is not given to throwing out such statements lightly, so when he speaks I pay attention. I closed my eyes and let the music swirl around me. Indeed, we were ‘on to something’ – something singular, something real. After a long process of writing, arranging, and recording, my tune, Song in the Night had come together as I had envisioned. How often in life does that happen? I felt as if I were flying.

This moment in the summer of 2010 infused energy into a project which had been on a slow burn for years. The song not only supplied the title to my album, it gave it shape and momentum.

Now, four years, and six songs further along, Dancing with the Moment is a wrap! It’s been recorded, mixed, and mastered, and the cover art will be finished in time for a spring release this year. The album’s launch will also be accompanied by several video releases for some of the songs. We are excited! It was a long time coming, but well worth the years of hard work. For me the album has been a labor of love. It’s supplied direction for my creativity, and given me the opportunity to work with Bryan. I will always cherish those hours spent ‘Burning the lamp through the night’.

Because my career has been varied, and my pallet broad, I initially felt some reluctance at attempting to put my songs into a single package. After all, we live in an age where music is pigeon-holed and stamped with the narrowest of labels. An artist is expected to describe their sound with one or two words. Rolling the idea over in my mind, I flashed back to 1967 when I would listen to underground FM radio. The DJ played it all, from hard rock to classical and everything in between – the Beatles, Joan Baez, Otis Redding, Brian Wilson, John Coltrane, Fred Neil, early Elvis, Bach, Satie.. . It was a trip! What a mix of sounds! I decided I wanted to create something comparable to that experience, and vowed to heedlessly trespass across genre lines.

Chaucer, Keats, and Willie Dixon
Echo in this crazy brain
Emily, Robert, Walt and Hank
O lustrous star! O lonesome train!

Frederick, Miles, Brian, and John
Good vibrations intertwined
Words and music coalesce
To form the soundscape of my mind

D.F.

Dancing

So if label we must, here’s a new moniker… Are you ready? Call it Retro Eclectic, i.e. Music that is both rooted and experimental. It is music that embraces modern recording techniques like electronic sounds and drum loops, while maintaining focus on the heart and soul of the song. It also crosses generational lines – a result in part from the collaboration with my son, a fantastic sound engineer who has also been composing exciting electronic music for years.

The title – Dancing with the Moment – can be taken three different ways. First, it signifies embracing the here and now (For that’s all we really have). Secondly, it means trying to keep one’s balance as life hurls the unexpected upon you (Sound familiar?). Lastly, it’s about those salient moments in life – epiphanies, or just being acutely aware of being alive – that dance in the memory. Many of the tunes on this album are about such moments and have a cinematic sensibility to them. My goal has been to put the listener right there in the scene with me, whether it’s about a glorious summer day at the beach (Pacific Blue), or being deep in the blues amidst a smoky night as the Santa Ana winds howl (Devil Wind Blues).

Memories race through my mind
The good and the bad, the happy the sad
Streaming again in my mind
Life is a blink of an eye
No sooner begun when it’s over and done
All in the blink of an eye
As time rushes by

D.F. – (from Song in the Night)

Over time the structure of the album has evolved into more than just a collection of tunes. It has taken shape as a whole piece. Each song unfolds to the next, as if on a journey that weaves through a day, or perhaps through a life. Throughout the creative process I have tried to stay honest, to keep it real. No posing. No pretensions. Nothing has been forced to fit into a preconceived notion. Rather, it has evovled organically. With the goal in mind of creating something real, I feel I have given a little piece of myself with every song- in the writing, arranging, singing and playing.

Bryan at the soundboard.

I believe those who are fans of the bands I was a part of – the Peppermint Trolley Company, Bones, the Faragher Brothers, and even the Mark V – will find something they really dig. something that speaks to them in Dancing with the Moment.. I’ve tried to carry on the lessons I learned from years in the studio – Come up with a good song (catchy and soulful melody with intelligent lyrics), create interesting arrangements (both instrumental and vocal), and feature solos that are concise and to the point.

The album will be available both as a CD copy, and as downloadable mp3. We will be offering free downloads of some of the tunes, so stay tuned.

For all those times when I’ve felt like a kid sitting at the back of the classroom with my hand perpetually raised, waiting to be called, I can say it is a sweet feeling to have siezed the moment ‘...to dance ‘neath the sun.’

Peace,

Danny Faragher

A list of artist friends who contributed their talents to the making of Dancing with the Moment (I will sing your praises in the coming days):

Bryan Faragher, Tim Horrigan, Chris Blondal, Craig Copeland, Jane Getz, Simeon Pillich, Bob Tucker, Bob Gother, Davey Faragher, Jimmy Faragher, Pammy Armstrong, Matt Tucciaroni, Pete McCrea, Donna Deussen, Karen Schnurr, Jody Mortara

Tags: Ambient, Baroque Rock, Blues, Bones, Bryan Faragher, Contemporary Doo-wop, Contemporary Funk, Danny Faragher, Davey Faragher, Electronic, Experimental Rock, Faragher Brothers, Jimmy Faragher, New Album Release, Pammy Faragher, Peppermint Trolley Company, Psychedelic, R&B, Retro Eclectic
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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
Comments Off on A Plunge into the System – Part 2

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
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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

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