Reaping the benefits, backlash of a rock band life
On a cold winter’s night (Feb. 9,1964, to be exact) a whole lotta television sets were tuned to CBS’ “The Ed Sullivan Show” to witness first-hand the American arrival of the four lads from Liverpool, The Beatles.
The musical landscape, and for that matter the world at large, would never be the same. What many thought would be a flash-in-the-pan phenomenon grew to be a cultural revolution, in the true sense of the term. Though the band played by the rules initially (suit and ties, “yes sir/no ma’am,” clean shaven with coiffed mop tops), they and a lot of other people slowly found it much more fun to taunt the social norms of the time.
And in addition to all the high-falutin’ academic, sociological, genre-bending aspects of the British Invasion, there was something that bubbled underneath – for me at least. It was all but indiscernible at the time, like a slow-moving, raucous weather system that hasn’t hit yet.
I was there, a distant witness to it all, itching to be in the fray, rebelling against authority (my parents), hungry to emulate my new found heroes. Goodbye Elvis. Hello, John, Paul, George and Ringo.
It wasn’t till recently, I suppose, that I recognized what that undercurrent was that I couldn’t put my finger on at the time. As those of us who were there recall, the cameras would switch from The Beatles performing to the audience’s reaction during the show. And that audience was majorly screaming girls.
So, sure, I wanted to be on stage singing and whoopin’ it up, but it hadn’t occurred to me, at the age of 10, that one of the major reasons for my interest and excitement was girls. Rock’n’roll was an indistinguishable path to girls!
Fast forward to Columbus, Ohio, around 1965. My Dad worked for the railroad, and he and the family got transferred to the capital. We lived in a suburb called Forest Park, an enclave of stucco homes and middle class families. By that time, I had been Beatle-ized: I had a six-foot poster of McCartney in my bedroom, I had all the Beatle albums at that point, and a mass collection of Beatle cards – the whole whammy. More than all o’ that, it was in this ‘burb that I first used my vocal cords to ‘spress myself.
A kid my age lived directly across the street. Don King was his name, and he played a beige hollow-body guitar that was almost bigger than him. In no small part because of Beatlemania, we decided to get a band together, but because of certain restraints, we had to rehearse as a duo in the garage of my home. So, Don would drag his guitar and amp to my place, and we’d go at it, with the garage door open.
For whatever reason, we only knew one song: “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter,” by Herman & The Hermits. Over and over we’d do the tune – musta drove the neighbors nuts!
But the only neighbors that mattered to me were two sisters of my age, who lived kitty-corner across the street from me. I would literally fix my eyes on their upstairs bedroom window and croon, like a poor boy’s Romeo and Juliet. Try as I may, though, it was for naught, but I still felt that rock ‘n’ roll was my vehicle to get female attention and L-O-V-E!
Eventually, puberty, testosterone and my sexual id came into being. I succeeded a couple of times in obtaining girlfriends in the years that followed, but probably the most memorable of my encounters happened when I was in my early 20s. I had already taken the cue from The Beatles and the screaming girls and formed a few rock bands. At the time, I was in a “blues” band called Strongheart, and I was also enrolled at the University of Toledo, working to become a commercial artist (a term that eventually morphed into graphic artist.).
Part of the course study was a beginner’s psych course. I liked the class well enough, but what I really liked was the young lady who sat in front of me. A true beauty (she still is) who made my heart go wingy-wangy (a technical term.)
As luck (and fate) would have it, she came to see Strongheart one night. I was on her like wings on a bird, and we chatted up a storm. One thing led to another and we consummated our love. Our bumpy relationship lasted many years.
So, in the late ’60s/early ’70s I found that with my “position” as lead singer/goofball of a rock band, people (read “girls”) would come up and talk/flirt/entice me into their auras. But I also took the initiative, feeling more cocksure (pun intended) to talk to women I would heretofore never approach.
One incident that I remember was on Halloween. The band (Wet Shavers, I think) was playing at Howard’s Club H in Bowling Green. It was wild, with all kinds of costumes, liquor flowing, cocaine up the nostrils – I’m surprised I survived those days! Towards the end of the evening, a tall, red-headed woman approached the stage. Dressed as some sort of S&M dominatrix, she grabbed my arm and handcuffed me. She didn’t unlock the cuffs till the next morning.
As I look back, something happened. I can see that things got a little out of hand. I became addicted to the female charm. I was no prince, that’s for sure, a plain somewhat chubby dude, but as the center of attention on stage, it was easy for me to talk to girls. I became a “girlaholic.”
My ego soared out of control, and I became reckless and ruthless. The huge, elephant-in-the-room irony was that this was supposedly the norm for the job. In those days, rock ’n’ rollers were supposed to be womanizers! Hell, we weren’t makin’ any money. Why not?!!
All of those incidents, though they may have been a whole lotta fun at the time, seem to ring mostly hollow now. Yeah, I say “mostly.” I mean, after all, what am I without all the bad-boy shenanigans that accompany rock ’n’ roll? Like I said, this is a lot of what rock ’n’ roll is/was about. I can’t deny it; I can’t take it back, and I won’t. To what avail? But it’s not where I am now.
This went on for years – nay decades. Self-centered, thinking with the wrong head. I hurt people. I am painfully aware that I’ve done multiple dumbshit things in my Life, but I’m still a true believer in Karma – what goes around comes around – whatever you wanna call it. So, for all of the stupid stuff I did, and however much time I have on this orb, I’m hoping to make amends, and for some semblance of redemption.
But as we all know, there are no guarantees, just death and taxes.
Merde.
