Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 15 -- George Harrison

The sun had disappeared into the Pacific Ocean hours earlier and that chilly breeze that hits the southern California coastline after dark was sweeping in, taking the sting out of what had been an unseasonably hot spring day.

In the distance, the majestic Queen Mary stood guard in the bay.

There were barriers up all through downtown, marking off a twisting, challenging course set up for the Long Beach Grand Prix Formula One race. It had been a long day of practice laps and interviews. James Hunt was the defending F1 champ. Grand Prix motorcycle racers were buzzing about how demanding the track was. The air was filled with elegance and petrol.

A noon luncheon featured a classically European buffet, complete with a sabrage ceremony -- a grand production of a sommelier opening a bottle of champagne with a sabre.

All elegance and hipness aside, it had been a long day and, as a young sportswriter for the L.A. Herald-Examiner, I was ready to go home.

The damp, dull Long Beach Arena served as the garage area and press headquarters and I had been in and out of it all day long, chasing interviews, gathering information, and hanging out with an international press corps, the likes of which I had never seen.

I was walking around a corner of the old, dank building, lugging my portable typewriter in one hand, a sheaf of press notes in the other and a Reporter's Notebook stuffed into my back right pocket when I literally stumbled into a couple in the darkness. We backed away from each other and I offered a quick apology.

"That's alright...it is rather dark," the man said.

It took a moment to focus my eyes, but the voice was immediately recognizable.

"George?" I asked.

"Yes?" he said.

"I heard you were here for the race. Got time to do a quick interview? I'm a sportswriter for the Herald-Examiner," I said, reporter instincts taking over.

His then-girlfriend, future wife, Olivia Arias, interrupted.

"He works for the Herald, not the Times. He's a dark horse, just like you," she said, well aware of my newspaper's status when compared with The Whale, as we called the L.A. Times back then, a behemoth of a metropolitan paper that boasted a daily circulation of more than a million. We were second, with about 350,000 daily subscribers, the result of a nasty labor dispute that held over from the late '60s.

"Well, I would, but I've got another commitment right now and we're late," he said. "But, I'll be here tomorrow. Is that OK?"

"Sure," I said. "When should we meet?"

"I'll be around. We'll talk," he replied.

Now, ever since their first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, I had been a huge fan of The Beatles. They came around at a time when the United States was in a dull funk, a cloud hanging over it as a result of the turmoil of the civil rights movement, early intervention in the Vietnam War, and the assassination of John Kennedy.

But, four young men from Liverpool arrived on U.S. shores and, quickly, the mood went from gloom to gladness. We were drawn in by their music, but won over by their charm and intelligence. They were witty and wise. They had these funny haircuts and this sound that was unlike anything we had ever heard before.

Rock 'n' roll had long-since lost its innocence. Chuck Berry was blacklisted from most radio stations because of his run-ins with the law. Jerry Lee Lewis was also forbidden because he played "the devil's music," and, besides, had married his underage cousin. We had given up on Elvis because his post-Army career, at that point, had become a huge disappointment after his manager decided he could make more money by doing silly films with cheesy soundtracks.

So, when The Beatles knocked on our door, we eagerly let them in.

They represented a new freedom in the sense that they realized a put-on when they heard one and did not partake in the nonsensical babble typified by the teen idols of the day. They had real opinions, even in the early days, and were not afraid to share them.

They were the architects of the '60s.

Harrison, over the course of the band's career, became the most interesting to me. As I started playing in bands -- originally a drummer, by the way -- I started listening to music differently, dissecting the various parts, how songs were written and put together, listening to who was playing what and trying to figure out how and why.

His melodic guitar style was intriguing. He had taken elements from rockabilly, R&B, and straight-ahead Chuck Berry rock 'n' roll and come up with a hybrid.

Later, his songwriting started to compete well with the Lennon-McCartney juggernaut and, at the end of the line, songs like "Here Comes the Sun" and "Something" were better than most written by his bandmates. An arguable point? Maybe.

It was all too much to ponder that night as I drove home, tired, excited, and looking forward to the next day -- race day, and a promised interview.

Now, I was pretty sure that the next day, all would be forgotten, he'd go his way and I'd go mine. More than 100,000 people were expected at the race and, like me, he had an unrestricted pass, which meant he could go anywhere at any time. Considering this gave us access to not only the pits and garage, but to some of the rooftop viewing areas, I figured the odds were against me.

It was a dreadful experience getting back to the race site the next morning, even with press credentials -- worse than getting to the Rose Bowl on New Year's Day for the big game -- but I made it in, claimed a spot at one of the press tables in the arena, when my friend Hank Ives, who was doing publicity for the event, walked up.

"C'mon, we're going to watch the start from a rooftop down the street," he said.

"OK," I answered. "By the way, I ran into George Harrison last night. If you see him, remind him I'm looking for him, OK?"

"He's been here all through qualifying," Hank said. "Nice guy. Sure."

Hank ushered about a handful of reporters to the rooftop, which had taken on a rather un-Long Beach-like air of sophistication. The champagne was flowing, and there were trays of pate de faux grois and Beluga caviar being toted by butlers in crisp white shirts and bow ties. Pretty stuffy.

Race day was incredible as Mario Andretti and Niki Lauda chased each other around the course all day in one of the most thrilling races I have ever seen, with Andretti taking the checkered flag.

About midway through the race, I took to the arena for a rest. The sun was hot, the crowd surging and a little shade sounded like a good idea.

As I walked in through the loading dock and headed to my spot on press row, I saw George and Olivia walking my way.

"Good to see you again," he said, offering a handshake," he said. "Sorry 'bout last night, but I promised somebody I'd do something for them and was running late."

Turns out he had promised to judge a wet T-shirt contest at a local bar where the race teams were partying, but it didn't matter because, well, he was there, looking for me and ready to talk.

I had decided that I wouldn't get into any of the stuff about The Beatles. That had been done to death and, seriously, what would he offer a reporter he had barely met? So, I kept the conversation focused on racing. Turns out he was a real fan with some pretty good knowledge about the sport.

Then it all went weird.

When we started our chat, we were the only three people in that little section of the arena. Suddenly, however, it seemed like a hundred or so other reporters just dropped out of the sky, encircling us.

They shouted questions at George, who looked me in the eye and ignored them. It was clearly my interview, we had hit it off, and he wasn't about to turn it into a press conference. My interview, my story, my questions. It took the growing press corps a few minutes to realize this, but when they did, it all got cartoon-like as the microphones would get stuck in my face as I asked a question, then into his as he answered. Then it started to get uncomfortable. The pack of reporters started closing in tighter and tighter. When we started our chat, we stood with a comfortable space between us. As it progressed, we were pushed closer and closer together until we were practically nose-to-nose.

I was pretty much done with my questions when I decided it was time to turn the tables a bit.

Instead of questions about racing, cars and motorcycles, I started asking some of the questions that a teenybopper magazine would ask.

"Your favorite color?" I asked.

He shot me a puzzled look, looked at Olivia, then turned back, a very slight smile on his face.

"Blue," he said, again looking me in the eyes with a silent, "I get it" shining through.

"Still like those little candies they used to throw at you back in Liverpool?" I asked.

"Nah...they hurt my teeth," he responded, stone serious.

This went on for about five minutes until I finally said, "Really good to see you again, George. See you later."

"'kay, mate," he said as we both turned and worked our way through the puzzled crowd that probably didn't realize they were being put on.

Later, I saw him hiding out in a dark corner of the arena. We nodded and I walked up to him and Olivia.

"I used to think being a Beatle would be the coolest thing in the world," I told him. "This is f***ed up, man."

"Tell me about it," he said. "It's like this every time I go anywhere."

"Sorry, man, but thanks for the interview," I said.

I wrote the piece and about a week letter, my boss called me into his office.

"Here...fan mail," he said.

It was a letter praising the column I had written about George, suggesting that it was so good I should have a daily column and, well, should probably do music instead of sports. The letterhead had "Time and Space Enterprises" stamped on it and it was signed by Carl Roles.

"And, no...you don't get a daily column," my boss laughed.

I called the number at the bottom of the letter to thank the guy for the note. What I got was an answering machine. It was obviously a homemade tape of Eric Idle, doing his Monty Python best, to hysterically inform me that, well, I had dialed properly but, unfortunately, there was nobody home and, well, he was very sorry, but assured me I would get a return call...maybe...someday...if I was lucky...or something.

So, I left my name and number.

Not long after, I got a call from Carl. It was one of those interesting calls where you know somebody on the other end has something to say, but doesn't quite know how to say it.

After a couple of clumsy moments, he finally said that he was George's brother-in-law, that George loved the column and wanted to pass along his thoughts, and that it was all very cool and that I should "stay in touch," that the number rang into George's house, Carl would almost always be the one to answer and that I really shouldn't share it with anybody.

Not long after that, I did make the switch from sports to becoming the paper's rock critic.

One of my first columns was about how I would always be fair and honest, but that one thing had to be clear: I was a huge fan of Harrison and Eric Clapton, and as such, my critique of their work would probably come with some personal bias.

Meanwhile, I had visited George's home on Selkirk Ave. in Laurel Canyon. I knew that despite all the public comments, he still had a warm spot in his heart from his days with The Beatles because the only wall decorations were old, original press photos from the very early days -- the time all four of them agreed was the best of their career. There were photos from Hamburg, Liverpool, The Cavern, and the earliest press kits. There were performance photos of very young Beatles, individual headshots, all in black and white.

That's why it wasn't a surprise when I received an invitation one day to a press conference announcing a huge benefit concert at the L.A. Coliseum to help an environmental group save the whales.

The invitation was signed by Rod Stewart and Mick Fleetwood, but promised that George would be there.

It didn't take me long to get hold of the list of performers who had agreed to do the two-day show. Stewart, Fleetwood Mac, Clapton, Harrison were all on there, heading a list of performers that would have put Woodstock to shame.

Then, three other names popped out: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr.

According to the source that gave me the list, Paul and Ringo would close the first day with separate sets and John and George the second day, with separate sets.

I quickly called the house because something like this was impossible to believe.

"Can I get a quote?" I asked.

"No...the stars aren't right," I was told. I could feel the

Rock 'n' Roll never forgets, Pt. 14 -- Tom Petty

I received a lot of strange mail over the years during my time served in the newspaper business.

Some very strange mail.

The first bizarre letter I received was when I was the rock critic for the L.A. Herald-Examiner.

I got this little envelope with no return address. Inside, was a typed note that simply said: "You're gonna get it!"

Now, there are a lot of people out there who write a lot of crazy letters to people in the media. But, I remember wondering what I could have possibly written to provoke somebody to write a threatening letter.

I mean rock 'n' roll journalism, really, is pretty lightweight stuff when compared with the rest of the paper. We're not talking politics, religion or any of those other meaty subjects, it's rock music, right?

Later that day, my phone rang. A publicist from Shelter Records was on the other end of the line.

"Well, your favorite artist has a new album coming out. I'll get a copy to you in a couple days when we get it in," she said.

Shelter Records was a small, progressive record label created by Leon Russell and Denny Cordell in 1969 to develop new artists with a bit of a different twist, who might not be huge commercially, but played good solid music. It was, at the time, under the distribution of ABC Records, which had been around for some time and had, in itself, signed some interesting musicians, from Bobby "Blue" Bland and Sonny Terry to The Mamas and The Papas, Louis Armstrong, Jimmy Buffett, Ray Charles, Three Dog Night and a ton of others.

But, the guy the publicist was talking about was a gentle, soft-spoken newcomer from Gainesville, Florida named Tom Petty.

His first album had been released twice, the first time to very little acclaim and airplay. He toured behind Nils Lofgren, reached some minimal support in Great Britain and returned home, broke. "Breakdown" and "American Girl" were on that album. They would go on to become monster hits for him, a staple of FM rock radio.

When I first heard "American Girl," I thought one of my all-time favorites, Jim McGuinn -- founder of The Byrds -- had a new record out. I loved the song. I loved the jangly Rickenbacker guitar sound, the sort-of flat vocals, the "bounce," if you will. "Breakdown" was one of those songs I immediately took to because of the way it had that lazy chunk-and-flow rhythm to it. Kind of bluesy, kind of boozy, it was just a great song.

Now, every rock critic develops their pets, artists they get behind and really support because of the way they sound, the way they write, their musical skill and whatever else it is that pushes those buttons in our ears. Petty did that for me.

His debut album had been out more than a year. It had done poorly and I didn't understand why. I thought Petty was on to something and wanted to do an interview.

So, I called the record company to set up an interview.

"You want to talk to who?" the publicist asked.

"Tom Petty," I said. "I really like that album."

"But, it's been out there a long time. It's doing nothing."

"I'd still like to talk to him. I think he has a lot of talent," I said.

"Well, just so you know, they're thinking of dropping him," she said. "But, I'll set it up. Shouldn't be difficult."

Petty's schedule was fairly open. He was writing the songs for "You're Gonna Get It" and that's about it, no gigs, no nothing. His schedule was open and we finally got together in the conference room at ABC Records.

In the middle of the room was this dark, mahogany table, the kind big-time execs draw their minions around to preach the corporate gospel. There was a chalkboard on the wall where they would scribble their pearls of wisdom and, well, it was all so pretentious, especially for a company founded by a couple of hippies.

I got there just as Petty finished writing his name, with big flourishes, across the tabletop with a piece of chalk. Amazing how chalk can carve the finish of a big old table like that. Somewhere, there's a piece of wood with the largest Tom Petty autograph in the world etched into it.

Tom was very fragile-looking. His sin was ghostly pale, he was very thin, his long, blond hair hung straight and, his eyes, when he took off his aviator sunglasses, were heavy. Times were tough for this fledgling rock star. His wife was in Florida and he was crashing on the couch of a friend in nearby Redondo Beach. His bandmates kind of bounced around with friends wherever they could snag a night or two of sleep.

Now, a week before, I had gone out on a limb...or so I thought...with a column I did about the direction of rock 'n' roll. Disco was already starting to mar the horizon with its sterile electronic drum beats and heavy bass guitar lines. There were no guitars in the music, lots of synthesizers and the beats were timed out so one disco record could flow evenly into the next in a succession of drawn-out repetition that may have been good for the dance floor, but was excruciatingly painful to listen to. And the lyrics? No storytelling involved at all. Worst of all, it could not be replicated well in a live setting.

So, I did a piece on the future of rock 'n' roll and pointed out -- this was 1978 -- that I thought the best the genre had to offer at that time was Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen and Petty. I offered that Seger's star would probably not shine as long as the other two because of age and the type of thing he did; that Springsteen was a street poet whose longevity would be decided by how long he wanted to strap on a six-string; and that Petty just made damn good music, told interesting stories and, as the youngest, would probably have the most legs to his career. Of course, nobody thought these guys would be doing music into their 60s.

As we were introduced, Petty reached out to shake hands and said: "Thanks for the story. That was very kind and I'm glad somebody likes what I do."

Petty was not as animated as some rock stars I had interviewed, wasn't brazen and bold, just a really nice guy who was dead-on focused on his career.

We talked about influences -- I brought up the obvious impact The Byrds and The Beatles had on him -- and some of the old stuff we both enjoyed in younger days. He told me he liked to do a cover or two each show of his favorite songs, which not many people were doing then.

We talked about the music business, which he was not terribly enamored with at the time -- from arguments about creative control in the studio to ow some of his longtime favorite musicians had, as he said, disappointed him with their lack of power and passion. He wouldn't name names, but was clearly upset that some of his idols had fallen into some fairly lazy habits in the studio.

We talked about guitars. He has started what, to this day, is one of themost enviable guitar collections in all of rock music. He played an old Fender Stratocaster, a classic Vox Teardrop six-string, a Gibson Flying Vee and cool Rickenbacker during his shows. He would go on to collect other exotic instruments and he had a hand in designing a new Rickenbacker signature model, which is a very cool little piece of work. Wish I had one of those TP Ricks.

It was six or seven months later and he was doing a tour behind "You're Gonna Get It." The album was climbing up the charts and word was out that his show was very good. So, I went to the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium to catch his act. Kim Fowley, the legendary producer/manager (remember The Runaways?), Harvey Kubernik, a veteran of the music business, and I stood there, watching Petty tear it up.

"You were right," Fowley told me. "He's going to be big forever."

"Yeah...great songs," I replied.

"Not only that, but he has the best-looking women in his audience of anybody right now. That's the key, you know," Fowley said.

Knowing his penchant for attractive young ladies, I just laughed.

I loved the new album, raved about the show in my review. Net thing I know, the publicist is telling me how Tom had a new friend he was hanging out with -- George Harrison, the ex-Beatle. They had started hanging out, jamming now and then, had become friends.

Now, I had known George for a couple years by then (another story for another time) and new he read my stuff. We had a sort of history and I knew he and I shared similar musical tastes. I don't know if he became aware of Petty through my stuff or not, I never asked. All I knew was they liked to get together,play music and hang out.

Not long after "You're Gonna Get It" was released, I got another call from the publicist who told me Petty was eager to get back into the studio, that he had a lot of new material he wanted to record soon, and how everybody was anxious to build on the momentum of the last record. Only problem was he didn't want Cordell producing it.

"If you were going to suggest somebody, who would it be?" she asked.

"Jimmy Iovine," I said, without hesitation.

Iovine has done splendid work as an engineer on the early Springsteen albums and, I had heard, wanted to try his hand at producing. He had a good ear, knew his stuff at the control board, and was an artist's producer -- a guy who would hold a loose leash during the recording process.

"This is an important album," the publicist said. "Jimmy's never produced before."

"Go listen to Springsteen. you'll get it," I said.

Petty took Iovine into the studio and emerged with an album that reached No. 2 in the Billboard charts, received rave reviews, and is now included in Rolling Stone magazine's list of the 500 Greatest Rock Albums of All Time. It missed the No. 1 slot because Pink Floyd had released "The Wall."

I was pleased when, nine years later, it was announced that Petty was joining Harrison, Roy Orbison, Jeff Lynne and Bob Dylan in an outfit called The Traveling Wilbury's. As the story goes, Harrison had left a guitar at Petty's house, went to pick it up on his way to a dinner with Dylan, Orbison, and Lynne and brought Petty along. He became a member of the band that night.

It would be ludicrous to claim any part of Petty's success. His talent would have come through no matter what input I had or who I may have made aware of his music. Besides, I am sure that the publicist never mentioned where the Iovine idea came from because that's the nature of the business. If it works, it was your idea, if it fails, put the blame on somebody else. I'm just glad it worked out.

I always respected his musical integrity, his freshness and, quite frankly, his solo album "Wildflowers" is my favorite album of all time.

I gained a lot of respect for Petty when, after Shelter records was sold to MCA, the new label wanted to jump prices from $8.98 to $9.98 for, what it called, "superstar pricing." He refused and there was a lengthy battle with the label. He refused to deliver the album to the label and even considered calling it "$8.98." MCA eventually gave in.

After the Wilburys, Petty got in touch with his old bandmates from Florida -- a group that was the precursor to The Heartbreakers called Mudcrutch. That band included Petty and Heartbreaker members Mike Campbell and Benmont Tench, plus Tom Leadon -- brother of ex-Eagle and Flying Burrito Brothers member Bernie Leadon -- and Randall Marsh.

They went into the studio, recorded an album, and did a mini-tour. It was great stuff with "Orphan of The Storm," "House of Stone," "Crystal River," "Six Days on the Road," and a bunch of others.

I thought that was such a thoughtful, generous idea to bring back the guys he started out with and reunite so they could get a taste of stardom.

He's a class act and one of the few rock 'n' roll stars I ever met who I'd love to talk to again.

Viva Mexico, appreciating a new culture

We've been in San Jose del Cabo a little more than five months now.

We've gone through the process of obtaining our FMM3 visas, giving us legal residency for a year, we've been to a lot of places, seen a lot of things.

It has been an amazing journey so far.

The other day I went out fishing with some guys. Bob is a friend from Scotland. He brought along a co-worker named Sergei, who comes from Russia. The fourth member of our party  was a guy named ken, who is a member of the New Mexico National Guard and works for NORAD who was in the final days of a week-long vacation here. The crew was a Mexican national and his son.

The Sea of Cortes was splendid, hardly a ripple as we worked our way to an area known as Gordo Banks, one of the prime fishing holes in all of the world.


There was, as in any fishing trip, a high degree of anticipation. What would the sea yield today?


The water was warm -- more than 85 degrees. The sun was brilliant in the sky. There was a slight breeze to help with the heat and humidity. It was quite a day.

The four of us sharing the 28-foot super panga -- a nice fishing boat with a bit of cover from the sun and a motor that allowed us to cut the waves nicely -- had one of those very cool days chasing fish around the ocean.


It wasn't loud and raucous, wasn't an excuse to pound beer all day long, or any of that stuff, just four guys looking to hook into some fish.


I got more out of that, however.


It was interesting having conversation with these guys. First there were the accents. Bob's heavy Scottish accent and Sergei's Russian influences came forward throughout the conversation. Ken's inflections were clearly Norte Americano, as were mine. The skipper and his son spoke only Spanish. The boat was rich in diversity and there was an instant comradeship that happens when you get a group of people together on a fishing boat. We all wanted to hook into something nice, have a good time and enjoy the beautiful day at sea.


The fishing trip came about a week after we took in the Mexican Independence Day celebration, which, really, stretched out over several days.


It began on Sept. 15, the night before Independence Day down here, with a spectacular fiesta in the plaza.


The place was crowded with people who came to take in the cultural celebration. There were dancers, there was music, there was food. In front of the municipal offices -- a very old, two-story building with a balcony overlooking the plaza -- a crowd gathered as the Presidente de Los Cabos came out about 10 p.m. for the traditional poetry, patriotic speech, bell-ringing ceremony and flag waving. A large crowd stood beneath the balcony, entertained by the Los Cabos drum and bugle corps, awaiting the appearance. As he finished, the fireworks show began with stands built against the plaza depicting the Mexican flag and historic figures. Then, the sky lit up with a spectacular fireworks display.

Now, I don't know what you think of when you hear the words "fiesta," but I'll bet it's a little different than the reality.


I mean, this wasn't some drunken bacchanal, a crazy party, it was, instead, a very family friendly gathering, focusing on heritage, culture, community. There was no commercialization. In the United States, for weeks before the July 4th celebration, you can find tablecloths, napkins, paper cups, T-shirts, even bikinis all decked out in the colors and design of the American Flag. Not here. There were some token items -- hair ribbons, earrings, little flags and the like, but everything was tastefully and respectfully done.


And, there were no strangers in the plaza.

We sat next to an elderly woman, who kept talking to our daughter about what was taking place on the stage. Each dance, you see, represented a different state of Estados Unidos Mexicanos. The costumes were brilliantly colored.


There was a bit of a language barrier, but the woman was slow and patient as she pointed out the highlights.

We ate authentic Mexican food -- quesadillas that are nothing like what you experience in the States, tostadas that were about 180 degrees different than what you will find in any Mexican restaurant Stateside, tamales that were so rich and flavorful that your taste buds were on sensory overload.

The plaza was jammed, it was a hot, sweaty night, but there was no pushing and shoving. Everybody found a spot in the plaza, which was filled with green, white and red lights -- the colors of the Mexican Flag -- and took it all in.

Fathers placed their little ones on their shoulders so they could see the lights, the speeches, the fireworks. Children, some fresh from performing on the plaza's large stage, laughed, ate fresh fruit cups from one of the street vendors or chewed on a homemade ice cream bar, available from the tropical helado (ice cream) shop on the plaza. We shared a cab home that night with some turistas visiting from States who kept talking about how much fun they had, how beautiful the town looked, how friendly the people were. We couldn't help but agree.

So, we came back the next morning for the parade and watched the children march through town in their school uniforms.

Each school carried their own banner, each school had a drum and bugle corps. Each child was in a crisply pressed uniform, which was incredible considering hot very warm it was.

There was more dancing in the plazas, the Mexican Army presented the colors. Some folks dressed in cultural costumes and rode horseback in the parade.


There were no floats with signs advertising the local businesses. There were no Independence Day sales at the local markets or shops. There was just a celebration of Mexico's independence from Spain 201 years ago, freeing the nation from dominance that began when Cortes began his savage attack on the Aztecs.


After a siesta, we returned to the plazas for more food. Again, it was incredible. The flavors are much more subtle than you would imagine. I tasted an wonderful habanero salsa that was heavier on flavor than heat. The jalapenos here? They are sweeter, not as bitter andnot as hot as those I had grown accustomed to in the States. The fruit? Usually, it is flavored with chili powders or doused with lime juice. Rarely does it stand alone. You have not lived until you have tasted fresh mango with chili powder. 


We saw another round of performances in the plaza, meandered with the crowd. The pastiche of colors, smells, accents, cultures was refreshing.


Now, we came here from a small southern Utah community. There was little diversity there. You rarely heard a foreign accent, encountered people of color and, except for rare occasions, never sampled much of a foreign culture.


It's not St. George's fault, I realized. I mean, even when living in Los Angeles, I rarely experienced another culture. It had all been homogenized, Anglo-ized. The celebrations took on a commercial bent, the foods watered down to U.S. tastes, the fiestas not as focused on heritage. There was never any real context connected to what was going on around us, even in the more ethnic-soaked communities.

We are a part of a bigger, more interesting world and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why more people do not embrace it, seek it out, celebrate that which makes us different instead of trying to blend us all into a melting pot, creating this hybrid stew that is a compromise and a sell-out of who we truly are.


I don't like the homogenization of humanity. We lose our roots, lose our identity, lose our connection to who we are and where we came from until we all start looking the same, sounding the same, acting the same.


Because sameness, quite frankly, is boring.


I mean there's more to this life than bologna, cheese, and mayo sandwiches served on white bread, isn't there?


Take a bite out of life. 


You just might enjoy it.

I was wrong about 9/11 images

Sometimes, we let our emotions get the best of us.

Sometimes, we are just flat-out wrong.

I'm not sure what was at play most when I did a recent blog about the video and photo archive of the Sept. 11 attacks on the United States, but as I prepared an essay for my Utah Public Radio show, I realized that despite the harrowing emotions involved, we, indeed, must relive the events of that day, if for no other reason than to tell the story of what happened when a calm, beautiful morning in New York City was singed with the smoke of terror and the blood of innocents.

There is no way to soften the blow.

The first to point out that perhaps I should rethink the blog was my wife, Cara. She sees things, sometimes, that I don't; understands things, sometimes, that I can't; makes me think, sometimes, instead of simply react. Cara, you were right and I was wrong.


My dear friend Jud Burkett, multi-media editor at the newspaper where I last worked, responded to my blog. He disagreed with what I had to say. Now, you've got to understand that Jud isn't some hard-nosed, callous shooter. He's a very sensitive, talented guy. We worked together a lot over the years and his opinion always meant a lot to me. It still does, so, Jud, you were right, I was wrong.


There is no way to be honest, accurate, credible with this story without touching those same emotions that so wounded us on that day.

It would bear false witness to the tragedy that was Sept. 11, would disrespect the lives lost, the hearts shattered, the hope dashed. Horror, pain, disbelief, confusion, fear permeated that day. I heard it in the voices of the people I interviewed that day who were near the World Trade Center when the buildings came down, I saw it in the faces of everybody I knew, I felt it in my own soul.


I didn't, and don't, want to ever go to that place again. It was too much to bear, which is, perhaps, why my emotions and, I guess, skin-deep sensitivity led me to a conclusion that was ill-formed.


I still am not comfortable looking at images or videos from that day. But, I'm also sure I am not alone.


And, I certainly don't think it is appropriate today, as we prepare for the 10th anniversary of this tragedy, to politicize it in any way. All that would do is cheapen the sacrifices made by so many and take attention away from where it belongs: the victims, their families, our national psyche as we still, a decade later, try to come to grips with it all.


We probably won't, you know. 

Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 13 -- B.B. King

Lucille was resting languidly in purple crushed velvet.

She could scream, she could cry, she could whisper softly into your ear, a tempting seductress, or laugh out loud, a mocking shrew; her mood, her temperament all the result of her partner's caress.

Nearby sat B.B. King, who, I think, always keeps Lucille, his Gibson ES-355TD-SV guitar, within reach.

OK, so B.B. King isn't really rock 'n' roll.

Doesn't matter.

He's B.B. King and there isn't anybody quite like him.

In a little more than a week, Riley B. King will turn 86.

He sits in a chair these days when he plays, doesn't move around the stage at all. But, he still raises a glass, or two, of Jack Daniels in a toast to his adoring fans.

King is probably the most successful of the black bluesmen. He outpaced Sonny Boy Williamson, who gave him his break by offering him a spot on his radio show; sold more records than Muddy Waters; was received by a much wider audience than Howlin' Wolf and John Lee Hooker; and drew larger crowds than smokestack-lightning guitar virtuoso Buddy Guy.

What you need to remember is that King and his peers came up during a time when black musicians were being ripped off in just about every sense.They were playing Delta blues, Chicago blues -- rollin' and tumblin' blues music that was born in the heart and played through the soul. It was the foundation for much of what became rock 'n' roll, particularly '60s bands like The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Ten Years After,  Jeff Beck, and, of course, Eric Clapton, whether he was part of Cream, fronting Derek and the Dominos or as a solo act.

Those guys took old American blues music, gave it a new beat, set it through twin 100-watt amp stacks and introduced a whole new generation to this thing called the blues. Some -- Clapton, Alvin Lee, and George Harrison, to mention a few -- gave credit to the bluesmasters. Others, particularly the guys in Led Zep, tried to pass it off as their own. But, that's something black musicians were used to anyway. 

I mean, back in the '50s, Little Richard couldn't cut a break, particularly in the South and Midwest, where race music, as it was called, was banned from a lot of radio stations. You had to tune in to the high-watt stations out of Memphis or Chicago to get the real stuff, otherwise, you had gutless renditions of Little Richard's songs by white bread guys like Pat Boone. Chuck Berry? Ever listen to a song by The Beach Boys? Yeah, Carl Wilson nicked a lot of lead riffs from Berry and incorporated them into the West Coast surf sound. Just play Berry's "Sweet Little 16" back-to-back with The Beach Boys' "Surfin' USA." It took a lawsuit for Berry to get his due in royalties and writing credit.

It's what the business was like when King was cutting his chops, playing the Chitlin Circuit, making his first record, "Miss Martha King," for a tiny Southern outfit called Bullet Records in 1949.

He did well in the blues world, but there was a bigger audience out there waiting for him, if he could only open a few doors.

The first to let him in was Frank Sinatra, who was the original king of the Las Vegas Strip. Sinatra had a lot of respect for the black players of the day -- from Count Basie to B.B. King; Ella Fitzgerald to Sammy Davis Jr.; Billie Holiday to, well, B.B. King, again. He used his considerable muscle to get them into the Las Vegas showrooms, even if they had to stay in a hotel down the street.

By the time I ran into B.B., he was a dozen or so years into playing the Las Vegas showrooms, had a huge crossover hit with "The Thrill Is Gone," and was doing about 340 gigs a year.

He traveled in style, dressed to the nines, had a big diamond on his hand and had perfected his left-hand-tremolo style -- a gentle motion from the wrist -- to develop his trademark warble. His lead playing was uncomplicated, economic. I think it was King who taught Clapton that it's not the notes you play, but the notes you don't play that matter.

He was in Los Angeles a few days ahead of a big gig at The Roxy, one of my favorite clubs in town, to do some business with his record company and meet with the press. At least a few of us.

He was staying in a nice suite in a Sunset Strip motel with his valet. The place was spotless, not like so many other rock 'n' roll hotel rooms I had seen, and he was dressed casually, which for King meant a sports jacket, slacks and nice shirt with no tie. He saved the suits for the stage.

We sat there chatting about his roots, how he was raised on one of the last big Southern plantations in Itta Bena, Miss.; how he played for spare change on street corners; how he hitched his way to Memphis to start his career as a bluesman.

We talked of more modern times, about some of the guys who came after who were using the blues as the root of their joyful noise. 

There was Buddy Guy, who B.B. said he "absolutely loved."

There was Jimi Hendrix, whose passing left a hole in King's heart. "He came onstage and played with me once in New York," B.B. said. "He was in bad shape that night, but he played beautifully. Tragic. It was tragic when we lost him."

Then, I brought up Clapton.

"Eric's a good rock 'n' roll player," B.B. said. "I've met him. He's a fine boy. A good player. But he's not the blues. To play the blues you've got to live the blues. He can play some blues, but he's a rock player."

The debate was on, of course, and I asked if he'd ever heard Clapton's version of "Further On Up the Road," first recorded by Bobby "Blue" Bland, or "Have You Ever Loved a Woman," written by Billy Myles and recorded by Freddie King.

Of course, he had, but he was unconvinced.

He pointed at Clapton's latest album "Slowhand," with stuff that ranged from the country "We're All The Way" to the lovely "Wonderful Tonight." I pointed out it also had Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup's "Mean Old Frisco." B.B. added that Elvis Presley had also recorded a Crudup song, "That's All Right (Mama)," and asked if that make him a blues singer?

"Ya got a point," I told him. But, I urged him to take a closer look at Clapton and his guitar playing. I felt vindicated, sort of, when in 2000, they collaborated on the album "Riding With the King," a pretty fair blues album. I don't know what Clapton did over the years to convince him, but it worked.

King's Roxy show?

Outstanding. Once he and the band hit the stage, they owned it and didn't seem to want to give it up.

Flash forward to December 2009, a much different place and different time.

Neither of us had progressed much. I mean, he was still picking out notes on guitar strings, I was still pecking out words on a keyboard.

He was much more successful, of course, and was about to open his BB King's nightclub/restaurant in The Mirage hotel in Las Vegas. I was doing a weekly column about Las Vegas at the time and was invited to the grand opening.

There was a red carpet when we arrived. As we were checking in, I ran into singer/songwriter/guitar player extraordinaire Steve Cropper, whose path I had crossed many years before. We exchanged some old stories, remembered some old faces, went into the club.

Cropper, it turns out, was the emcee for that night's show. He welcomed the crowd, told some stories, played some songs. Then he welcomed Texas blues wild man Lee Roy Parnell to the stage for a set. Then he welcomed jazz stylist Lee Ritenour. Then he welcomed blues great Robert Cray. A couple songs into Cray's set, a roadie walked out and placed a battered old Martin classical guitar on the stage.

"Willie's here," I told my wife Cara.

"Huh?" she asked.

"Willie Nelson is here. That's Trigger, his guitar."


Sure enough, when Cray was finished, Cropper welcomed Willie, who did a beautiful version of "Always on My Mind."

Then Cropper welcomed Buddy Guy, who proceeded to tear the room apart with his blistering hot licks, piercing solos, gut-bucket vocals.

And, then Cropper welcomed King to the stage.

B.B. had been enjoying the show from a ringside seat. Was plied with a little Jack Daniels, but he made it to the stage, parked on a folding chair and gave everybody a lesson in blues guitar. 

And, then he welcomed all the players back up onto the stage for a lengthy jam with the house band. He was 84 at the time, but he played like a man half his age, wailing and growling, snarling and purring as he laid down some classics.

Lucille?

She was right there with him, dipping and soaring; seducing and mocking; the siren of the blues.

The lady was a champ.

Could Utah man's deportation have been averted?

Instead of the comforts of home, his wife and children, Ray Jesus is living with his parents in Guatemala, the victim of a suspiciously swift deportation process when U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials ripped him from his southern Utah home and shipped him out of the country earlier this week.

Luis Espinoza Muñoz, a facilitator-director for Community Aid and Immigration Services, is working with the Jesus family for Ray's swift return.

Could Jesus' deportation been avoided, or even slowed down?

Espinoza said, "possibly."

Over the years, he has worked with many people facing the same sort of problems.

Defense fund set up for deported Utah man

A legal defense fund has been set up to help a man who was deported from Utah after coming to the country 22 years ago on a political asylum visa.

Augusto Raymundo Jesus was sent to his native Guatemala Tuesday night, deported because he became entangled in a legal nightmare after his political asylum visa unknowingly expired. He didn't know the document had expired until he applied for U.S. citizenship. By that time, he had a wife and kids, including a baby diagnosed with autism.

He lived, worked, raised a family as a vital part of the community. He had his own business, paid taxes. He donated to charity. He got in trouble with the law by following the law when he went to renew his Utah driver's license. As part of the Utah renewal system, he had to submit fingerprints for a background check. It was then discovered that his visa had expired. Three U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents showed up at his home, placed him in custody and took him away. He was being held in a jail in Florence, Ariz., when, apparently, they listened in on a phone conversation with his wife, who told him that an effort was under way to obtain federal intervention by some of Utah's Washington, D.C. delegation and that the media was being informed. Jesus told his wife that while on the plane back to Guatemala, he heard one ICE agent tell another: "We had to get rid of this guy."

Now, he's back in Soloma, Huehuetenango, Guatemala, with no money and nobody but a handful of friends in southern Utah mobilizing to return him home to his wife and kids.

There is an awareness effort under way. Friends and people concerned about justice in the United States -- particularly in light of the Obama administration's policy on immigration that would, in practice, have placed felons with illegal immigration status, at the head of the line, instead of deporting people like Jesus, who tried to play by the rules -- are using social networking to spread the word; sending emails; doing what they can to put this issue before the people.

ICE deports man who came to U.S. for political asylum; has autistic child

Augusto Raymundo Jesus tried to do it the right way.

He really did.

Twenty-two years ago, Jesus' mother sent him away from his native Guatemala. His brother had just been killed in a car bomb during a civil war there and she feared for her young son's life.

Her money got him to Mexico. Jesus walked across the country -- it took him about a year -- to the United States border where he sought political asylum. It was granted and for the next 21 years, he worked hard.

Until three weeks ago, he was the owner of Ray's Quality Framing, a commercial and residential construction company in Cedar City, Utah, that last year provided 10 jobs for the community.

Isn't the First Amendment for everybody?

OK, so I like to study a lot of political viewpoints, I like the give-and-take of political debate. I like having my opinions challenged in scholarly or friendly discussion.

That's why I am so disappointed in a FB group I joined, and just now left.

It's called The Liberal Library. It is supposed to represent progressive political thinking, but there was a post this morning about how a Wisconsin union has banned Republicans from marching in a Labor Day Parade.

9/11: 10 years later the images are still painful

We're about three weeks out from the official 10-year anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks on the United States.

Already, the news media is running stories about that horrible day.

The first one I saw was a piece about how the Associated Press photographers made it through that incredibly traumatic assignment, how they put aside their emotions to do the job at hand and cover the news before breaking down.

The story was good, the accompanying photographs were not.

The images were painful reminders of the tremendous loss of innocent lives.

I am sure that on Sept. 11, 2011 we will be inundated with powerful photos and videos from that day.

I am just happy that I am where I am and won't have to endure too much of that.

The anniversary of the terror attacks is newsworthy and if I was in my old capacity as news editor of a daily newspaper, I would be pushing my staff for stories with a local perspective from that day.

But, I would also lobby hard to not run the disturbing images.

They are too painful, too powerful, too emotional. There are family members, friends who carry around enough reminders of that day

Rock 'n' roll never forgets Pt. 12 -- Hall & Oates

Going back through some old music recently I rediscovered Hall & Oates, a band that broke during the mid-'70s and had some legs that carried them for more than a decade.

It was never a stadium, or hockey arena act, but the guys sold a lot of records and did well on the tours it tackled.

They were one of those "blue-eyed soul" bands, a term originally used by R&B guys who took the Righteous Brothers into their musical family back in the '60s.

Daryl Hall fronted the band, Johnny Oates was his writing partner and guitar player. They were always backed by some of the best session players in the business; guys like guitarist G.E. Smith, drummer Jerry Marotta, bass player Kenny Passarelli and a ton of other great players.

I reviewed one of their shows -- a pretty good outing at the old Universal Amphitheatre. It was, then, an outdoor concert theater and the venue publicist always had a big bag of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies she shared with the rock press when they came to see show.

I saw a lot of good acts under the stars there -- from David Bowie to

Woodstock

On this day in 1969, in a field on a dairy farm in upstate New York, more than a half-million people gathered for three days of peace, love and music.

It was the largest gathering of its kind, closing down the New York thruway. It was the touchpoint of a generation. It was the best we could be.

There was a war going on, there was social foment in the streets, there was racial inequality. And, there was the music. Back then, it always came back to the music.

It was relevant, important, the rhythm of our hearts, souls.

We all couldn't make it to Woodstock, of course, although if today you asked the surviving hippies if they were there, you'd probably get an answer that would have pegged attendance at the festival at more than 3 million.

Woodstock was news. Big news.

Mainstream media was curious about the hippies back then, but they were not terribly objective in their reporting when it came to the dope-smoking counterculture. They couldn't see beyond their myopic focus, looking for everything wrong with the young people of that time instead

Rock 'n' roll never forgets Pt. 11 -- Farm Aid

Down here in Mexico,  the meat looks different, tastes different.

It's organic, clean, not shot up with antibiotics and growth hormones. 

The produce is fresh, ripe. 

I hadn't had a really good fresh tomato since the ones my mom grew in the backyard many years ago.

Fruit is tree ripened, not picked early so it can age in the back of a truck on the way to the market.

I forgot how good fruits and veggies can be until we got here.

That's because in the United States, the family farmer, who used to lovingly grow our food, raise the cattle and keep the Great Plains fertile, is a dying breed.

They fed us through wars, the Great Depression; they fought through the Dust Bowl and floods; they put their lives and livelihood on the line

U.S. credit rating downgraded

People like to be in the public eye. It makes them feel important.

They like to be a part of history.

Well, congratulations, Congress.

You made history. You will be remembered as the first legislators in United States history to allow the country's credit rating to be downgraded.

Standard & Poor, the agency that lowered the rating, cited the current political atmosphere in Washington, D.C. as a reason, issuing a statement saying the rating was because "of the difficulties of bridging the gulf between the political parties" over a credible deficit reduction plan.

So, thank you, Speaker of the House John Boehner, for your loyalty to your party rather than your country. In an attempt to sway voters away from the present administration in 2012, Boehner, his fellow Republicans and the renegade Tea Party members stonewalled a measure to hike the debt ceiling. They dragged their feet in writing the bill, picking away at philosophical issues rather than real world urgencies.

Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 10 -- Peter Frampton

There was a time when there was nobody on the planet hotter than Peter Frampton.

There was also a time when there was nobody on the planet colder than Peter Frampton.

Frampton isn't one of those one-hit wonders who fades into rock 'n' roll obscurity after crashing the Top 10 for a short time.

He is arguably one of the most underrated guitar players of his time and well respected by his fellow musicians, even though he has had some pretty deep dips personally and professionally.

He was a child prodigy of former Rolling Stone Bill Wyman; a member of The Herd, a very popular English group, when he was 16; he was a member of the hard-rocking, blues-based, gritty outfit called Humble Pie in the late '60s. He was still in his teens.

So, before he turned 20, he had done a lot of recording and touring and had built up enough of a reputation that he was asked to play on George Harrison's debut solo album, "All Things Must Pass," along with Dave Mason and Eric Clapton -- pretty heady stuff for a 20-year-old.

Frampton found a new muse and decided it was time to move on to pursue a solo career. He recorded "Wind of Change," "Frampton's Camel," and "Somethin's Happening." He toured tirelessly. His commercial success was minimal.

He had, however, the blessing of the rock 'n' roll press.

In the Art District with Ivan Guaderrama

San Jose del Cabo is a place of inspiration.

Hemingway and Steinbeck walked these streets decades ago when it was little more than a fishing village.

Today, a whole new generation of artists has settled here, soaking in the beauty and tranquility of this little colonial village on the edge of the Sea of Cortes.

I made it a priority to meet one of those artists, a gentle, warm young man named Ivan Guaderrama.

Even before we moved here I was taken aback by his art.

It began when we flew down to look for a place to live. We wandered the Art District of San Jose del Cabo one day, taking in the beauty created by the assemblage of world-class artists who have opened galleries here.

There's one place that has my wife's favorite piece -- a woman reaching out to a classical guitar, done in soft Earth tones.

But, the gallery that we absolutely fell in love with was Ivan's.

Dora decides to explore some other place

We dodged another bullet.

Hurricane Dora, which sounded like it was about to unleash a torrent on the tip of The Baja last week, dissipated, leaving us with nothing more than big surf for a couple of days and a pile of humidity.

We knew, coming down here, that we would be in the hurricane zone. But, there is no place on the globe where you can escape natural disasters. Either its hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, drought or whatever else Mother Nature decides to dish your way.

But, it was interesting as we got our closest look yet at hurricane effects.

We saw a lot of thick clouds, some very heavy surf with 10- to 12-foot breakers crashing the beach near the shoreline.

Saving the sea turtles and finding our purpose

We all search for our purpose, for that one thing we were put on this Earth to do.


It's different for all of us, of course, but deep inside we all have a passion that sustains our hopes, our dreams, our souls.


We found ours at Land's End on the tip of Baja California.


During our first trip here, my wife and I sat on a beach and watched the whales play gently offshore.


We were humbled as we were reminded of the power of the sea and the graceful beauty of those that live beneath its surface. It's why we spend so much time by the water, where we have also seen dolphins, manta rays, sharks, sea lions, and lots of different birds. Soon we will have an encounter with baby sea turtles.

Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 9 -- Rod Stewart

If you work in the media long enough, you're sure to make a few enemies.

As a columnist for The Spectrum & Daily News in St. George, Utah, I had plenty of detractors. They would revile me regularly in letters to the editor, leave nasty messages on my voice mail, send vicious e-mails and even make threats against my well being. I was warned that they would run me out of town and worse.

The first time I was threatened? Rod Stewart, who didn't particularly like a review I had given one of his concerts.

It was a particularly bad show. Stewart was in, for him at the time, a particularly drunken state, gave a sloppy performance and had spent most of the night on the stage at The Forum in Los Angeles posing. He was touring behind a string of two hugely successful albums -- "A Night on the Town" and "Foot Loose & Fancy Free." He was as hot as you can get in the music business and was fodder for the tabloids and gossip columnists with his on-again-off-again romance with Britt Ekland.

I had been a longtime fan, particularly of his early work with Jeff Beck, Faces and his first few solo albums. He had a way of re-inventing solid, old R&B songs -- particularly his remakes of Sam Cooke's catalog -- and put on an energetic, fun show. The Faces lineup that backed him was outstanding.

Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 8 -- The Beach Boys

Hawthorne, California is one of those very blue collar, working class towns.

For years it was headquarters to one of the largest aerospace corporations in the world -- Northrop Aircraft. It was just two miles down the road from plants run by Rockwell International and McDonnell-Douglas Aircraft.

Those companies, now parts of larger corporations, built the aircraft that helped win World War II.

Many of the factory workers that toiled in the wartime plants lived in Hawthorne -- from a very young Norma Jean Baker who worked on an aircraft assembly line before emerging as Marilyn Monroe, to Murry Wilson, a guy who ran a machine shop in the aerospace industry.

Even after the war there weren't many frills in this gray little town, not much for the kids to do other than hang out at the local A&W or go to the beach, where they were all learning the new sport in town -- surfing.

Before The Beatles burst upon the scene and led an invasion of moptop bands to the Colonies, The Beach Boys were already recording songs and performing at sock hops and community fairs. Murry's sons Brian, Dennis and Carl recruited their cousin Mike Love and a neighbor friend, David Marks, to form the band, which leaned heavily on the harmonies of The Four Freshmen and iconic riffs of Chuck Berry to write and perform songs that thrust them into musical nirvana and placed the band as the greatest spokesmen for the southern California lifestyle.

They wrote about a fantasyland California, a place of the endless summer where there were always two girls for every guy, it was cool to be true to your school and it didn't matter if daddy took your T-bird away, you were still the prettiest little girl in school and your life would continue to be nothing but fun, fun, fun.

It didn't take long for The Beach Boys to become America's favorite band. They reflected an image of wholesomeness from their red and white striped short-sleeved shirts and white pants to the innocence of their songs.

Meanwhile, beneath the surface, there was darkness.

Murry would never win father-of-the-year awards. He was brutal -- particularly so to his most sensitive son, Brian. He battered the boy so much, according to folklore, that he deafened his right ear. From what I've been told over the years, that's not true. As I heard it, Brian suffered deafness in that ear from birth. The brutality? That part was true. Murry was a tyrant, a frustrated musician himself, who mismanaged the band for years before they finally fired him. When they did, he signed on a copycat band called the Sunrays to compete with his own sons.

I had always been a fan, even during the psychedelic '60s when many of my friends turned away from The Beach Boys because, well, they said they just weren't cool. They were a pop band, a bunch of bubblegummers, many of my friends said. Yeah, but they sure could sing.

That's why I was really stoked, as they would say, when I got my first opportunity to meet them.

I was working at the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner and it was early summer. The band was rehearsing for a huge tour at a place called SIR Studios in Hollywood. SIR Studios rented equipment and rehearsal halls of all shapes and sizes. There was one aircraft-hangar-sized room where bands with a more elaborate stage and production could work out the details before going on the road.

On this day, the room was filled with a huge replica of a sailing vessel, decked out with a multi-level stage where The Beach Boys would play. Up on one corner was a roost where Brian Wilson, who had just come out of a couple of years of self-imposed solitary confinement in his bedroom, would play as he rejoined the band.

Dennis was the first to arrive. He walked up, looking nothing like The Beach Boy Denny of old, with a scruffy beard, long hair, khaki cargo pants and tank top T-shirt.

"Got any pot?" he asked me.

Times were fairly dry and so I had to tell him, "No."

Still, he sat down and started chatting like we had grown up together. He was all excited about the rehearsal, the gig, his brother's return to touring with the band. After about a half an hour, he asked who I was. That's how it was with Denny, the eternal puppy, who sought friendship and compassion at any cost.

Denny had always been the first Wilson brother over the fence. If there was trouble to be found, he found it first. It was Denny who got tangled up with Charles Manson and his group of homicidal lunatics. It was all just fun until the sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll turned into ugliness on a scale that propelled Manson into international headlines and sent Denny into decades of fear. He was just there for a good time, Manson wanted to be a rock star, and Denny tried to help. When he couldn't and when Charlie became too deranged and demanding, Denny cut the ties. It was Dennis Wilson and his buddy Terry Melcher -- Doris Day's son and a well-respected record producer in his own right -- that the Manson clan was after that night they slaughtered Sharon Tate and her friends. Denny carried the fear of Manson with him until the day he died.

It was Denny who came home from the beach one day and told Brian, "Hey, all the kids are surfing. You oughta write a song about that."

His skills as a drummer were fairly limited in the early days, so much so that session drummer Hal Blaine played percussion on most of the band's early records. Still, Denny developed a unique style and eventually became fairly skilled behind the drum kit.

The concert was a smashing success, the band had made what was, at that time, it's third rebound in popularity and Denny? Somewhere during the tour he stole Karen Lamm away from Bobby Lamm, keyboard player and lead vocalist for Chicago, which served as opening act.

Flash forward a few years to a very warm and comfortable recording studio a stone's throw from the beach in Santa Monica. Brothers Studios it was called.

In the control booth, Denny is sitting behind the console, mixing down tracks for one of the songs on his vastly underrated solo album, "Pacific Ocean Blue," his beautiful tenor coming through the playback speakers bolted to the walls.

"I'm gonna lay down more tracks tonight...about 3...you play?" he asked. "I'll give you album credit."

"Well, I learned to play drums by listening to Beach Boy records," I told him. But, alas, my shot at stardom had to go unfulfilled because, well, I had this thing called a job and God knows how many hours I would have ended up in the studio with Denny or what condition we would both be in when it was all over.

His then-wife Karen Lamm-Wilson, as she liked to be known, waltzed into the studio.

"What have you given my husband? He's in a great mood," she asked.

"Nothing, he was like this when I got here," I told her.

"Come by more often," she said.

After lunch at a seafood joint a couple blocks away, where we could see Pacific Ocean Blue just across the street, we returned to the studio. That's when I witnessed one of the many breakups of one of the most famous bands in the history of the world.

I was sitting with Denny at the mixing board when Brian walked in. He had one arm folded across his bulging belly, the other at a 90-degree angle with his finger pointing upward.

"I just called Johnny Carson and we're going to do his show tomorrow night and sing 'Johnny Carson,'" Brian said, referring to a cut from the band's latest LP.

"You what?" Denny asked incredulously.

"Yeah...we're gonna do his show," Brian responded.

"Brian, you're my brother and I love you, but no...you can't just book The Beach Boys like that," Denny said.

He started out compassionately, but anger soon took over as Brian wouldn't budge. About 15 minutes into the argument, their younger brother Carl arrived to hear, "well...you can do the show, but not with me...I'm out...no more Beach Boys," Dennis screamed, leaving the studio.

Brian meandered to an outer office, Carl stood frozen, tears rolling down his cheeks.

We went into one of the other empty studio rooms and sat.

"It's been like this a long time," he said. "I don't know what to do anymore."

We chatted for an hour. I already knew that during Brian's down time, when he had his nervous breakdown and lost the will to perform live with the band, that Carl was the one who held the band together, did his own brand of wizardry in the studio when Brian was too stoned or crazed and actually forfeited some writing credits to his older brother, just for the sake of family harmony and continuing the illusion of the Endless Summer. Even when I mentioned that Carl, as sweet a human being as ever walked the face of the Earth, downplayed it all.

"So...it's over?" I asked Carl.

"You were here...you saw it...you tell me," he said.

"It's over...for now, I guess," I said, leaving with a completely different story than the one I had come to write.

The rift pushed more distance between Denny and Mike Love, who had never been on the best of terms anyway. Al Jardine? The guy who replaced David Marks, because Murry Wilson didn't think it would be good for business to have a very Jewish-looking kid playing lead guitar, was just a hanger-on, a hired hand, never really as much a part of the band as he would have liked to have been. I could understand because what chance did an outsider have against the Wilson clan and their cousin, Mike?

The band was about six months into its breakup when I got a call one day from Mike Love, who was recording with his new band, Celebration.

"C'mon up to the ranch in Santa Barbara and I'll show you how I can levitate," Love said.

Huh? Levitate? Now, I had been invited to interview Bootsy Collins once, a guy who would only do the interview if I showed up on a Saturday morning, take a tab of acid and eat Fruit Loops with him as he watched cartoons. Honest. I took a pass. And, I had been offered trips to go watch other bands rehearse or perform on the opening leg of their tours. But, I had never been invited to see someone levitate.

"C'mon...the hometown paper...hometown band...it'll be cool," Mike said.

I took a pass. There was a concert that night and I didn't feel like driving all the way to Santa Barbara to see a follower of the Maharishi fall flat on his ass. Besides, I knew that if Mike got you stoned enough on rock star grass, you'd actually believe he was levitating. And, Santa Barbara would be a long, long drive home.

But, we chatted about his new project anyway. I asked about The Beach Boys and he said not to worry, they'd be back, but to make sure I listened to "The TM Song" very loud. It was his ode to transcendental meditation, which he learned to practice while hanging out in Rishkish with The Beatles.

"I'll do that," I said, glad I didn't have to go all the way up the coast to listen to hours of chanting and God knows what other kinds of madness.

A few months pass and I get a call from Sandy Friedman, the Rogers & Cowan publicist who served the band loyally for years.

"Tomorrow they're playing a street party at a sorority at USC," Sandy said. "Jan and Dean will be there and it should be very cool."

I was on board for this one.

So, I show up at the sorority about the time the roadies are dressing the stage. Mike is in the backyard, chatting up the young ladies. Carl and Brian arrive in the lounge. No entourage, no publicists, agents, or managers.

"Do me a favor?" he asked. "Watch Brian for awhile, please? I gotta make a beer run."

"Why me?" I asked.

He mumbled something and was off.

So, here I am with rock 'n' roll's most eccentric personality, charged with his welfare while his brother goes on a beer run.

"Brian? You know Ed...he'll be with you for awhile. I gotta go for a bit," Carl told his older brother before he left. Brian just nodded.

We chatted, but Brian was not terribly responsive. He was going through his therapy phase and was not very communicative unless he was sitting at a piano. So, to get through to him, I walked him over to a grand piano in the center of the room and we sat on the bench.

Immediately, he started playing. Old Beach Boy songs, old Phil Spector songs. He was in the first verse of "Da Doo Run Run" when he elbowed me in the ribs to sing along. For a couple of guys with only two good ears between them we did OK on the harmonies. Finally, Carl showed up with his beer.

"Hey, where's Denny?" I asked.

Turns out Denny got busted. He was caught the night before in Phoenix with a 15-year-old girl, who turned out to be Mike Love's daughter. Yeah...and they eventually had a child together.

Sill the USC gig was very cool, especially when Jan and Dean hopped on stage about two-thirds of the way through the set and they did all those great surf classics.

The years passed. Denny died in a drowning accident. Carl passed away from brain cancer. The Beach Boys, however, continued to tour and they were coming to Cedar City, Utah, where I was living and working.

I set up a phone interview with Mike.

"Oh, my God," he said as we recalled some old times. "Well, come backstage and say hello, OK?"

I did.

It was a decent show and certainly nostalgic to see a 60-something guy dancing around on stage wearing a red and white striped shirt, white pants, and tennis shoes while singing about fast cars, big waves and an endless summer.

And, even though the band was pretty much nothing more than a pleasant nostalgic act, it was still cool to see.