Blame it on Eddie Money. Or Mick Jagger. Maybe Dennis Wilson.Nah, level the blame where it really belongs: The Beatles.
I can still remember seeing The Beatles when they made their first American television appearance on Ed Sullivan's Sunday night variety show.
Sullivan did blockbuster business in the Nielsen ratings. Everybody watched him religiously on Sunday night.
Looking back, there was some cutting edge stuff on his show. I can remember a very young Richard Pryor and George Carlin starting out in show business. Joan Rivers was on the show. You usually had to wade through Topo Gigio -- the mouse puppett -- or some dancers, maybe acrobats or elephant acts, but there was usually something of substance.
Sullivan was a wily former newspaper columnist who had an eye for talent and how to make a buck. His columns translated into a popularity that got the dour-faced, curmudgeonly looking old guy the gig on TV. He was actually, from what I understand, a very shrewd businessman and pretty decent guy beneath the sourpuss demeanor.
In February 1964 he booked The Beatles for several performances on his show. The band had a large European following, but had not quite broken through in the United States.
Sullivan had a gut feeling about the band and signed them, exclusively, to a string of performances. He unleashed what would become the most culturally powerful force on the nation's youth by bringing The Beatles to American TV.
Suddenly, little girls were screaming at their television sets and every boy wanted to grow his hair long, pick up a guitar and sing.
And, why not? Sinatra was for the older crowd, Elvis had forsaken rock 'n' roll for movies and soundtracks that featured songs like "Do The Clam" and we, as a nation, were rebounding from the assassination of John Kennedy just months before.
The Beatles were fresh, energetic...magical. Just what we needed to rise from the gloom and learn how to smile again.
And, my fascination with rock 'n' roll was ratcheted up about a million notches.
I had long been a fan of artists like Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis. Trouble was, the radio stations in my then hometown of St. Louis wouldn't play their stuff. Berry was in trouble for transporting an underage girl across state lines, Richard Penniman was a bit, let's say, "flamboyant" and his songs were denied airplay, although cleaned-up versions by pretty boy singers like Pat Boone were on the air. And, Jerry Lee? He had married his 14-year-old cousin. They all contributed to what was deemed "The Devil's Music" and KMOX, WIL and the others would not air them.
So, my cousins and I would listen at night to our transistor radios, tuning in the stations from Chicago and Memphis after dark for some "real" music.
That was in the pre-Beatles days.
Musically inclined, I wanted to immediately give up the saxophone for the drums. I got a little snare drum and tiny cymbal to pound on and learn how to keep a beat. Sat in with a little band at a cousin's wedding reception. Then we moved to California and I got a real drum set, found some like-minded kids and we were gonna be stars.
Meanwhile I studied writing and, well, just in case, figured it was a great way to meet some of these folks. It took some time, but after a few years in the newspaper business, I moved from covering sports to being a rock critic -- whatever that is.
I've shared some stories with family and friends who have often urged to hear more. We'll start doing that off and on here.
I think the most startling thing I can recall was Mick Jagger and his stage fright. It was the late 1970s and the Stones were doing their "Some Girls" tour. I had been doing the critic gig for awhile and become sort of friendly with some people who I really admired, like Spencer Davis, who had a nice, tidy little rock band during the 1960s.
Spencer had become a record label executive. One of the acts he had under his wing was Bob Marley and The Wailers.
Mick and Keith were huge fans of reggae in general, Marley in particular, and Mick had been talking about how he wanted to jam with Marley onstage.
At the Herald-Examiner, where I worked at the time, we were doing full-court press coverage on the Stones. They hadn't had an album in awhile, but were still considered the "best damn rock 'n' roll band in the world." I was flown to Philadelphia for their first major gig on the tour, a huge concert at JFK Stadium -- a rat-infested, decrepit old stadium used then primarily for the annual Army-Navy football game. The show was fantastic. Keith was in fine form,pushing the band madly. Woody was dancing around the stage. Bill Wyman stood, Stone alone, in a corner of the stage, laying down a steady rhythm with Charlie Watts, the dead-on drummer who is truly the backbone of the Stones.
Watching from my backstage vantage point, I saw the band climb the stairs to the stage. Keith was first up, taking it two steps at a time, eager to hit the stage. Woody followed. next came Charlie and Bill. Finally, there was Mick who paused behind the huge bank of amps. He hesitated, turned and looked at manager Peter Rudge and stood frozen.
Rudge turned him to the stge and literally pushed him out in front of the crowd. Once in the spotlight, everything was cool. Mick spun, danced, cavorted, mugged with Woody and Keith and was his usual effervescent self.
A couple weeks later, however, I had an even closer encounter of the weird kind.
Spencer told me Mick was going to show up at the Marley concert and invited me and my good friend, writer Harvey Kubernick, to watch the show from backstage.
I arrived at the Burbank Starlight Amphitheatre early and wandered. I was unfamiliar with the building and started opening doors, looking for the way to the stage. I opened one and peered into a darkened room. The marijuana smoke was thick and all I could really see was about six sets of eyes -- Marley and his band -- looking up from what looked like a football-sized spliff they were passing around at this white-boy intruder.
"Oops...sorry guys," and off I went, eventually finding the backstage area.
The roadies had a couple of trash bags filled with ganja piled up at the back of the stage. Some guy was rolling numbers as the sound crew made its final tweaks. The Imperials went on as opening act while Harvey, Spencer and I found a comfortble nook to watch from.
During intermission, a thuggish-looking guy -- about 8-freet, 14-inches tall and 357 tons, walked through the backstage area, telling everybody to leave and, some did. When he approached our little party of three, Spencer, an Eglish gentleman in his own right, politely told the bodyguard: "You see, Bob Marley works for me. I am here to see his show. If my friends and I are forced to leave, there is no show and you will have a crowd of very angry people on your hands, so I suggest you leave us alone, sir. I know who is coming and he, too, is a dear friend."
The bodyguard grudgingly walked away, allowing us to stay.
About five minutes later, the backstage door opened up and in walked Jagger with his wife Jerry Hall and daughter Jade -- just a little one at the time. They walk straight over to us, shooks hands with Spencer and introductions were made. He was wearing a tweed jacket and taxi driver's cap, all fashionable at the time, with his trademark Capezio dance shoes -- jazz shoes, I believe they are called -- and the three of them took up a spot next to me to watch Marley.
Jerry was snobbish in a rock star sort of way and Jade was a precocious little girl. As the music began, Mick pulled a joint out of his pocket, lit it and passed it to me. I, in turn, handed it to Harvey, who then passed it to Spencer. Spencer politely handed it back to Harvey who snuffed it and put it in his pocket. "Don't often get passed a joint from Mick Jagger...I'm keeping this," he said.
Now, if you've ever been to a reggae show, you know it takes awhile for the band to hit its groove. Marley and The Wailers were no exception. But, about three songs into the set, magic started happening and the band found its groove. It was incredible.
Jagger started dancing, Jerry started swaying and little Jade tried some awkward steps. Mick turned her around and gave her a quick lesson in footwork. Before long, she got it down and was dancing in time to the music. Must have been something in the blood, I guess.
It wasn't long before one of Marley's roadies started putting out an amp and tuning a Gibson SG. He had the rig set and ready to go and Marley was, in the middle of the song, making hand gestures to Jagger to come out and join him.
That's when I saw "The Fear" up close. The roadie came up to Mick, put a pick in his hand and said, "You've been talking a lot of shit about jammin' with Bob. Now's your chance."
Almost reduced to tears, Jagger could only shake his head and mumble, "no...no..."
The roadie poked a finger in his chest and told him, "Then shut the fuck up about it! It's all we heard about for weeks now. Do it or shut up."
Never heard a word about him wanting to jam with Marley again.
Where do Eddie Money and Dennis Wilson fit in?
Future blogs, friends...future blogs.
