For What It's Worth

by Janet Tashjian

  For Doug and Jake—

  with love, from me to you

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Begin Reading

  Author’s Note

  Illustrations

  Other Books by Janet Tashjian

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Rock and roll can change the world and save your life—and that’s just for starters. I challenge anyone on the planet to remain in a bad mood when “Gimme Shelter” comes on the radio. It’s physically impossible, right? Rock and roll can get you through a boring school year, give you something to bond over with your friends, even provide you with a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

  You think I’m exaggerating? Listening to music is a critical step in growing up, as important as learning how to ride a bike with no hands. And not just rock and roll—pop, rhythm and blues, country, jazz—I don’t care what it is, I’ll listen to it. I’m like a junkie with a twenty-four-hour addiction, except the needle’s not in my arm, it’s on my turntable. Lucky for me, I live in the epicenter of the national music scene. Not just California, but Los Angeles. And not just Los Angeles, but Laurel Canyon. If you love music, there’s nowhere else to be in 1971 but here. I can sit on my front steps, throw a rock in any direction, and hit someone making music for a living. Songwriters, drummers, singers, sound engineers—I’ve trick-or-treated at their houses since grade school. My sister, Soosie, housesits for Joni Mitchell, for crying out loud. Don’t believe me? Ask Soosie to show you the scratches on her arm from Joni’s cat—the singer/songwriter might be known for writing emotionally bare songs about her love life, but her feline companion is a lot less subtle with her claws.

  Where do I fit into this musical melting pot? I’m the guy who chronicles EVERYTHING in his ever-present notebook—Elton John’s first U.S. appearance at the Troubador, The Band’s newest demo, any rock-and-roll tidbit a music freak like me might want to know about. I continually make lists of songs, artists, and albums—mostly when I should be doing homework. I begged my English teacher last year to let me write a column for the school paper about the music scene called “For What It’s Worth,” based on the Buffalo Springfield song. She finally relented, and I’ve been cranking out columns and lists ever since. Just to keep in practice, I stockpiled several of them this summer too. Speaking of Joni Mitchell, I just finished one about her dumping Graham Nash while she was on vacation. Women—they’ll annihilate your heart every time.

  The city is pulsing, the city is moving to an internal beat—can you hear it?

  I can.

  My sister, Soosie, just got her hands on my journal—WHICH WAS IN MY ROOM, WHICH I ASKED HER FIFTY MILLION TIMES TO STAY OUT OF—and threw herself on her waterbed in a fit of convulsive laughter. If I gave the false impression that I knew what it actually felt like to lose a girlfriend, I apologize. Truth be told, I technically don’t know what it’s like to have one, never mind lose her. Ow! (My bilious older sister now has me in a headlock, insisting I be even MORE honest.) Okay! Not only have I never had a girlfriend, I haven’t yet found a way to cross the chasm between the witty repartee in my head and a conversation with a real live human female that lasts longer than two seconds. My number one goal for this school year is to have a relationship with a smart, funny, pretty girl I can talk to. Happy now, Soosie? Sheesh. Go away to college already.

  FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

  8/71

  After a particularly domestic afternoon, Graham Nash wrote the song “Our House” about the Lookout Mountain home he shared with Joni Mitchell. The album the song was on--Déjà vu--had barely hit the airwaves when Mitchell split for Greece without him. While Nash was laying a new kitchen floor in the home they shared, he received a one-sentence telegram from Mitchell informing him their relationship was over. Nash was crushed; he sat down at the same piano where he wrote “Our House” and wrote “Simple Man” about their breakup. It’s almost as ironic as Joni writing “Woodstock”--the de facto anthem of the peace and love generation--from a Manhattan hotel room as she watched the coverage on TV.

  While my parents are at work, I rummage through the garage until I find the long, curly brown wig Mom used to wear, then grab one of the scarves she sells in her store. I shut the door of my room and pull my Flying Burritos T-shirt over my head, exposing my bare chest, still tanned from the summer. I inspect myself in front of the mirror—neither my face nor chest has sprouted even the faintest hair. I adjust Mom’s wig, tug my bell-bottoms a bit lower on my waist. But something’s still missing for my spot-on Robert Plant impersonation, so I ignore Soosie’s edict to stay out of her room—yes, I realize it’s a double standard since I demand she keep out of mine—and grab a handful of silver bracelets from her bureau.

  I stand in front of my turntable facing the toughest decision of the day: “Dazed and Confused”? “Heartbreaker”? I decide to go with my old standby and crank up “Immigrant Song.”

  As Jimmy Page pounds out the opening riff, I jump around the room. “A-ah-ahh-ah, ah-ah-ahh-ah!” I stand in front of the mirror jangling the silver bangles on my arm and use the small piece of driftwood on my windowsill as a mic. “To fight the horde, sing and cry: Valhalla, I am coming!” I gyrate around the room, imagining thousands of fans singing along with me. It’s as if one is actually in the room because a flash suddenly goes off, blinding me for a second.

  “Who are you supposed to be?” Soosie asks. “Wait! Robert Plant? That’s hilarious!” She fans the Polaroid picture in her hands.

  “Give it to me!” I whip the wig off my head.

  “Not on your life.” She runs into the bathroom and gets the book of matches Mom keeps near the vanilla candles. She holds a lit match over her head. “Encore! Encore!”

  “Why do you always take the best moments and WRECK them? Can you major in RUINING THINGS at Brandeis? ’Cuz you’d get all A’s.” I remove the bracelets from my arm and throw them at her one by one.

  I shove her out of my room, but she remains in the hallway, laughing. “I’m going to miss you, Quinn,” she adds.

  “That makes one of us.”

  I shove my desk chair under the doorknob so she can’t come in—what I should’ve done before I started my personal concert. I slide the Ouija board out from under my bed. My aunt Tamara gave this to me for my ninth birthday, but I started using it regularly only a few months ago. Yet another CONFESSIONAL TIDBIT: I’m superstitious, a sucker for any kind of portal to the other side. So is my aunt, which is why she gave me this present in the first place. I know it’s meant for two people, but sharing this sacred game with Soosie is unthinkable. I place my fingers gently on the planchette. (Yes, that’s what the plastic disc is called; check the instructions inside the box if you don’t believe me.)

  “How will it be when Soosie leaves?” I ask.

  Y-O-U W-I-L-L B-E F-R-E-E, the Ouija responds.

  You’re telling me.

  Outside the room, Soosie gives a long series of knocks that get exponentially louder until I can’t take it anymore and open the door. She’s written “Quinn, 8/20/71” on the bottom of the photo. In it I’m all limbs and hair, a whirling dervish streaking across the room. “Come on,” she says. “Help me cook my going-away dinner.”

  My sister knows me well enough to realize I can’t stay mad for long when food is involved. While Mom will point out a bag of noodles for me to boil, Soosie makes zucchini muffins and carrot and ginger soup. Watching Soosie chop fresh tomatoes and cucumbers now, I wonder how she’s going to handle living in a small dorm room outside of Boston.

  “No fresh herbs growing on windowsills all year long,” I say. “No olive trees in the backyard.”

  As a way of shutting me
up, Soosie hands me a clump of parsley to wash while Carole King’s Tapestry fills the kitchen. The album came out a few months ago and has been in serious rotation with not only Soosie and me but our parents too. Soosie babysat for Carole’s girls many times and was even in the room when Carole posed on the windowseat with her needlepoint for the album cover.

  I make one last attempt to get Soosie to leave her comprehensive album collection here.

  “Why do you think Melanie and I are driving instead of flying?” she answers. “I’ve got eight milk crates full!”

  Mom bursts into the room carrying a platter of deli meat and cheese. “Here I am! Let the party begin!”

  Mom’s food is almost always inferior to anything Soosie makes, but she seems so eager to please, I tear off the plastic wrap and make several ham and Swiss roll-ups to tide me over till dinner.

  Soosie places a large bowl of tabbouleh on the kitchen table with crackers artfully arranged on the side. I’ve been so worried about missing her music collection that I almost forgot about meals. What will I eat after tomorrow? Is this literally the Last Supper?

  As if she knows what I’m thinking, Soosie hands me a cracker loaded with tabbouleh and tells me she’ll send care packages from Boston.

  “It’s supposed to be the other way around,” Mom says. “But I do have some going-away presents.”

  She hurries to the porch and returns with a giant bag of clothes. Mom opened her shop with imported clothes from India, then started designing dresses and blouses on her own. It didn’t take long before she was running the busiest boutique on the Strip. Soosie has always been voted best dressed in her class at school; me, not so much.

  Soosie oohs and ahhs as my mother pulls out dress after dress from her bag. “This one’s made from a vintage tablecloth,” Mom says. “This blue one has doilies for sleeves.”

  “I think she also needs goodies for the road.” My father holds open the back door with his hip while carrying a large cardboard box full of trail mix, fruit, and bottles of juice.

  Soosie is beaming—a guest would think my sister’s happy because of all the gifts, but I know better. Soosie’s pleased because both my parents are home and the four of us are together, a real rarity.

  Dad moves a stack of books and puts his boots up on the table. He fixes cars at a high-end dealership in the Valley. After changing sparkplugs and overhauling engines all day, he usually retires to the garage to rebuild old radios and amps. He’s much less gregarious than Mom, preferring to work with his hands than hobnob in the Canyon social scene. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him without grease under his fingernails. He never talks about it, but he earned a Bronze Star for bravery when he fought in the Korean War.

  The four of us spend the next few hours eating and telling stories until it’s time for Soosie to pick up Melanie. We load the bags, albums, plants, food, and stereo into the back of her two-toned orange van—a trade-in from Dad’s dealership that no one would buy so he fixed it up for Soosie.

  “Call if you need anything, and I mean anything,” Mom says in a blurry voice. I knew she shouldn’t have opened that second bottle of wine.

  “Change the world, make a difference, contribute,” my father adds.

  “Not too much pressure,” I say.

  Soosie rubs the top of my head the way she always has. “Come here, Mighty Quinn.”

  When she reaches over to give me a hug, she whispers in my ear. “I left you a present, but I’m not telling you where. By the time you find it, I’ll be home for the holidays.”

  We wave goodbye until the van is out of sight. The sky teems with stars, and the air is filled with eucalyptus. It’s the kind of Southern California night they write songs about. Here’s the song I’d write tonight: My sister’s finally gone. Let my life and freedom begin!

  What? You think it’s selfish that I don’t want to stand in the shadow of my perfect older sister anymore? You don’t know what it’s like to have some Southern California poster girl with straight A’s for a sister. The girl LITERALLY wears flowers in her hair. She can get backstage at the Whisky, the Troubador, any club in town. People love her. The Cowsills’ “The Rain, the Park, and Other Things”? It was written for Soosie, I swear.

  FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

  8/71

  What do Linda Ronstadt, the Beatles, Dusty Springfield, the Monkees, the Drifters, the Everly Brothers, Aretha Franklin, the Chiffons, Marvin Gaye, Herman’s Hermits, Manfred Mann, the Byrds, Laura Nyro, Dion and the Belmonts, the Four Seasons, the Animals, Skeeter Davis, and Blood, Sweat & Tears all have in common? They all recorded songs written by Carole King with her now ex-husband Gerry Goffin. Before she started recording on her own, the woman was a songwriting machine, even writing a #1 hit--“The Loco-Motion”--for her teenage babysitter to sing. King was barely out of her teens herself when she wrote it. Her song “Will You Love Me Tomorrow” was recorded by lots of people, but the Shirelles had a giant hit with it, the first #1 on Billboard for a girl group ever. If you’ve been to Carole’s house here in the Canyon, you’ll know that’s the song that plays when you ring her doorbell.

  Great Summer Songs You’ll Never Hear on the Radio After School Starts

  “Summer in the City”—The Lovin’ Spoonful

  “Wipe Out”—The Surfaris

  “Summertime”—Billy Stewart

  “Summertime Blues”—Eddie Cochran

  “Hot Fun in the Summertime”—Sly and the Family Stone

  “In the Summertime”—Mungo Jerry

  “Summer’s Almost Gone”—The Doors

  “All Summer Long”—The Beach Boys (Every Beach Boys song sounds like a summer song, although technically they’re not. Did you know Brian Wilson, who wrote all those great beach songs, doesn’t actually surf?)

  When the Byrds heard the demo of Dylan’s song “Mr. Tambourine Man,” they decided they wanted to record it too. But their producer, Terry Melcher, didn’t think the Byrds were strong enough to perform it. So he hired the Wrecking Crew to play on it—local guys who are the best studio musicians around. Besides the vocal harmonies, Roger McGuinn’s twelve-string Rickenbacker is the only Byrds’ music that’s heard on the record. Their version of the song went to number one anyway, a first and only number one for Dylan. The record was credited with ushering in the whole folk rock genre, but besides McGuinn, the other guys hadn’t played a note. Were they just happy for the monster single, or did they secretly wish they’d played on it too? This is the kind of thing I think about when I’m lying in bed, stalling before getting up for breakfast.

  When I run the Byrds conundrum by my mother, she takes a large sip from her mug of coffee before answering.

  “This has nothing to do with ‘Mr. Tambourine Man,’” she says. “You’re worried about how the other kids will perceive you. Are you authentic or a phony? It’s a perfectly understandable reaction to the first day of school.”

  My life has been a NIGHTMARE since my mother started psychoanalysis. I’m just glad I didn’t bring up Captain Kirk’s version of the song—I can only imagine the field day she’d have dissecting that one.

  “You know, music trivia isn’t the only way to connect with people,” she continues. “You can ask someone what they want to talk about too.”

  If I don’t take the bait, she won’t quit and I’ll never get to leave. “Okay, Mom. How are you doing today?”

  She leans back and takes another sip of coffee. “I’m thinking about Soosie taking classes in Boston. I’m also thinking about how I’ll be spending such a gorgeous morning dealing with vendors weeks behind schedule.”

  Sorry I asked. Mom gathers up the papers on the counter. “You want a ride to school?”

  I tell her I’m meeting up with Ryan, even though I’m not. The last thing I need on the first day is my mom psychoanalyzing me in the car.

  As I walk to school, I feel a stab of nostalgia for the loving cocoon of Wonderland Elementary. I went there years ago but used to love it
—it was just a block from my house and I knew every kid there. At Bancroft, I not only have to leave an hour earlier but have to cross Hollywood, Sunset, and Santa Monica Boulevards. The streets are often littered with debris and more than once I’ve been hassled by a homeless guy on Fairfax. I usually end up giving him my lunch money because he seems to need it more than I do.

  As much as I hate being back in school, it’s great to see Willy and Ryan. Willy traveled to Mexico with his family, and Ryan spent the summer at his aunt’s blueberry farm in the Berkshires. Because it would be long distance to call, we haven’t spoken since school let out. We spend a few minutes catching up, but it doesn’t take long before we get to THE GIANT NEWS OF THE SUMMER—how Jim Morrison died in Paris. The three of us used to see Jim and his girlfriend, Pamela, around the neighborhood because they lived behind the Canyon Store. For the past month, rumors swirled through town that Jim wasn’t really dead since no one had seen his body except Pamela, who buried him in Paris before anyone else from the U.S. arrived.

  “The doctor who signed the death certificate disappeared,” Ryan says. “Morrison’s probably sitting in some café in France laughing his butt off.”

  “How old was he?” Will asks. “Don’t say twenty-seven.”

  “Yup,” I answer.

  “First Jimi, then Janis, now Jim,” Ryan adds. “Club 27’s recruiting new members all the time.”

  “Hey, don’t forget Brian Jones,” I say. “He started the club.”

  Ryan holds up his hand to stop me. “It’s too early for your column—I’m still on vacation time.”

  Willy switches the conversation to the World Series and the three of us debate whether Baltimore will get a chance to defend their title. After a few minutes, he points to a girl sitting by the windows. “Who’s the new kid?”

  The girl in question wears what looks like a knit pantsuit. The closest I’ve seen to a getup like that is the outfit Janis Joplin wore while she belted out “Ball and Chain” at Monterey.