“You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me”—Smokey Robinson & the Miracles
“Hello, I Love You”—The Doors
“Happy Together”—The Turtles (Yes, the song’s a little bouncy, a little TOO happy, but I dare you to turn it off when it comes on the radio, DARE you not to sing along with the chorus. Besides, the two lead singers—Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan, high school friends who grew up near the airport—ended up joining Zappa’s band. And you can’t get any more credible in the rock world than that.)
I DO have a girlfriend! The next weeks fly by in a flurry of phone calls, lingering at lockers, lots of making out, and MUSIC. I continually add to my list of sappy, embarrassing songs, which now run through my head in a lovestruck loop all day. “Joy to the World,” “If You Really Love Me,” even super-lame songs like “Colour My World,” “Make It With You,” and “Sweet Caroline.”
Not only am I singing along to the radio to dopey songs by Neil Diamond, I’m singing along with Caroline and her terrible, horrible voice, which doesn’t even cause me to wince. Needless to say, Willy and Ryan are horrified by the degradation of my musical taste, but I don’t care one bit. It’s amazing how a girl I barely knew two months ago has completely shifted my life from idling in neutral to pedal-to-the-metal INCREDIBLE. Caroline walks to school with me, and it’s not even weird when Ryan joins us. I try to learn from my mistakes and ask about her brother, how her father likes his new position. Between the store and the Canyon scene, my mother isn’t around much, but when she is she gushes about Caroline and sets new pieces of clothing aside for her. (Is she using Caroline as some kind of Soosie replacement? Don’t ask me; ask her analyst.)
I’m already in a great mood when I get home from school, but my father raises my spirits even higher by asking if I want to go look at guitars. For some reason, he uses his Ed Sullivan voice which is so bad it makes me cringe—there is absolutely nothing worse than Dad trying to be funny. But since he’s taking me to the Guitar Center, I laugh as if he’s the next Rich Little.
The Guitar Center is one of my favorite places on the Strip and Dad knows it. He loves to go there too, except he plays around with the amps and soundboards while I drool over the guitars. I don’t let myself ask what’s prompting Dad’s afternoon off; I’m just happy to go along for the ride. I could almost get used to this semi only-child business. I decide today is the day Willy, Ryan, and I go from dreaming about being in the music business to actually trying to break into it. I grab the papers I’ve been working on all week and hop into the car.
Since I was here last, they’ve gotten several new models, including a 1960s Gibson Les Paul that Clapton played in Cream. Before I had a girlfriend, I never would’ve gotten up the nerve to ask the salesperson to take it down, but I do, even playing a few chords before the clerk demands it back.
When I look over at Dad, he’s motioning with his head in that look who’s over there mode that everyone does when they spot an actor or rock star here. The only person I see is an old black guy with a scarf tied around his head. He’s sitting in the corner hunched over an electric slide guitar.
My father pulls me aside. “That’s Muddy Waters—the king of Chicago Blues. There wouldn’t be any rock and roll if it weren’t for guys like him.”
Dad doesn’t have to explain who Muddy Waters is; anyone who loves rock and roll as much as I do knows how influential he is, especially to so many British bands.
“That Led Zeppelin you love so much ripped Muddy off plenty of times,” Dad continues. “‘Whole Lotta Love’ is stolen straight from ‘You Need Love.’ Willie Dixon, who wrote it, should sue.”
For the first time, I realize my hyper-knowledge of music might be genetic.
“They stole another Dixon song—‘Bring It on Home.’ They turned Howlin’ Wolf’s ‘Killing Floor’ into ‘The Lemon Song.’” What impresses me more than my father’s knowledge of musical plagiarism is that he’s obviously been dipping into my Zeppelin when I’m not around.
“I’m going to ask him about those twenty-watt tube amps he used to use,” Dad says. “He was way ahead of Fender’s Super Reverb.” He continues listening to the famous bluesman while I complete the most important part of my mission today.
Like many music and record stores, the entrance of the Guitar Center is filled with acres of flyers advertising everything from SINGER WANTED to SPEAKERS FOR SALE. I find a lonely thumbtack and grab the first flyer from my pack.
3 LOCAL KIDS LOOKING FOR
BASS PLAYER TO PRACTICE,
SCORE GIGS, AND MAKE MUSIC!
CONTACT QUINN
555-5895
I stand back and admire my handiwork—a combination of Magic Marker and paisley doodles. I can’t wait to tell Willy and Ryan we’re finally on our way and can spend some time practicing instead of just coming up with names. (Lemonade Assassins? Analog Sneakers? The list is endless.)
But more than attracting girls or having a cool name, I want the FEELING of being in a band. Maybe it’s because I’m stuck with Soosie, but I’ve always thought being in a band would be like having three or four cool brothers to assist you on your journey to MAKE MUSIC. As I stare up at the flyer, my mind races with the possibility of forming the next Beatles or Rolling Stones. Okay, I might be placing the bar a bit high but it’s okay to dream, right?
I hang up the next sign with the same amount of optimism.
MUSIC TRANSCRIPTION
NEAT AND ACCURATE TRANSCRIPTION
OF YOUR ORIGINAL MUSIC.
GOOD PRICES, FAST SERVICE
CONTACT QUINN
555-5895
Getting hired to copy someone’s compositions note by note may not sound as cool as starting a band, but I’m just as excited about this job too. Collecting records is EXPENSIVE; I’ve almost blown through my uncle John’s generous birthday cash, as well as my earnings from helping Dad inventory auto parts. Not to mention suddenly having a girlfriend. I need to make some money, pronto.
When I’m finally ready to leave, it takes me several minutes to find my father. He’s leaning against the counter with the owner who’s sharing his plans to open a store in San Francisco. I can’t wait to tell Ryan, whose favorite pastime is to pit San Francisco against L.A. in a musical version of Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots. The Dead versus CSN&Y? Jefferson Airplane versus the Mothers of Invention? I also have to tell him step one in the quest for rock-and-roll stardom is completed. On the drive home, we hear “What Is Life?” by George Harrison—his first effort post-Beatles and the first triple album by a solo artist ever. You want to know what life is, George? Life is good. I crank the song up LOUD.
Here’s the difference between a normal Guitar Center visit and one when you have a girlfriend: I spend the next hour on the phone with Caroline in the kitchen eating peanuts and rehashing the afternoon. It’s as if every life event gets multiplied by two—when I first experience it, then again when I share it with her. No one told me having a girlfriend increases every other aspect of your life exponentially.
FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH
11/71
Jefferson Airplane is the only band to play all three famous rock-and-roll concerts: Woodstock, Monterey Pop, and Altamont. The last one is infamous, more for the offstage events than the onstage: there were three accidental deaths and one homicide. The Rolling Stones hired the Hells Angels to be in charge of security--kind of like hiring a group of foxes on motorcycles to guard the henhouse--and they bullied the unruly crowd so much that Jagger had to constantly beg the audience to be cool. When a wasted eighteen-year-old charged the stage with a gun, one of the Hells Angels fatally stabbed him right there in front of everyone. He later was found not guilty, but the incident marked a real turning point for the whole “peace and love” Woodstock Nation. The concert is captured in the documentary Gimme Shelter, killing and all.
The calls start coming, and within a few weeks, Ryan, Willy, and I have set up five auditions for a bass player. We’re starting a band! When I ask if it’s o
kay to bring Caroline along to Willy’s house, I worry he and Ryan will go all Yoko on me, but both of them say it’s okay. I’m not saying this just because she’s my girlfriend, but for someone who was living three thousand miles away a few months ago, Caroline seems to have adjusted well. She’s good friends with a few of the girls in our class, boys too. She shoots photos for the school paper and has even snuck into a few clubs with Ashley without using Soosie’s name. It’s pretty much only her rapid-fire East Coast speech pattern that tips you off that she’s not a born and bred Angeleno.
The first kid doesn’t show up for the audition, but the second guy comes half an hour early so it evens out. He’s sixteen and says he’s been playing since he was twelve. He must’ve been playing something besides bass, because his version of Van Morrison’s “Wild Night” is the worst I’ve ever heard.
I keep checking in with Caroline, but she waves me off like she’s fine and doesn’t need babysitting. SEE WHAT A COOL GIRLFRIEND I HAVE?
The next guy, Marvin, is from Inglewood. He plugs his Fender in and wails on Alice Cooper’s “Under My Wheels.” I love the song anyway but didn’t realize how much it needed a bass when we usually practice it. (It needs horns too, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon.) Willy thinks we should offer Marvin the gig right away, but Ryan and I agree it’s only fair to audition the other candidates coming later. Marvin packs up his bass and heads back down the Canyon to catch a bus back home.
“He was good,” Caroline says when he leaves. “I bet he’s the best one you see.”
“Yeah, plus, he seems like a good guy, which is just as important as his guitar skills.” I look over to see Willy and Ryan checking out the two of us and I’m transported to the first day of school when they goofed on me for approaching Caroline. Ryan’s gone out with three girls since then, but I’m happy to finally be with just one.
The four of us split a pizza and two bags of potato chips before the next person shows up. He’s twelve years old and a disaster. The only reason we don’t kick him out halfway through the first song is that he reminds Caroline of a kid she used to babysit for and she gives us the evil eye to be nice to him or else. Next is a fifteen-year-old who plays really well—great, in fact—but she’s got this snotty Bel Air attitude none of us can stomach, so we send her on her way. In the end, we decide Marvin is the best fit for the band and call to let him know.
On the way home, Caroline, Ryan, and I feverishly dissect the lyrics of “American Pie.” Ryan and I argue that “the day the music died” refers to the plane crash that killed Richie Valens, Buddy Holly, and the Big Bopper, but Caroline cites the “Father, Son, and Holy Ghost” line as evidence of a religious theme. We argue all the way back up Lookout Mountain, collapsing with laughter in front of Caroline’s house. It’s not just deconstructing the song that has us so giddy—Ryan and I have just taken the first step in our musical careers and our energy can’t be contained. And Caroline’s our first fan, maybe even groupie. As we lie on the lawn of thyme, it occurs to me that my life may never be this great again. It’s sappy perfect—Phil Spector–produced perfect—and I immediately feel my body clench. If things are this good, something bad inevitably has to happen soon. But nothing terrible happens; Caroline kisses me goodbye and gives Ryan a good-natured hug too.
“Remember her on the first day of school?” Ryan asks.
“I was just thinking about that.”
“She’s almost hot now.”
I punch him in the arm but am secretly flattered.
I get home just in time for Dad to put a plate of tacos on the table. I’m not one to complain about any kind of Mexican food, but it’s the third time this week Mom’s missed dinner and we’ve had takeout. I pick at the chunks of avocado, gathering my thoughts before speaking. (This might be a first.)
“Is Mom okay? Is she still upset Soosie’s not coming home for the holidays?”
When my father looks at the window before answering, it seems as if he’s trying to transport himself somewhere else. (PS—Speaking of teleportation, why did they cancel Star Trek? Enough with the repeats—we need new episodes!)
“It has nothing to do with Soosie,” he finally answers. “Her priorities are a little messed up right now, that’s all.”
“You mean like … partying?”
“A bit too much, yes.” My father has never liked going to parties or having them, as opposed to Mom, who takes full advantage of the nonstop Canyon social scene without him. He points to the two tacos still left on the plate. “We’ll save these for her.”
I retract my hand, which was about to grab one of the tacos, and get out the plastic wrap instead. I leverage Dad’s concern about Mom by asking if I can stay up to watch Night Gallery. Both he and Mom are pretty insistent about me going to bed on time but tonight he lets me stay up. He wonders if the show is too creepy to watch before bed, but I remind him Soosie’s the family scaredy-cat, not me. Tonight’s episode is a repeat of the pilot, which is still my favorite. It ends badly—as most of these do—with a Twilight Zone twist that has my father pounding his hand on the armchair in satisfaction. As I round up the glasses from the coffee table to place in the sink, I casually ask Dad if he wants me to wait up with him.
“No, no. Off to bed with you.” He uses his Rod Serling voice, which is one of the only impersonations he’s actually good at.
I head to my room and hope Mom’s on her way home or at least finds a phone to call and relieve Dad’s worrying. I didn’t call Caroline tonight but will meet her in the morning at the top of the street to walk to school. It’s crazy to think my parents have more relationship problems than I do right now.
The creepiness of Night Gallery hovers over me as I take out my Ouija board. It’s the first time I’ve used it alone all week; it’s actually been much more fun using it with Caroline. I place my fingers on the planchette and ask if my mother’s okay. I’m about to read out the letters when I hear a knock on my door.
“Just wanted to say good night,” Dad says.
Unlike Mom, Dad doesn’t disapprove of my fascination with the supernatural and asks if he can join me.
“Sure.” I take a deep breath before continuing. “I was just wondering about Mom.”
“Well, let’s see what Mr. Ouija has to say.” His hands—worn and stained from a decade of fixing engines—seem surprisingly delicate when he rests them on the planchette.
“Is Mom okay?” I ask again.
I spell out the letters as the Ouija marks them. W-E A-R-E W-O-R-R-I-E-D.
“We?” I ask. “It’s never said that before.”
“Must be referring to you and me.” He looks up and nods slightly. “It might be time for a family powwow.”
I nod in agreement, but all I’m thinking is CAN’T YOU FIX THIS WITHOUT ME—I’m only fourteen! Our brief conversation with the Ouija gods seems to boost Dad’s courage, because when he leaves my room, he’s determined and confident. My mother—if she were here instead of gallivanting with her friends—would kill us both for playing this game, especially for asking personal questions about her.
I don’t say anything to Dad, but I AM worried. You’d have to live under a rock not to know that drugs and alcohol permeate the city as much as creativity does. My mother’s always been social—half the reason she loves having the store is that she can talk to people all day—but I’m concerned she might be in over her head. Why am I worried about my mom coming home all hours of the night, anyway? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I wait to hear the screen door open but fall asleep before it does.
I still don’t understand the Ouija board saying “we.” Just because I’m part of a couple now, the Ouija gods are too?
FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH
11/71
Alice Cooper--real name Vincent Furnier--is actually a clean-cut athlete from Phoenix and the son of a preacher. He and the other guys on his cross-country team decided to form a band for the high school talent show. Vincent loved performing but wanted a mor
e theatrical moniker; he came up with Alice Cooper, the name of a 17th-century witch. The band moved to L.A. with their preppy letterman sweaters, and it wasn’t long before they were discovered by musical genius extraordinaire Frank Zappa. Zappa’s protégés, the GTO’s, a group of young party girls from the Valley, used to dress up Alice and his friends in their wacky outfits, giving rise to the shock-horror look they sport today. And how did Alice find out about a 17th-century witch? Believe it or not, a Ouija board.
Turns out Mom was at a late-night recording session at Cass’s house and got home after I fell asleep. At breakfast the next morning, she seems perfectly normal, frying eggs while jotting notes in her dream journal. I wait for Dad to call the dreaded powwow but am grateful to be spared. We have a low-key Thanksgiving with takeout from Barney’s and a hike in Fryman Canyon. I spend the rest of the weekend trying to figure out what to get Caroline for Christmas. (A pendant made from the plastic inserts for my 45s?) The rest of the time goes to wearing out Led Zeppelin IV, which Jeff at the record store turned me on to last month.
Two of the songs are over seven minutes; one of them—“Stairway to Heaven”—is just over eight, almost a minute longer than “Hey Jude.” The bass and drums don’t even kick in until the song’s half over. Willy says the words don’t make any sense, but I don’t care. (As if anyone understands the lyrics of “Immigrant Song.”) After the conversation with Dad at the Guitar Center regarding Zeppelin’s musical ethics, I can’t help thinking that the opening guitar arpeggios of “Stairway” are very reminiscent of Randy California’s guitar work on Spirit’s “Taurus,” an instrumental. The fact that Zeppelin opened for Spirit a few years ago makes me wonder about the “coincidence” even more. But there’s no denying Page’s skill. The guitar solo is so amazing it makes me want to give up playing because I’ll never be as good as he is. It also makes me want to practice ten hours a day to try.
For What It's Worth Page 5