page 29 |
The Summer of '64 |
Dean-o and the Playmates |
In 1964, Earl Knight introduced me to a fellow named Dean Wright. Now Dean was one of these guys who always had girls. I once asked him how he did it and, from within his genius, he said "Create your own environment and you will be master of it." Words of wisdom from the Master himself for all you young men who think there's ONE answer to understanding women. He was 7 years older than I was. His mother, Charlotte Kohrummel (we called her Mrs. K.) had offered to finance a deal up in Clearlake (in northern California) if we would put a band together. She was not loaded with money, but was one heck of an entrepreneur and could spread the b.s. like a pro. She had "the gift of gab," as they say. I liked her pizzazz. She told me that she once sang with bandleader Bix Beiderbeck in the old days. In the summer of 1964 we played at an outdoor pavilion on a hill overlooking Clearlake. Dean was on drums, Izzy Alvarado on bass, Bobby Hedman joined us on saxophone and I was on guitar. It was great fun. The group's name was Dean-o and the Playmates. We had a logo that resembled the Playboy bunny, but the ear was made to look floppy and the bunny had a slight smile with eyes half shut, to make it different than the Hefner bunny logo. We took up lodging in a little place called Corlin's Cabins, right across the road from the lake. There was a small boat dock that went way out, with one single light bulb that gave ambiance to the night air. It was legal in Clearlake to fish at night. Much fun sitting there with your legs dangling off that old wooden pier late at night. My first time living away from home and that added to the excitement. We heard there was a parade the next day, so we got a flatbed truck with an inverter on it. An inverter is a device that turns DC current, like your car battery, into AC current like out of your wall socket. This truck was our mobile bandstand. We had mobile power to run my amp, the P.A. system and bass amp. It was weak, but we had a great time trying to balance everything and keep the cymbals from falling off the truck. We played while slowly driving down Lakeshore Drive in the town called Clearlake Highlands. Girls in bathing suits everywhere. Heaven, actually. A small resort town that came to life, apparently just for us. Or so it seemed. The town is just called Clearlake now. A pretty young girl named "Weezie," short for "Louise" befriended us.
Speaking of Austin-Healey "Bugeye" Sprites: Have you ever heard the sound the muffler makes from one of those little English cars? I love it. Hutton says I'm an anglophile. (sounds like a British fag to me, but it just means I like the English stuff. The cars, the dark wood in the old homes, etc.) The electrical system in the English cars of that era were awful. Lucas system, I think. Burn out on you in a second. In fact, at one time, I had a T-shirt that said, "Lucas: Prince of Darkness." Put a blade on those Austin Healeys and they'd be a lawnmower, but still, a very cool thing to drive one. I bought myself a "Bugeye" a few years back. Still have it. At times, I must admit, I still drive around doing my Bobby Hedman routine, in my mind at least. Isn't that funny? I swear it's true. Here's a picture of me, in about 1989, standing next to my "Bugeye." When Bobby Hedman left the group, a tenor man, named Vince, from Castro Valley, California joined us. Besides being a good player, he was the owner of a bass saxophone. Not a baritone, mind you, a BASS sax. It was huge. We used to do a routine on stage where Dean would give this long b.s. schpiel about a friend Louie,who had passed away. We'd bring out this black coffin looking thing, about 6 feet long and set it on the stage. To make a long story short, it ended up with "Here's Louie!" and Vince would pull this huge, bizarre looking saxophone out of the case (coffin) and start the song "Louie Louie." Not a particularly genius routine on our part, but we were youngsters, trying out anything and everything to make 'em smile, and as a matter of fact, it did. Like "Gloria," "Louie Louie" would never let you down. It always got the people on the dance floor. Talk about a tune that got into the American public! Anthem is the word, I believe. While playing in Clearlake, CA., there is one time that sticks out in my mind. We had played a few gigs at the open air pavilion and decided we needed to do some promoting to boost attendance. We had a pickup with a loudspeaker set up on top of the cab. We had buddy, named Bob Shurtz, that was with us and sometimes sang a little. We called him "Orley Fedderson" in some sort of nonsensical countryism. We figured we'd go back up into the residential districts on the backside of the lake around Kelseyville, by Konocti Harbor, and advertise for the gig. We were having a good time, driving slow around those hills in that old pickup, blasting away with our advertising. "DEAN-O and the PLAYMATES. This weekend at the Highlands pavilion on the hill, etc...." All of a sudden here comes this car full of drunk, barbecuing, boat owning, local redneck residents that were mad as hell. It was clear that they wanted to give us some sh_t. Honking their horn and waving their fists, while waving their beer bottles. We pulled over and Big Bob, who was riding in the bed of the pickup with me, jumps out to run a good intimidation bluff on these guys and stop it before it got started. He stomped up to one of them with a good aggressive attitude, but ... it didn't fly. Now, nothing is worse than have to back down after you've done your best to take the bull by the horns and resolve things. It was not to be, and they went on with it, drunk as skunks. In time, it just defused into name calling and we agreed to cool it with the loud speaker routine. Major confrontations in the line of duty, ya know. One must be prepared for all things in the quest for music immortality. Big Bob did good that day; it just wasn't good enough. We all laughed and kidded him for days over that one. To his credit, we WERE out numbered, but that wasn't the deciding factor. Musicians are not known for their ring savvy. Nope. Not at all. After a great summer of fun, holding 2 dances a weekend at the pavilion, we stayed up there and played at occasional dances in Lower Lake, 3 miles South of the Highlands, in a little "Moose Lodge" kind of place. Earl Knight began alternating with Izzy on bass, (driving up from Modesto, when Izzy had to be home with family.) In January or February of 1965, I went back to school to finish my second semester of my junior year at Lower Lake Union High school. I had to go back to Davis High School, in Modesto, to get my records so I could prove how much I had completed. As fate would have it, just by coincidence, I had quit on APRIL FOOLS DAY. How appropriate. I gave my records to the Lower Lake school and started school halfway through my junior year, if I remember correctly. I have memories of being in class and hearing "Eight Days a Week" by the Beatles playing. The entire student body, for all 4 grades of high school, was about 350 students. I remember cold mornings, having to put a big screw driver across the starter leads on Dean's car so I could get it started to go to school. In band class, I had an instructor, Mr. Gamboa, who was very inspirational to me. He was aware that I had been playing the summer dances. He acknowledged my musical talent and, even though I wasn't a music reader, he had me join band in school. He was very supportive of me and I could tell that he was excited to have a student who truly loved music, as he did, and the fact that I was pursuing it. He taught me great songs like "Laura" and "Tenderly." Wonderful songs. I would be reading chord charts, but not the written notes. I wish I had told him how much his supportive attitude meant to me. In his own way, he validated the road I had chosen for my life. I wonder. Is it ever too late to say "Thanks"? Although an educated man who had applied himself to a career in teaching, somehow, he was able to bridge the generation gap and share his love of music with this very young and undisciplined student, ME. I remember his smile and that he appreciated how much I enjoyed music. I, in turn, came to understand HIS love for music. I received an email from a fellow student of Lower Lake Union High School about him recently describing a night he saw Mr. Gamboa playing "hot licks on a stick" (clarinet) at a local club. I love it. I have no doubt that he was truly "into it". Wonderful!! That brings the biggest smile to my face. If ever there was a music man that deserved just "getting down" and letting the fun of it all "take you away" ... it's Mr. Gamboa. He really did/does have an amazing heart and love for the music. I saw it in his eyes and in his every reference to music and his students. He had a way of emphasizing "what was right" in the students performances, and then he would diligently and gently go about suggesting the necessary corrections that needed to be made. All without intimidating the student. This is the "telltale" sign of a true music lover. When the uncontrollable need to share and inspire others overcomes the need to be acknowledged as being a superior musician. To fan the flames of interest and insert the hook that exposes "the joy of music". Music is not just for a few or for a while. It's for everyone for "always". I would have loved to have been at the club where he played that night. Getting the smile off of my face would surely have been quite a task. A teacher for a semester, but, a memory for life. Mr. Gamboa. There was a cute little female alto sax player in that class that I hit it off with pretty good, too. What was her name? Two names, like Norma Jean or something. Very pretty. Ah, but I had only recently lost my virginity, in less than grand fashion, I might add. We won't go there. A young man worries about these things, you know. Oh, it wasn't with her, the little alto sax girl. No, no, no. I would have never had the nerve,but .... well maybe. I was beginning to dig deep for this "elusive" suave and de boner I had only heard about. Other things were coming to fruition, along with the music. The natural order of things, as they say. End of that discussion. |
Not my
fault. You screwed up. YOU TRUSTED ME. Now
I'm going to tell one on my good friend, Dean. While in
Clearlake Highlands, I had been the winner of a poker game
with Dean (which was a fluke) and he owed me $35.00. I had a
driving ticket in Modesto for something like $40.00 and he
told me that he would take care of it, if I forgave him his
poker debt. I did. He didn't. Duh! Ultimately, they ended up
issuing a warrant for my arrest, but I didn't find out about
it for months. Dean ended up leaving Clearlake before school
was finished and so, I was without a place to live. Not his
fault, just the way it was. I began living with some real
nice people, who agreed to take me in while I finished my
junior year of high school. My dad, who was living and
working over in Ukiah, paid them some money to help out with
food and such. After
school was out for the summer, I made my way back to
Modesto. I got there on a Friday night. I had heard that
there was a warrant out for my arrest, so I decided to go
directly to the police station and get it straightened out.
I had just turned 18 a couple of months before, which caused
a problem for the police. WHAT SHOULD THEY DO WITH ME? The
warrant and ticket were from a period when I was 17 ... and
still a minor. I was now 18. They scratched their heads and
said "I guess we'll put you in juvenile hall until they can
have your arraignment on Monday morning and figure this
out." My heart sank. What an idiot. If I had just waited
till Monday, I could have just gone into court, but,
no-o-o-o-o-o. I had to take care of business NOW and turn
myself in. At the juvenile hall they took my wallet and put
the $15.00 that I had on me, in a manila envelope. They put
me a cell with only a 2" hole in a solid door, and 1 row of
glass blocks that did allow a little light in, but I
couldn't see out. Talk about unnerving. The sound of metal
plates of breakfast being shoved to you on a tile floor at
5:30 in the morning. The sound of some sort of metal "hell"
door down the hall that closed with a clank and rang through
the halls. All this made for a "I'm a bad person. I deserve
to be here, crawled all up in the corner" kind of situation.
You know? MOM! DAD! Where are you? They were out of town,
living in Ukiah 200 miles North. Things looked bleak.
Come
Monday morning, they took me to court. The longest weekend
I've ever spent in my life. Upon arriving at the court
house, the judge decided he wanted to handle my case in his
quarters. He called me in. I stood there in front of his
desk. He rarely looked up, just kept reading from the
paperwork and talking to me at the same time. Stuff like,
"young man" this, and "young man" that. He told me that I
was guilty of not responding to the warrant in a reasonable
time frame, as well as the initial violation. Guilty! I
heard those words and I knew it was over. That weekend was
just the beginning. As I stood there gulping to his every
word, answering him, "Yes, Your Honor, I know, Your Honor
you're right, Your Honor." He ended his schpiel with "I'm
going to fine you, but I'll let your speeding violation be
satisfied with time served, if you can pay the fine for
being late to respond." That was only semi-good news. I
couldn't afford to pay a fine. He looked at his paperwork
one more time and then slowly looked up over the top of his
glasses at me and said "I fine you ............... $15. Can
you pay the fine or shall we put you in jail?" I jumped
forward and with the greatest of zeal and said "I'VE GOT IT!
I've got it, Your Honor. I can pay it." Well, let me tell
you, it took everything that judge could muster up to keep
from laughing in my face. He literally had to turn to the
side and put his hand over his mouth, trying to keep a stern
manner about him. You see, he knew exactly how much money I
had. It was in the report and still in the envelope that was
in custody. Of course, I didn't know that at the time. I
thought it was a miracle, ... the amount of the fine. A
judge with a sense of humor. He got me that day. So all is
well that ends well. I got out of there and never looked
back. One of those deals a kid never forgets. When my dad
was a kid, my grandfather had taken him down to the
jailhouse in Henryetta, Oklahoma, so he could get a good
look at jail, as to encourage him to stay out of trouble. My
dad took a look at the cell with its bars and the door half
open. The Sheriff nudged him forward and told him to "Go
ahead. Go inside." My dad hesitantly walked into the cell,
peaking around the area as he went. SLAAAAAM! Clank went the
door. The Sheriff, (being urged by my grandpa) had slammed
the door shut behind him, leaving a very clear impression on
his young mind, as well as the need, no doubt, to change his
underwear. Not unlike my experience. Somehow,
after my court fiasco, I managed to come up with some money
and moved into the oldest hotel in Modesto, The Hughson
Hotel. I still recall the dark and dankness of this place.
One of those Mickey Spillane looking hotels with the
blinking advertisement sign outside your bedroom window. I
woke up one night with my big toe caught in a hole in the
freshly changed sheets. Freshly changed with a hole in it.
Got the picture? I straightened my leg out in a stretch and
ripped the heck out of that sheet. This was my low point.
Thank goodness for my Grandma Allsup. I moved in with her.
She loved me and it felt good to be with family. Still, my
teenage musical loins were calling me into mischievous
gatherings, in suspicious settings. It seemed to me that's
where the fun was. That's where the REAL music existed and
has its roots firmly set. The music I was wanting. In dark
corners, coming out of half drunk, low down, mouths. It
appealed to me, a strange beckoning of sorts. I had no idea
how a person could just "make" music out of how they felt. I
did recognize when someone did it, but was still searching
for the knowledge of how to do it. I found it in almost the
last place I looked for it. The most obvious place, in
retrospect. From within. I was too young then to have
anything to draw upon. I was doing what I should have been
doing at that time. Surrounding myself with music, music
places and music people. Reveling in the fun of it all. If I
can say one thing for my friend Dean; This dude wrote the
book on "How to Have Fun." I have wonderful memories of our
crazy times together. Wouldn't trade them for anything. In
those days there were only a handful of us "music nerds"
around town. The nation had not gone music crazy yet. It had
with the listeners, but not so much that society was
spitting out a bunch of musicians all of a sudden. That was
to come, and not too far down the line, either. The amount
of talent, per square yard in America today, is fascinating
and wonderful. I hate some of these smart aleck kids, cause
they're so good. Honestly. Some of these kids just working
behind the counter at the music stores around the U.S. are
killers. They just haven't had the luck of 'experience and
opportunity' to shape them into being interpretive players.
Are they merely technicians instead of musicians? Some of
them, yes. Not all, though. The level of musicianship that
is around today is really good. Yes, I will make an old guy
speech of "we paved the way," blah, blah, blah and "forget
about trying to play so fast. Get melodic," and so on and so
forth, but I really do appreciate the level of talent that
exists in some of the younger musicians today. It's as it
should be. Music begets music. Each generation should
stretch it a bit, but take the best from the old and serve
it up in a different manner. Copying styles that were
derived by musicians who knew how to listen to themselves,
is a very good road to be on when searching for your own
tools and methods of self expression in music. By playing
stuff and feeling things that others have felt, new horizons
open up to you. Some you hadn't expected. Some will come
from within you that you hadn't expected. Then it
gets really fun, when it comes as a surprise to YOU. At that
point, Get the hell out of the way, senor. Forget your logic
and let the music tell you what it wants. Let it talk your
pain and your happiness, your hopes and your worries, your
humor and your love. Let it proclaim your victories and
lament over your losses. The best way to feel shitty that
you'll ever find. Feelin' good, feelin' bad. The Blues. You
know. It's not the only kind of music. but, it's a good one.
The very best language ... the best medicine ever conceived
by man. MUSIC.