The grass WAS always greener on the other side
(of the Atlantic) and believed so from the adolescents on both continents. At
least believed in the minds of young United Kingdom musicians during the late
fifties and early sixties, when rock-n-roll captured their youthful hearts and
increased such determination of pushing themselves to accomplish life-changing
powers. Then, it happened again in early 1964, as Swinging London’s incredible
recordings fell into the United States hands of hip disk jockeys, astonishing
kids from North America, who happily seized and transfixed their raw ambitions
on the new sounds provided by the British Invasion.
Each country’s pre-teen and
teenage citizens lucky enough to fall under the hypnotic musical spell helped
transform a fresh direction to compositions.
Harmonic structures that enthralled children’s desires toward honing
their own skills, and duplicate the same
craze created by their heroes on the opposite border brought self-fulfillment upon millions. History not
only bears this truth, but my personal
first-hand experience likewise draws to the same conclusion. Let me demonstrate––John
Lennon, and Paul McCartney had never found a reason to build an impressive
reputation until singers like Little Richard and Elvis Presley promoters
shipped over the most popular records that soon played on Liverpool radios and
phonographs everywhere. In no time, Liverpool received a right to boast it
could claim 900 plus bands of which all sought fame and fortune. Next, came
American artists, confident enough to write their well-received sensational material,
like Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, and Carl Perkins. This trend shot a motivation
boost into J & P’s guitar string callused fingers months before they even
knew each other, to compose original ditties so as to perform songs nobody else
would dare.
Out of boredom, John formed a band with his
high school friends and soon after, Paul watched the Quarry Men crew perform at
a Church Social on an invitation from a mutual friend, who introduced the
southpaw to the bandleader. A couple of days later, with left-handed guitar in
tow, fifteen-year-old Mc joined the lineup. New tunes grew the playlist, and
another new member grew the group, Paul’s younger friend George, an awesome
guitar player who enjoyed the same rocking, bopping pizzazz, and through his
gifted talent, added much finesse to their sound, so Lennon overlooked the age
difference.
Suddenly, the lads’ new-fangled genre music of
choice began to surge serving the pre-Beatles more gigs, granted most paid very
little. However, as the outpour of hits after hit song, featuring many
different American stars began to surface, several showed a common thread…the mighty composer duet team of Goffin &
King had stamped recognizable success on the round plastic wrapper. (John
fantasized Lennon & McCartney might rise to the Goffin & King
equivalence of Great Britain, and sure enough, his dream turned into reality,
not only in the UK but throughout the entire planet.) How? Because a few years later, came Hamburg, and
few more years later, came Brian Epstein, and a few more years later, came
America. That’s where I come in.
San Fernando Valley So. California, January
1964. Me, an eleven-and-a-half-year-old boy with two younger sisters aged six
and two, occasionally needed a babysitter when mom and dad wanted to get away. Extremely fortunate, and may I add privileged, I fell head over heels crazy about
our two gorgeous babysitters who lived right across the street. Yes, Jeannie
and Anita both had the means to cause my heart to thump louder than a sonic boom
while skipping beats merely by their kindness. Just sweet sixteen and fourteen
but oh so cool, plus, they were the proud owners of the new sensational Capitol
Records, Meet The Beatles LP, and thanks to my parents Hi-Fi console in the
living room, they always brought this favorite album over many, many times.
By the way, before 1964, I had rightly
established some well-founded experience with good old rock-n-roll. How, you ask?
My dad was a drummer, who bought me my own scaled downsize drum set in 1960.
While under his training, mostly lessons on Saturdays before lunch, he would
find radio stations that only played the latest top hit tunes as my basis to
keep tempo and learn fill in technics. But during the week, with instructions to
practice right after school, I had Elvis albums, Everly Brothers albums a
Chubby Checker album, and the Ventures to help polish my chops. A few years later,
groups like the Beach Boys, the Four Seasons and Jan and Dean began to hold my
attention. However, no sound, no artist, and most of all, no songs drove
instinctive rhythmic bliss like the
Beatles could. In fact, my entire record
assortment, as well as those in my father’s collection, definitely dominated
the normal twelve selected pieces that I used to refer to as “trash tracks”,
(now known as album fillers), except for possibly two featured hit numbers as
enticement for fans to purchase the better value long-playing disk.
Because each album reeked with album fillers,
my after-school practices suffered lost valuable time moving the record needle
away from lousy songs to only the ones I favored. Hence, once I heard the
babysitter’s “Meet The Beatles, and mom bought me the same album, the record
needle followed its automatic function from start to finish every time that
wonderful round piece of plastic spun on the player. In other words, no “trash
tracks” of any kind had merged within the glorious dozen songs that had me
spellbound. Practicing the drums with the Beatles became jubilant, not a
drudgery choir at all. I can honestly say thanks to the Beatles LP’s my
automatic record player never found another trash track until January 1969 when
they released the Yellow Submarine Animation Motion Picture album. Even today I
shake my head at “All Together Now.” Um, I’d be lying if I didn’t confess most
of the time skipping over Revolution #9 on the White album as well.
Okay, enough of trash tracks, let’s point my
narration back to 1964. A few days later, announcements of the highest
importance (at least to me) started to air over commercial breaks on our television set––proclaiming the Beatles were
coming to America and appear live on the Ed Sullivan Show. I used to think it
took forever for Christmas to return right after New Year’s Day re-boxing all
the decorative ornaments and lights, but man, waiting a couple weeks for my heroes showcased on TV dragged on like the span
of decades it takes for an elephant to lose its last set of molars. . . Roughly
60-70 years. (Elephants teeth grow six sets). But
what joy when Sunday night, February 9, 1964, finally did arrive. There I was,
cross-legged on the rug not more than six feet from the screen, with mom and
dad seated behind me on the couch, watching and waiting for John, Paul, George,
and Ringo to wrap their hands around their instruments then play for us.
Whoa, zero hour
totally caught me off guard. The simple truth that my dad had formed his own band
long, long, long before I popped into the world, and that he took on all duties
as MC, (Master of Ceremonies’) held title as the bandleader, and always
positioned himself front and center on stage. So, you can imagine the shock
that shook my foundation watching Ringo in the back, pounding his drums behind
the other three who stood front and center. If that’s how my favorite
group did things, then I wanted to play guitar, not drums, and so, I told my
dad that very evening I knew exactly what
my next perfect birthday present come July should be––an electric guitar.
Needless to say, dad was crushed, his
dreams of having me sit in with his band, introducing me as his son to take the
helm for 30 minutes or so while he gloated mingling with the audience had
shattered.
Shattered only for a short time, because after
three years of guitar lessons, I actually
joined my dad’s band. Not just for 30 minutes each performance, but on stage
the entire four hours supplying all the rock tunes yet bored out of my gourd
faking my way through rumbas, waltzes, big band swing numbers and any other
type of music unknown to me, especially Tangos, yuck! But there I stayed, right
next to dad from age 15 to 19, making easy money, car-pooling together and
hanging out with my best friend fulfilling dad’s dream beyond his grand
imagination. It would never have played out the same had I stuck with the
drums. No such thing as two drummers per band back in the day.
Yep, the Beatles changed my life big time. I
love their music and always will. Lennon & McCartney desired to write
original songs influenced by those they looked up to as teenagers. In turn, I
desired to write original songs influenced by the fantastic Fab-Four, who I
looked up to from day one and never stopped.
