“Howdy, Barney.” Jason wiped his shirtsleeve across his sweaty face.
“You’re still not done yet?” Barney waved his clipboard. “You’ve had a month since I cited you about that junk.”
“Been real busy. I only got today off because Mrs. Pinkroot’s holding off on her roof. She thinks the Russians are going to blow up her house.”
Barney shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the sky. “You think it’s going to happen? World War III that is?”
“I don’t know. Right now I’m more concerned about sorting through my pile here so you don’t cite me again.”
“Just haul it all off to the dump.”
“Ha! Ever since Madisin incorporated out this way, I’ve been paying through the nose for the privilege of living in the city. First I had to hook up to your water and sewer lines. That costs me a whole lot more than my well and septic system used to. Then you made me take your garbage service. Only way I can get my money’s worth for that is to feed what’s left over after my jobs into my garbage cans, which are way too small. Hauling this stuff to the dump means I have to pay twice. It’s just not fair.”
“Sorry, Jason. Just doing my job. Mrs. Walengrad has been checking out every neighborhood for what she calls eyesores. She complains about your place most of all.”
“That old witch?” Jason did his imitation of the Wicked Witch of the West, complete with cackling laughter. “That makes you one of her flying monkeys.”
Chapter 25
Although the summer of 1962 had been one for the memory books, the summer of 1965 had proved unremarkable. The world had become a complicated and dangerous place, at least for young American men, with LBJ sending ever more troops to Vietnam. And if JFK could not survive an assassination then who was safe? The question ate at Dan. Stanley brought up issues closer to home.
“Here it is August already and we still don’t got a job. Is your mom still pestering you too?”
Dan pulled the long stem of grass from his mouth and tossed it into the air. “Yeah. I keep telling her she needs to get me on at the factory but she says I need to be eighteen first.”
“I’m eighteen and it don’t help me out. Nobody wants to hire a spaz.”
“Come off of it, Stanley. You got it made and you know it. Once you finish up your last year of school your dad will take you on. He can fix or build anything. He’ll teach you how.”
“I just wish they didn’t make me do fourth grade twice. It makes me feel real dumb.”
“Wish in one hand and crap in the other and see which one fills up first.” He held up his empty palms. “Turn up the radio. We need some music.”
Stanley fumbled with volume dial of his transistor radio until the disc jockey’s voice carried over the calm lake to those paddling in canoes. The radio in one of the boats gave an illusion of stereo.
“This is Count Rockula on KHVV blasting away at you with 15,000 mighty watts of power. I can’t get no…well, I’ll let Brian, Mick and boys tell you all about it.”
Keith Richards’ guitar riff, which he claimed came to him in his sleep, introduced Satisfaction. The boys listened passively. It did not matter what songs Count Rockula played, his patter was always entertaining, even when a song was not.
He was typical of those of his profession, bouncing from station to station looking for a larger audience and bigger paycheck. His biggest salary had been at a popular station in Chicago whose wattage beamed it into seventeen surrounding states and Canada. But when he adopted Dr. Frank N Stein as his radio name, everything unraveled. First a publisher and then a movie studio claimed copyright infringement. So he suggested that he could instead become Count Rockula but his penchant for spinning records not on the station’s playlist got him fired. Four months and twelve interviews later he landed in Madisin still muttering, “I could’ve been a contender.” At least KHVV’s program director did not restrict the playlist to the current Top 40 songs in the nation.
“You can play anything that’s on this week’s Top 100.” He had explained to his new DJ. “But only one golden oldie an hour. If you give us good ratings you can stay.”
That had been a year ago. With the British Invasion still swamping America’s airwaves and record stores, the Count had plenty of songs to pick from. He extolled those from across the Atlantic as the Rolling Stones’ song ended.
“Some folks say it’s un-American to play songs by the British bands. But I say it’s good because it makes all the American bands crank out better songs. Are you listening RCA, Capitol, Motown?” He rattled off eleven more record companies in five seconds. “Here’s one by Sonny and Cher, Number One again this week, I Got You Babe.”
The duo traded verses of their love for one another and harmonized that they had each other, puppy love supreme.
“Here’s a song from someone from Sony and Cher’s neck of the woods, L.A. It’s Barry McGuire with a word of warning about an Eve of Destruction headed our way.” Lyrics about overpopulation, racial unrest, nuclear annihilation, the war in Vietnam, and other issues left Stanley filled with fear.
“I don’t like that song.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to die. That song makes me afraid I’m going to die.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. I heard my dad telling Mom why I was born this way. He said your dad said that a scientist told him that when people get too close to where the atom bombs blow up they can have messed up kids like me. My dad said it’s all his fault for staying on Monkey Island and letting the fallout from the bombs get inside him. That’s why I’m a retard.”
A block of commercials brought back a sense of normalcy.
“Okay. The time is 2:17, the temp is 92 hot ones with thunderstorms tonight and it’s time for Count Rockula’s Hot 14, my favorite tunes of the week brought to you back to back by Honest Sam’s Autoland. Visit his lot on Second Street to see what he’s got ready for you to hit the road in. SOS. SOS. The Beatles need your…” He let go of the turntable and it spun the 45 RPM vinyl disc.
“Help!”
John Lennon shouted his inner needs that he had scribbled on a piece of scrap paper while flying. He begged somebody to come to his aid, reminisced on youthful independence, and concluded that he could no longer go it alone. The song faded with the group’s trademark “ou ou ouu,” nonsense word fragments that meant nothing but said everything.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Lennon, the Beach Boys have the help you need.”
Organ chord progressions dredged from Brian Wilson’s soul introduced the world to his fantasy land of never ending sun and surf and California Girls. No slackers, the boys layered their vocals with California cool as if to say that popular groups from Britain or anywhere else were just cheap imitators.
“All right. Here’s a couple of white boys who sound like they’re Negroes because they sing with soul, the Righteous Brothers and Unchained Melody.
A slow ballad of love so precious that the duo asked God to speed it “to me” seemed to last for ten minutes.
“Here’s a folkie that saw the light and finally plugged his guitar into an amp. Thank you, Bob Dylan, for going electric.”
Backed up by Mike Bloomfield’s lead guitar and Al Kooper’s melodic organ hesitating enough to build tension, Dylan spun a tale of a woman whose fall from grace left her willing to trade her body to survive. Reduced to life “like a rolling stone” she received no pity or redemption from Dylan’s acerbic worldview. Hers was no eve of destruction. Self-destruction complete, she was banished to live among those whom she had despised.
“Ow! What a downer. How dark can you get? How about as dark as The Midnight Hour when the Wicked Wilson Pickett’s love comes tumbling on down?”
A simple chord progression made complicated by drums and bass guitar going in one direction and the horn section in another, Pickett sang of how he was willing to wait for the midnight hour to meet the one he lived for.
�
�Now there’s a tough act to follow. But Billy Joe Royal has to. If ever a song described Madisin, it’s Down in the Boondocks.
The boondocks. For Madisinites, the boondocks were far out in the country, away from their fine metropolis. For a disc jockey used to Detroit, Chicago, and Dallas, it was Madisin. The song lamented about being put down because of being from the wrong side of town, which kept the poor boy from the rich girl he loved. Count Rockula meant what he had said about Madisin being the boondocks. Here he was stuck with poor gal KHVV when he lusted after a 50,000 watt station somewhere in New York or California. At this point he would even settle for WBAM, the Big Bam and its 50,000 watt transmitter in Alabama. Listening to Royal’s plaintive country/rockabilly voice sent him into a fit of melancholy.
“Amen, Brother Billy Joe, amen. Down in the boondocks is no place for me. I’m not the only one that needs to get out of this Podunk. We all do. The Animals even wrote a song for us when they heard how bad we were feeling out here in the middle of nowhere.”
Eric Burdon’s vocals began a speech to his girl as drums, guitar, bass, and organ built to a crescendo until his band mates joined him on the chorus.
“We gotta get…”
Some songs hit a nerve for Stanley, especially those by The Animals. He leapt to his feet and imitated Burdon’s posture as he had seen it on The Ed Sullivan Show. Blessed with perfect pitch, he hit every note as he sang along into his imaginary microphone.
“…outta this place…”
Dan nodded to the beat and gave Stanley a standing ovation as the song faded into the DJ’s monologue. Why did he and Stanley feel more of a bond to Count Rockula, whom they had never met, than parents, teachers, pastors, relatives, friends, or classmates?
Must be because he’s cool, Dan reasoned.
“We’re on a roll now, gang. Here’s another offering from jolly old England by the Yardbirds.”
Electric blues as interpreted by dirty white boys, an opening guitar riff with just enough fuzz tone and reverb to let listeners know their music cut deeply, Heart Full of Soul lamented love lost with a vague hope she would take him back again.
“Yeah they may have a heart full of soul but the Godfather of Soul is here to tell you that Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.” Count Rockula jumped up and performed every dance that Brown called out. By the time he sat down, his shirt was drenched with more than the summertime humidity.
“Phew. That song is a workout and half. This next one is dedicated to Francine from Tony. You Were on My Mind by the We Five.
Folkies that knew the times were changing, the group used a heavy bass beat to drive their tale of having troubles and worries and a heartthrob on their mind.
A little playfulness remained in the D J. It occasionally escaped through his cynical exterior. “Time for your history lesson on English royalty, boys and girls.” He sang along with the first verse, which would cost him a $5 fine, almost a twentieth of that week’s pay. “Hope I was in tune with Herman’s Hermits, who think they’re Henry the Eighth.”
“Sorry, Count, but you were at least a half note off.” Stanley shook his head and pointed at his radio.
“Here’s some Ohio boys begging their girl to hang on.”
Before he could sing along on the air, the engineer cut off his mike so the Count sang to an audience of one as he begged and wailed “Hang on Sloopy” over and over. “That was the McCoys, real down to earth boys who know how to make noise.”
He grabbed his cola for a swallow of it to loosen his constricted throat. “Here’s a dedication from Mary to Arnold. She believes in magic and is casting a spell on her guy.
The Lovin’ Spoonful’s Do You Believe in Magic? beamed the magic of young girls’ hearts toward their boyfriends. But would they get the message?
“All right, folks, here’s The Miracles with The Tracks of My Tears, which brings the Count’s Hot 14 to an end, brought to you by Honest Sam’s Autoland. He has a ’56 Chevy for only $999, a ’58 Thunderbird for $1299, and a ’61 Buick with low, low miles for only $1599. Deal with Sam, all the rest are a scam.”
After the news at the top of the hour, the DJ introduced a local band. “We have in our studios today The Reverberators. How’s it going, boys?”
“Cool, man.”
“Groovy.”
“Boss.”
“It’s so good to be here. We—”
“Yeah. Okay. So where’s your next gig at?”
“We’re playing a back to school dance next Saturday.”
“You guys seem to be getting pretty well known.”
“Yeah. We play dances in the next state too now. We’re on the road so much we need to hire us some roadies.”
Meant as a boast, the mention of roadies made Dan jump to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Stanley ran after him to Dan’s 1958 American Motors two-door sedan. “Where we going?”
“To get jobs.”
Dan and Stanley pulled into the radio station’s parking lot as the five Reverberators were exiting the concrete block building.
“Who’s in charge?” Dan yelled as he slammed his car door.
The group’s lead guitar player and manager stepped forward. “That would be me. You got a gig for us?”
“No. We’re here to be your roadies.”
“Huh? Look, I was only joking.” He turned toward a station wagon crammed with drums, amplifiers, and guitar cases. The biggest amps were tied to the roof rack.
“You hire us and I can get you a trailer to haul your stuff around in. I know a man who will even put a hitch on your wagon for free.” Dan pointed at its rear bumper. “You don’t want your amps getting wet in some thunderstorm.”
“Sounds good, Bobby. It’s way too crowded in there.” The drummer said as he pointed at the car and the rest of the band nodded.
The leader looked at the two applicants. “Okay. You get $5 each for each dance. But you have to load up the equipment, unload it and set it up and then tear it down afterwards. Deal?” He stretched out his hand.
“Deal.”
As the new roadies drove home to boast of their jobs, the Count spun a new record for the first time. “Here’s the Dave Clark Five’s latest hit.” By the second chorus, Stanley and Dan were singing along. Anything seemed possible.
“Catch us if you can…”
Chapter 26
Jason graciously lent his trailer to the neophyte roadies and welded a hitch for it to the band’s station wagon. Logistics were dictated by Bobby so the roadies and rhythm guitar player traveled in the station wagon; the other members of the Reverberators arrived at show time in a car borrowed from one of their parents. The rhythm guitarist complained.
“You know why Bobby stuck me with you two guys?” Chris stared out through the window.
“No.” Dan turned down the radio as they traveled to Joslinberg, a city three times the size of Madisin for a Battle of the Bands.
“Because we don’t get along. He calls it creative differences. I say it’s because he’s a jerk.”
“I think it’s cause you can sing and he can’t.” Stanley nodded. “He don’t harmonize too good.”
Chris shook his head. “You have more talent than him and me put together, Stanley. Where’d you learn to sing?”
“I don’t know. I just like listening to the radio and Mama likes listening to me sing so I’ve been doing it as long as I remember.”
The tension between Bobby and Chris ended a week later during a rehearsal.
“You’re not coming in on the down beat.” Bobby yelled at Chris. “Let’s start over from the top.” He counted off a beat as Chris unplugged his guitar. “What are you doing?”
“Quitting.”
“You can’t do that. You’re the lead singer.”
“I’m tired of playing cover songs from the Top 40. I’m tired of you not letting us write our own songs. But most of all I’m tired of you. Good-bye.”
The next hour was spent by the four remaining Reverberators arguin
g on who to get as a replacement lead singer. Then Dan and Stanley arrived to load the equipment for a dance that night. An earphone with a cord allowed Stanley to sing along with the muted radio in his jeans’ pocket.
“Let’s hire Stanley.” The drummer pointed a drumstick at him.
“But he can’t play guitar.”
“We don’t need a rhythm guitar. Terry’s bass and my drums are enough rhythm.”
“Okay, okay.” Bobby shrugged. “Let’s run through Louie Louie. Stanley, sing into this mike. Ready?” He counted off a beat and hit the song’s first chord, which sounded like a cat’s scream after having its tail stepped on.
After Stanley had hit every note perfectly, Bobby grinned. “I don’t believe it. Stanley, you want to be our new lead singer?”
“I can’t. I’m afraid of people.”
Terry pulled off his sunglasses and positioned them on Stanley’s face. “There. Now you won’t see the audience.”
“But…but I can still see.”
Terry grabbed them back and stepped next to his dad’s collection of paint cans, neatly arranged in a corner of the garage. He sprayed a fine mist of black paint from a can to coat the lenses and then placed them back on Stanley. “How’s that?”
“I can’t see.”
“Great. Let’s pretend he’s blind like Ray Charles. We can lead him around by his arm.”
Stanley made his debut fifty miles from Madisin in the next state. The band ran through their current set list for Jasonville High School’s Junior/Senior Prom, playing covers of: Gloria, Time Won’t Let Me, When a Man Loves a Woman, Double Shot of My Baby’s Love, Dirty Water, Barbara Ann, 19th Nervous Breakdown, Fever, I’m a Man, See See Rider, Turn Turn Turn, Psychotic Reaction, Bus Stop, 96 Tears, Black Is Black, I Fought the Law, and some slower Buddy Holly, early Beatles, and Ricky Nelson songs for the slow dances. To Stanley, $20 for a couple hours of singing was a lot of money. He reveled in his new fame and fortune.
***
Jimbo stewed over Stanley’s popularity until his envy turned to hatred. He waited until the object of his wrath was walking home from school to ambush him.
“Hey, Stanley. I heard your band is called The Retards now.”
Stanley ignored him.
“Everyone knows Dr. Graves fixed your mom so she can’t have any more dumb kids like you.”
Day of the Bomb Page 20
