from the speaker cabinet and perched on top. It made for easier cartage and more flexibility.
We made our grand debut.
When we hit the Berwyn Recreation Center (known as “The Rec”), we gave our hard sell to the director, Fritz Ploegman.
“Well boys, I’d like to have you play our Saturday night dance, but of course, you’d have to ‘donate your services.’” That’s not the last time we would hear that phrase from countless teen center managers and club owners.
These performances went really well. I remember the kids dancing, frugging, ponying, and twisting to our repertoire, which included hits by the Beatles and The Ventures. We also covered “Bad Motorcycle” and “I’ve Had It” by the Crestones.
Then there was our selection of Beach Boys songs, which offered us a good excuse to show off our emerging harmonies. We did “Fun, Fun, Fun,” “409,” and “Surfin’ Safari.” Then we’d cut loose with “Carhop,” by the Exports, “Land of 1,000 Dances,” by Cannibal and the Headhunters, and even a cover of the Chiffons’ hit “He’s So Fine” (changed to “She’s So Fine”—we loved singing that “doo lang, doo lang, doo lang” hook in three-part harmony!).
We even started sneaking some of our originals into the set: The Ventures-inspired “Corruption” and “Torque Out” (“I’ll get the car, you buy the gas, I’ll bring the girls…Torque Out!”).
After starting out with a wicked snare drum rim shot, I intoned the first song’s ominous hook, “Corruption.” Then Bob Bergland took over with the “Peter Gunn”–inspired bass line. I continued our Ventures homage by adding the twangy lead on my sunburst Jazzmaster.
Time flew by. I became a freshman, and the other guys became sophomores. After being Boy of the Year in eighth grade I was now demoted to nerd boy of the year—at the bottom of the food chain at Morton West High School. When I couldn’t find my algebra class on the very first day of school, I slid into the class on my ass, ten minutes late. I had my slick new leather-soled shoes and the floors had just been waxed. “Nice entrance, Mr. Peterik,” intoned the old Mrs. Buddeke. “Now find your way down to the dean’s office for a detention!”
That same day as I stood saying my name in the gym class lineup, Coach Regan silently came over to me and handed me a pink slip of paper. “Should be in girls PE. Take it down to the dean’s office for a detention!” he bellowed. My hair was only slightly longer than the guys around me, but too long for the coach. I was batting two for two on my first day of high school.
Fortunately The Shondels started playing the sock hops after the basketball games at Morton West. In fact, we proudly became the official sock hop band. It was called a “sock hop” because the kids were asked to remove their shoes so they wouldn’t scuff up the gymnasium floor.
The performing was great, but, gradually, tensions were brewing during rehearsal. Bob Erhart’s father was becoming a major pain in the ass. There were never enough drums in the mix for Mr. Erhart and his beloved son.
“You’re drowning him out with bass and guitars!” he bitterly complained.
After every set, right on cue, he would chide, “Too much bass! Too much bass! I can’t hear the vocals, can’t hear the drums!”
Our resident Achilles heel would go on and on, night after night. He went from being an irritating paper cut to becoming an oozing incision. But beyond that, we started to notice something else—Bob Erhart was not really getting the new beat of the modern day songs. To him, the bass drum was four on the floor, boom, boom, boom, boom.
Mr. Erhart’s coddled son just didn’t get the whole boom-boom boom thing, at all. After putting all the negatives together, Bob Bergland, Larry Millas, and I converged at Larry’s house one afternoon to scan the phone book for the number of a drummer in Mr. Boker’s grade school band, of which we were all a part (I played sax, Larry played percussion, and Bob played clarinet). This Mike Borch guy, whom we had all noticed, was really on the ball and knew how to smack that snare drum in band practice.
We scanned the pages, “Borchard,” “Borchart,” “Borch!” We struck gold. He answered right away. After we convinced him to audition, we gave him the directions to what Larry called his “big ritzy house.” It was a magnificent place built in the early ’50s on a double-wide lot. It was located on the upscale Riverside Drive in Berwyn. We even put up a sign in front boasting, “Big Ritzy House” so Mike couldn’t miss it!
When the day came, Mike’s audition song was “Game of Love” by Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders. We had recently tried out this song with Bob Erhart, and it had been a total disaster. But on this day, I counted it off and Mike proceeded to play it exactly like the record. Boom, crack, boom-boom. Heaven! Smiles were exchanged around the room and we welcomed Mike Borch into The Shondels.
The Shondels and I used to frequent Chicago’s music row, taking the ‘L’ train downtown from Cicero, and then getting off at Wabash. We would bug all the music store proprietors by asking questions, and then we would beg permission to plug their guitars into amplifiers. These outings also allowed us to observe the burgeoning Chicago music scene as other real musicians plugged in and jammed in the music rooms of Lyon & Healy Music, The Guitar Gallery, or Kagan & Gaines.
We rehearsed every chance we got. We bought sharp, matching red sweaters for our upcoming shows. We rehearsed in Larry’s basement. At breaks, we’d shoot pool on Larry’s dad’s professional table. Dr. Millas was the beloved town physician. He was known for bartering loaves of bread and bushels of tomatoes and unsold shirts for delivering a baby or setting an arm if the family didn’t have the means. Everyone in Berwyn and Cicero knew and loved the kindly Dr. Millas.
Early on, we played a variety show at Piper Elementary, our alma mater. We were the only musical act among dancers, comics, and jugglers. We wowed the audience in those red cardigans.
Flush with victory, we walked back to Larry’s house a few blocks away. Unfortunately, we got so distracted goofing off and playing pool that we forgot to go back and take the final curtain call with all of the other acts. We learned a lot about becoming professionals that day, and about avoiding fancy distractions—like shooting pool.
Fortunately, we exercised a little more discipline the next time around. On our first professional gig we opened for a fashion show at Morton East High School. Again, we all wore our signature red sweaters and collectively sweated under the spotlights as the houselights dimmed. Soon, the spot zeroed in on me. I sang:
“When I was just a little boy / I asked my mother, ‘what shall I be?’
‘Will I be handsome, will I be rich?’ Here’s what she said to me.”
My folksy rendition of “Que Sera, Sera” was then rudely interrupted by the sharp crack of the snare drum.
“You ain’t nothing but a hound dog!
Crockin’ all the time!”
I sang it “crockin’” because that’s what it sounded like when Elvis sang the song. Years later I found out he was saying “cryin.’”
The audience roared their approval! That was a defining moment for me. I heard my voice echo through the wonderful acoustics of the Chodl Auditorium. The Shondels were bringing down the house! We were on our way.
Emboldened by the crowd response and our raging teenage hormones, we entered
