While I was shopping for back-to-school stuff at the downtown Hudson’s Bay Company department store one Saturday in September, I lucked upon a performance by Terry Jacks & The Chessmen who were set up in the boys wear department. They had a big hit locally with an instrumental titled, Meadowlands, which featured their guitarist Guy Sobell. They played some really great rock & roll and put a charge into the huge crowd packed into the store. Standing there with my little bags of socks and shirts and corduroys, I realized how stimulated I was. Seeing this done on television was one thing but, live and in person, I understood that it could be done and done well even here in my home town.
By this time some of us had started to stop using gloop in our hair. This simple process caused the hair to fall naturally and made it appear suddenly longer. This was a serious issue at Sir Winston Churchill High School. Our Principal was a Rhodes Scholar and a severe disciplinarian. Shortly after The Beatles’ first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, a senior at school named Brian, had arrived in class sporting a Beatles’ haircut or, his regular hair without a-little-dab'll-do-ya. He was sent home and told not to return until he had a proper hairstyle. This story made the front page of the Vancouver newspaper with a quote from our Principal in which he said, “We don’t want anything outlandish here that would cause undue giggling and silliness in class.” He was obviously ill prepared for what was about to happen.
When I pulled the same stunt, the same thing happened to me. This was the first shot in a sociological war that waged at Churchill, and at other schools, for the next five years. It wasn’t just about hair. It was about freedom ... and, there was an entire dress code at stake!
Then there was the matter of smoking. In 1964 every person on the planet smoked cigarettes. People smoked everywhere; if you were seeing your doctor he might light up a snipe right there in his office. I had begun smoking around the age of twelve and contributed my fair share of toxic fumes into the immediate environment. At Churchill, students were forbidden from smoking within a block of the school. This was a definite violation of my basic human right to inhale poisonous tar if I wanted to. Something had to be done about all this and it would all start with hair. There would be many casualties but it was a war that had to be fought, and I was willing to fight at the front.
After my disastrous first attempt at playing music, I had retreated to the small den of my parent’s house where I set up my cymbal and snare drum in private. I had no one to play with so I put The Beatles’ Please Please Me on the Hi-Fi and matched drummer, Ringo Starr, as close as I could on the cymbal and snare over and over and over again. It’s a good thing my mother was out of the house working as a secretary at that time or she might have closed down my show long before I could get it out on the road.
At Christmas that year my drum kit expanded to include a floor tom. I should have added a bass drum but I didn‘t know any better and wouldn‘t have known what to do with it anyway. My record collection also grew with the addition of two new Beatles’ albums, Beatlemania - With The Beatles (which was actually The Beatles first Canadian release in 1963, but came to me second) and Long Tall Sally (both titles released in Canada on Capitol Records) and two albums by The Rolling Stones titled, The Rolling Stones, and 12 X 5, (both released on London Records).
Even though it would be Ringo who would shape my eventual style as a drummer, those early Stones albums were to be profoundly influential on my overall musical taste, especially songs like the raw and sexual, King Bee, the crude and powerful, Not Fade Away, and an instrumental track titled, 2120 South Michigan Avenue, in tribute to the legendary Chicago blues recording studio at Chess Records, where 12 X 5 was recorded (and named after the recording company’s address).
As 1964 came to an end I was ensconced in Grade Nine and pretty much a loner. I had had two best friends as a kid. Michael was a year older and Kenny was a year younger. I had been close to both pals but we had never really been a trio. Mostly, I played with one or the other. For most of my childhood I was practically adopted into Mike’s family. I spent almost all of my pre-teen summers at their country cottage near Ferndale in Washington State. When Mike graduated into high school a year ahead of me, he dumped me. And, when I entered high school a year ahead of Kenny, I dumped him. There were a few guys that I hung out with but, for the most part, I watched a lot of television.
There certainly were no girls in my life, at least not real girls, but there was no shortage of alone-under-the-sheets imaginary action. All I had to do was visualize the womanly shape of my young French teacher, or the flash of a knee of the cute little girl in Math class or Elly May Clampett in those tight, frayed jeans she wore on the Beverly Hillbillies, and I’d be popping off all night long.
Chapter Two 1965
As my ninth school year plodded on into 1965 I still had no reason to believe that the high-risk, adventurous life that I had envisioned for myself would ever actually happen. Then, everything happened at once.
In January, driven by that magical force that thrusts the sexes together, a healthy specimen of a teenage girl, named Marsha, took a liking to me. I had shot up to about six feet and had dropped all of the chubbiness, but I remained painfully shy and far from being any kind of a prize in the looks department. Still, Marsha gave me her school photo with the inscription, 'to a very sweet boy' and I thought I was Casanova. One day, at school, driven by hormonal excretions I knew nothing about, I plucked up the courage to pat her hips. This was the first time that I had touched a girl with even the most innocuous sexual intent. It was done subtly, as if by accident, but it sent a charge straight between my legs. Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care, or maybe she accepted my impertinent but innocent advance. I got away with it and hungered for more. I rushed home to my room and indulged in a fantasy-frenzy. After that, every time I heard Shirley Ellis, sing Marsha‘s name:
Marsha
Marsha bo Barsha,
Banana Fanna fo Farsha
Fe Fy mo arsha, Marsha
in her hit, The Name Game, I got hard.
Churchill was a mid-sized school of about twelve hundred students. It was unusual because of the diversity of ethnic, social, religious and economic groups. There was incredible wealth on one side of Oak Street and poverty on the other. There was a large Jewish population and a balance of Catholics, WASPs and religions that I did not yet understand. It wasn't the friendliest environment. The school halls were flush with little cliques. I did not fit into any particular group but was accepted by most as a fringe player. My family situation was middle-class so I guess I was border-line with both economic groups and Marsha was Jewish so that got me in there.
For my first date, I took Marsha to a school dance in the gym. I was hoping for a chance to mount an even more brazen assault on her young womanly body. The band was one of the most popular rhythm & blues bands in Vancouver. It was called The Night Train Revue. They were a big band with a full horn section and a revolving-door of vocalists including Sy Risby, Chuck Flintroy, Billy Dixon and Miss Suzanne. I drooled over drummer, Doug Cuthbert’s green sparkle Ludwig Super Classic drum kit. The Night Train Revue came on with Ike & Tina Turner, Mary Wells, Ray Charles and more. They wore sharp suits and did steps. They were very slick and maintained a furious energy all night.
After the dance, my premeditated mauling of the nubile Marsha was never realized; not even a kiss goodnight. It was my fault. She hinted that she was willing to allow a little abstemious groping but I was so unsophisticated, I simply did not know how. I was embarrassed and humiliated by my failure. My infatuation with Marsha fizzled quickly after that. By compensation, I was invited to hang out with
