Day of the Bomb (27 page)

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
h
eart 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.

Five dirty white English boys who wore mod
clothes used their lyrics to taunt any who dared to catch them, if
they could. Their attitudes had infected the two boys from
small-town America and millions of others worldwide.

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 arguing 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, 19
^th
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.”