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CHAPTER 1

The rental car, for the moment, was just a speck in the distance, and things this wonderful are not supposed to happen in a man's life.

I caught sight of the car when it was maybe a hundred yards away, its tires kicking up big clouds of brown dust on the rutted and narrow dirt road by the side of the crowd of forty thousand people.

From where I stood on the stage, the car, and the dirt access road, were to my left. The sun was just starting to dip; the people in the crowd, in their shorts and T-shirts and bikini tops at the end of a broiling June day near the banks of the swollen-almost-to-overflowing Ohio River, were on their feet and dancing to our music. We were singing "Barbara Ann"— . . . Ba-ba-ba, Ba-Barbara Ann, Ba-ba-ba, Ba-Barbara Ann. . . — and the people out in the audience were singing right along with us, forty thousand voices joining ours, and that's when I first saw the car.

There was a chance that Chuck Berry was inside.

And I found myself hoping against hope that he wasn't.

That's why I'm telling you this — to give you some idea of the extent of the joy.

I was hoping that Chuck Berry wasn't in the car because if he was, it would mean that we would have to leave the stage.

The others onstage hadn't noticed the car yet. Maybe they weren't looking for it; maybe I'm the only one who for whatever reason always seems to have one eye constitutionally searching for trouble. But the others — Jan, Dean, the four guys who in addition to me were backing up Jan and Dean — were unaware of the car, drawing closer with each passing second.

We had been told that Chuck was an apparent no-show. That's why we were up here and singing for the second time today. Not that we minded. It had been an afternoon so bright, so warm, so awash in beginning-of-summer sun that no amount of time on the stage was going to feel like enough, no number of songs were going to feel sufficient. An early-June afternoon bursting with the promise of summer days and summer nights to come, one of those afternoons that fills you with the illusion that against all odds you can be a kid again — that you can get back summer as summer had existed when the music you were singing right now had been brand-new, when you had been brand-new yourself.

But when you had been brand-new yourself, in a world that had felt constantly new, you could not have conceived of ever standing on the same patch of land as Chuck Berry, of ever breathing the same air, never mind hoping that a car just entering your line of sight did not carry him inside.

After we had first played earlier in the afternoon and had finished our set, we had been in the backstage area having ribs and sandwiches and beer while some of the other acts on the bill — Sam the Sham, Little Eva, the Marcels — had performed. As we had been getting ready to go back to our hotel we could see that the promoters were getting jittery. They had been whispering among themselves; clearly something was wrong.

What had been wrong was Chuck Berry — the absence of Chuck Berry. He had been signed to be the headliner — he was supposed to close the show. But he hadn't appeared, and no one had been able to find out where he might be. The promoters had made some calls and had been told that Berry had apparently missed all of that day's flights out of St. Louis; he had not been in contact with them, and it was nearing his time to be onstage.

So the promoters had hurriedly called Dean Torrence aside and conferred with him. They had asked if Jan and Dean would do a second set to close the show, and Dean had said yes, and thus here we were.

And there, to the left of the sea of bare, sunburned arms that were waving in the southern Ohio air as we sang, was the car, moving toward us, and I could see through its windshield that it contained only one person: the driver.

He hit the brakes and brought it to a halt directly to the side of the stage, throwing one last billow of thick dirt toward the sky. He opened his door and stepped out.

Chuck Berry.

Dean Torrence was in the midst of his falsetto — he always loved singing this song, he was in his fifties now and sometimes there were songs, I could tell, that he sang just because the audience expected him to sing them, songs he just as well could have done without, but this wasn't one of them, he never seemed to tire of it — and he was singing Oh, Barbara Ann, take my hand, and I thought I should let him know.

Why I had to be the bearer of these particular bad tidings, I'm not certain. He was going to find out anyway, soon enough. No one was making me do it. But then, no one was making me be here in the first place.

I let my right elbow nudge Dean's left arm, careful not to hit his lime-green Stratocaster as I did it, and he looked over at me, not breaking his vocals — ... you got me rockin' and a-rollin' — and I motioned with my head to the area below the stage.

Chuck Berry had walked around to the rear of his rental car, and now he popped open the trunk and pulled out his battered guitar case.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky, but invisible clouds covered Dean's eyes as soon as he saw what I was seeing.

The others in the band weren't aware of it yet, weren't aware that our day — the glory part of it — was about to abruptly end. They were still singing — ... tried Peggy Sue but I knew she wouldn't do. . . — some of them making eye contact with women in the first few rows of the crowd, and they didn't know.

Chuck Berry climbed a short flight of metal stairs until he was on the stage, to the side of the drum kit and behind the equipment crates so he was hidden from the audience. Singing, I wheeled in his direction, just wanting to take in the moment. There was that skinny, sharply angled face of his, a mirror reflecting all the aspects of the lifetime he had led: rough-edged, angry, incarcerated, uncompromising, suspicious, solitary, profane, stubborn....

Went to a dance, lookin' for romance....

I sang the words, and he caught my gaze, and I couldn't help it, I burst out laughing, this was too much, this was too great. What are the chances that this could ever happen? What are the chances that the day will ever come when even though you're not much of a singer at all, you're singing in front of forty thousand people, you're singing the songs you grew up loving with a band you grew up loving, guys who, deep into your life and theirs, have against all probability become some of your best friends in the world, guys with whom you perpetually travel America in the hopes of finding the best parts of summer again....

What are the chances that you'll be singing a song in the June heat, and that even as your voice booms out of the speaker towers and sails into tens of thousands of ears, your eyes will be looking into the eyes of Chuck Berry, and he'll be watching and listening? How can such a moment ever come to pass?

I knew this would be it for the day; I put as much as I could into the vocals, because I understood, with Chuck on the skirt of the stage now, it would be ending for us.

At least for today, it would. But there would be others: day after day after summer day. That was the gift.

The seven of us at the front of the big wooden stage sang it one last time: Ba-ba-ba, Ba-Barbara Ann....

I was still half turned so I could see the wings, and Chuck Berry shot me one of those cold and wary Chuck Berry squints that meant: What are you looking at?

And I thought: Don't you know? I'm looking at you, Chuck. I'm looking at you.

... saw Barbara Ann and I thought I'd take a chance....

I decided to take my own chance. So as I sang the words I smiled in his direction and nodded my head in time to the music.

And Chuck Berry, after a flicker of hesitation, returned my grin, and nodded back, and, with his eyes locked on mine, for a few brief seconds he sang along.

There were moments, moments like that, when it seemed the gifts would never stop.

There must have been a time in American life when people really did run away to join the circus.

That was always the phrase — the shorthand slogan to describe the ultimate fantasy. Slip out the window and sprint away from home in the middle of the night, follow the Big Top as it is torn down and moves from city to city, jump on the circus train and ride it wherever the voyage may lead.

It was always spoken about as the kind of dream a child would have — it didn't sound like something for grownups to long for. The dreams of adults were supposed to be more responsible, considerably more staid. Weren't they?

To chase that circus when you are no longer a kid, when notions like this aren't supposed to even occur to you anymore — to follow the sounds of the calliope just when life, by all measures, is scheduled to be turning gray and grim and stolid — is an option that is presumed to be lost to you.

But in the middle of a person's life, or so it turns out, it is possible to find that feeling. Because just when we think we have given up on ever capturing again the freedom and the exhilaration and the blithesome mornings of our world when it was first forming; just when we have begun to settle in for the long, slow slide; just when the sun begins to feel not quite so high in the sky....

Sometimes something happens to keep the sun up there a while longer. Sometimes we find something we weren't even aware we were looking for.

If we're very lucky, we run to catch up with it before it has the chance to leave us behind.

It started simply enough.

Someone picked up a paperback book in an airport.

I found this out when, in the middle of a stack of letters in the Chicago newspaper office where I was working, I came upon one addressed to me with a Panorama City, California, postmark.

I didn't think I knew anyone from there. I opened the envelope; the letter was from a guy who said his name was Gary Griffin.

He'd bought a book of mine called Be True to Your School, he wrote; just something to read on the plane.

Be True to Your School, a nonfiction book based on a diary I had kept in 1964, when I had been a teenager in central Ohio, had been written in the form of the diary itself: a journal divided into 366 days (1964 had been a leap year).

Gary Griffin said that he had been especially interested in the entry from April 11 — the first paragraph of that day's entry:

Saturday. Dan and Jack and I went downtown; at Lazarus I bought two records — "The New Girl in School" by Jan and Dean, and "I Am The Greatest" by Cassius Clay. We cruised most of the afternoon.

In his letter, Griffin wrote that although he enjoyed the book, that wasn't the reason he was getting in touch. He was a musician by trade — a rock-and-roll keyboard player. Specifically, he made his living as part of Jan and Dean's touring band.

It was 1992 when I received that letter; I was forty-five years old.

That's just how quickly your life can change. You distractedly rip open one envelope from a pile of many, and even though you have no idea at the time, nothing will ever be the same.

They had been California idols — about as far from our landlocked and humdrum existence in the middle of Ohio as anyone ever could have been.

Jan and Dean — their blended voices coming out of our car radios day and night — sang of high surf and competition hot rods, of beautiful girls and endless West Coast summers. They were golden — literally. They had the look, the million-selling records, the flashy swagger; their lives, we knew without ever having to think about it for even a second, were everything that our lives weren't. We'd struggle to wakefulness on a subzero Ohio morning, our alarm radios clicking to life before the sun had come up, reminding us that another dreary day of school awaited ... and before we could open our eyes, their voices were already coming at us, with the effect of a friendly taunt:

Oh she's my Honolulu Lulu, she's my Honolulu Lulu, Queen of the surfer girls....

Jan and Dean and their buddies, the Beach Boys, would sing their songs, and it never had to be said out loud: what they had was what we wanted. Not that we resented them; far from it. Listening to their music, we could feel, at least for three minutes, that we were them. It wasn't a matter of pretending — there was no delusion involved. It was more like they were inviting us along for the ride. A Jan and Dean record would come on the radio, and with its high harmonies, its whining, urgent beat — like an exquisitely calibrated top-horsepower car engine — it would allow us into that world. There wasn't an ocean within five hundred miles of us. It didn't matter.

Jan and Dean's signature song — their first Number One hit — was "Surf City," and I can tell you exactly where I was the first time I heard it:

In my father's Thunderbird, backing out of Dave Frasch's driveway on Roosevelt Avenue in our hometown of Bexley, Ohio. We were on our way to a late-spring junior tennis tournament at Ohio State University, where, as high school sophomores, we were competing. I'd just gotten my driver's license; my dad, on a Saturday, had let me borrow his car.

The radio was tuned to WCOL, the local rock station, and Jan and Dean's voices — mingled falsettos in the leadoff phrase — blared out of the dashboard:

Two girls for every boy....

Before they could sing another word, it was already obvious: this was going to be the song of the summer ahead. Some records sound so good, so right, that they announce themselves as anthems the first second you hear them. They speed up everything inside of you, they thrill you, they — although you would be embarrassed to admit it — make you glad. You don't comment — you merely reach for the knob and turn up the volume.

I got a thirty-four wagon and we call it a woodie....

Surf City, here we come. That was the promise of the song. They were going to Surf City, where it was "two to one" — where every boy could count on two willing girls, could count on mountainous blue-and-white towering waves, could count on parties every night. Not only were there "two swingin' honeys for every guy," but "all you gotta do is just wink your eye."

The song — the pure, soaring sound of it, the electric insistence of the beat, the cocksure voices airlifted from the hot sand near the Pacific Ocean directly to where we were sitting in Franklin County, Ohio — was inebriating. Every season or so, back then, a song like that would come along: a song you knew would dominate the soundtrack of your life for months. It was the song you would wish for, every moment behind the wheel — the one song you hoped the disc jockey would decide to play.

In the summer of 1963, "Surf City" was that song, all across America. By going to Number One with "Surf City," Jan and Dean won their southern California competition with the Beach Boys; the Beach Boys, at that point, had never had a Number One hit. A top-of-the-charts single, in those years, had a bigger audience than the best-selling book of a given year, than the biggest movie of that year — by the nature of a Number One song's distribution, floating for free out of all those radios, it became part of the very atmosphere, as constant as the air itself. So it was for "Surf City" that summer.

... and when we get to Surf City we'll be shootin' the curl, and checkin' out the parties for a surfer girl....

Jan and Dean had hit after hit — "The New Girl in School," "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena," "Dead Man's Curve," "Honolulu Lulu," "Ride the Wild Surf," "Sidewalk Surfin'," "Drag City" — and then the Beach Boys eventually caught up with them and soon enough surpassed them; the Beatles came along, and then the Rolling Stones, and meanwhile those of us who merely listened went on with our own lives, even as the everlasting car-radio symphony shifted seamlessly between different voices, different sounds.

It was big news for a day or two in 1966 when Jan Berry had the very car accident that, two years before, he had sung about in "Dead Man's Curve":

... Well, the last thing I remember, Doc, I started to swerve....

He hadn't literally swerved — he smashed straight into the back of a truck parked on a California street. In his Corvette, Jan Berry had been driving at a foolhardy and frightening rate of speed. The police officers who first got to the scene believed that he was dead.

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Excerpted from "When We Get to Surf City"
by .
Copyright © 2008 John Deadline Enterprises, Inc..
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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