A while back I was on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in an extensive 1950s Birth of Rock ‘n’ Roll retrospective series. A lot of those reviews had been driven by the artwork which graced the covers of each CD, both as catalyst to stir ancient memories and as a reflection on that precise moment in time, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may have been, to the themes of those artwork scenes. One such 1959 cover showed a case of the latter, not fitting into such a scene by me. On this particular cover, a summer scene (always a nice touch since that was the time, school’s out for the summer, when we had at least the feel of our generational jail breakout before autumn prisons), two sun-bleached, muscular, blondish perfect wave surfer guys, brightly colored surf boards in tow, perfect wave-waiting checking out the scene. The scene, the checking out part, at the beach naturally, and the only scene that mattered whether like them you fit in, or like me, not, involved seeing who was who among the hot bikini-clad girls (also on jail-break time) who to name my beach scene, eternally, sat on their collective blankets between the Olde Saco Yacht Club and the Seal Rock Boat Club waiting, well, waiting to be checked out by those guys, ah, those guy who fit in (all others, all beatniks, nerds, geeks, dweebs, shys, acne-encrusted, call your not fit in shot name, go up to lame Olde Saco Pier or over to Perkins Cove and fish, play skee ball at the amusement park, watch the waves go in and out, or, hey, just disappear).
That scene, that hot bikini-clad girls scene collectively blanketed, although not pictured (except a little background fluff to inform you that you are at the beach, the summer youth beach and no other, certainly not the tortuous family beach scene with its lotions, luggage, lawn chairs, lunches, and longings, longings to be elsewhere in early teen brains at those Olde Saco Pier and Perkins Cove locales of my youth), could, frankly, only mean checking out the babes, girls, chicks, or whatever you called them in that primitive time before we called them sister, and woman. No question too that this whole scene was nothing but a California come hinter scene, as against my hardened eastern seaboard hale winds and hearty fellows scene except about six week in July-August . No way that it had the look of Eastern pale-face beaches, family or youth-driven. This scene was nothing but early days California dreamin’ cool hot days and cooler hot nights with those dreamed bikini girls.
Wait up. These perfect wave –waiting guys, all cool and collected, and maybe already dated up for the next week and just, well, just being perfect-wave-waiting guys staying in practice ,were, however, no question just flat-out “beach bums.” No way that they were serious surfer guys, certainly not Tom Wolfe’s LaJolla Pump House gang where those corn-fed sons and grandsons of Okie/Arkie migrations then with disposable teen incomes and time on their hands surfers lived for the perfect wave, and nothing else better get in the way. For such all day (and all night too if the tides flows dictated) activity one needed rubberized surf suits complete with all necessary gear. And the girls? Well, yah, girls fit in, sitting on that same beach waiting for their surfer guys to find that perfect wave and scream out all oohs, and ahhhs. But also “civilians” don’t even think off talking (although looking was okay, even surfer-sworn girls needed to practice their teaser arts) down at Lookout Point section reserved, strictly reserved, So, in short, these cover guys are “faux” surfers. Whether that was enough, whether the times were desperate enough for the “faux” to have their day, to draw the attention of those bikini-shes not pictured that they are unquestionable checking out I will leave to the reader’s imagination.
As for the music, the 1959 music, that backed up this summer scene we were clearly in a trough, the golden age of rock, with the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis kissing his cousin, with Elvis in the tank, and with Chuck Berry messing with the Mister’s women too much was fading, fading fast into what I can only describe as the age of “bubble gum” music (and the age of “faux” surfers as well, so maybe those guys were onto something). Sure I listened to it, listened to it hard against my ear on my old transistor radio, mainly because that was all that was presented to us. It was to be a while until the folk (folk minute, anyway), folk rock (later and longer), British invasion (read: Beatles and Stones as leaders), and free expression rock (read: drug-induced acid rock, flaming night strobe beam dreams and crashes too) engulfed us. This was the time of our marking time , as the music attested to (and those golden boys made their mickey mouse moves while beautiful black chino pant-flannel shirt-work boot-beret 24/7/365 midnight sunglass clad “beats” were shunted off to not fit in Olde Saco Pier skee ball shoot-out hells).
There were, however, some stick-outs that have withstood the test of time. They included: La Bamba, Ritchie Valens; Dance With Me, The Drifters; You’re So Fine (great harmony),The Falcons; Tallahassee Lassie (a favorite then at the local school dances by an eastern seaboard beach boy who made good), Freddy Cannon; Mr. Blue (another great harmony song and the one, or one of the ones, anyway that you hoped, hoped to distraction, that they would play for the school dance last dance), The Fleetwoods; and, Lonely Teardrops, Jackie Wilson (a much underrated singer, then and now, including by this writer after not hearing that voice for a while).
Note: After a recent trip to the Southern California coast I can inform you that those two cover boy surfer guys are still out there and are still checking out the scene, or the ghost of that scene with those same bikini blankets. Although, reality check, that scene for them now is solely the eternal search for the perfect wave complete with full rubberized suit and gear. No artist would now, or at least I hope no artist would, care to rush up and draw them. For now these brothers have lost a step, or seven, lost a fair amount of that beautiful bongo hair, and have added, added believe me, very definite paunches to bulge those rubberized surfer suits all out of shape. Ah, such are the travails of the baby-boomer generation. Good luck though, brothers.
