Laughter fills the halls of colleges. Girls with their latest flowered frocks. Naked smiles without lip gloss. Guys dressed in slacks, fittingly to their still growing bodies. Crisp shirts with sweaters over them. The faces of those only a mother could love.

In the dorm room on the campus of UCLA there is one such youth who is just like any other student. The color of his skin doesn’t matter. Nor do his studies or the money used to pay for his education. Jerome Michel Dagmar, a nineteen-year-old sophomore, had been shipped to college when he turned eighteen. His parents, Aluna Kasava and Kare Dagmar, wanted the best for their only child, who was born of mixed heritage. Aluna was born to a Kenyan mother and Indian father who both were doctors. She was going to become the same when her trip to England was cut short and she met a Norwegian businessman who was an investment banker, Kare Dagmar. They quickly got married but both were reluctant to have children, especially ones with mixed blood. They did everything they could in raising their son in both England and in the United States, including feeding his musical appetite with records. Lots of records. When the Beatles arrived to America, Jerome was parked in front of a television set. Then the Rolling Stones, Yardbirds and Kinks followed, not by tiptoeing into people’s hearts and minds, but rather exploding on the scene. Dirty, raucous, sexual music. Black artists had come about but he wasn’t overly enthusiastic about them, even though in part he had African blood in him. The Jackson Five never fully impressed him. Rock ’n’ roll had stolen his soul. Blaring guitars. The sounds of a harmonica being blown on, full blast. The boisterous thump of a Bo Diddley beat. Trembling chords from a guitar.

Here sits Jerome, nattily dressed like a beat poet in a black turtleneck and tan pants. The head full of black, scruffy hair. A mass that looks almost impossible to comb. His face, young and handsome, the kind of looks only mixed between cultures. His skin is a soft taupe-bronze brought on by his Norwegian-Kenyan-Indian blood. Girls could be knocking down his door for a date, but they know better. They know what Jerome is about. He is the guy with his head full of clouds and screaming guitars.

He remains on the bed, studying from a book. Then he hears a sound coming from outside his window. It perks up his ears. Quickly he bounds to his feet, leaving the book turned over and papers in a clutter on the bed. Pulling back the curtains, he sees two guys on the grass. One is strumming a guitar while the other holds a paper for his musical partner to sing. Girls clutch books to their chests. They giggle and coo at the sight. Jerome eagerly awaits the sound of the plucked chord. To him it is like smelling roses. Ah, music!

Inspired by what he sees, Jerome backs away from the window. Abandoning his studies, he picks up a Teen Beat magazine. Starry-eyed youths like himself between the pages with smiles on their faces and dreams made true. They could show their parents the physical proof that they attained their goal . . . success with something they love. Jerome wishes he could do the same. Drowning his failed aspirations, he takes an album and puts it on the turntable. He is going to drown his misery in music the way a drunk might be comforted by a bottle of alcohol. A precise and deliberate escape into another dimension of hopes and dreams brought on by an electrical fusion of passion and a cacophony of sound.

If music to Jerome Michel Dagmar is his escape from becoming a doctor, lawyer, banking businessman, or whatever he isn’t prepared to be, then music to Brendan Jenko is a lifeline and salvation from hell. Well, almost hell. Vietnam is looking a lot like hell on earth.

Brendan's vivid blue eyes peer over tall, junglelike grass, his young face painted in shades of green as camouflage among the hidden dangers. He walks slowly with the measured steps of a cat on the prowl, a machine gun perched between his temple and Marine fatigues. A belt of gold ammunition is strung loosely against his waist. He nods to a fellow soldier before walking backwards to the safety of the barracks. Sweat pours from above his darkened brows as he takes a moment to breathe once more. His colleagues sit around playing cards while he takes out a transistor radio. Here he can escape and listen to music. He grabs at the chain underneath his dark T-shirt, pulling at the small cross at the end and kissing it before easing his head against the wall. Slowly he closes his eyes.

By June of ’68, Jerome had his mind set. The Monterey Pop Festival had come and gone. The Beatles were heavily experimenting with sound. Their album, Sgt. Pepper, had skyrocketed to another stratosphere. Jimi Hendrix had made all of the boys wanting to play guitar salivate at the sight of him doing unimaginable things to a Fender Stratocaster. Cream was blazing away with a mix of intense psychedelia, jazz, and blues. The Who were literally throwing instruments around, thrashing to the delight of thousands. The Fillmore East was attracting many young viewers with a symphony of sound and spectacular art splashed in the background more vivid and exciting than a Jackson Pollock painting, called the Joshua Light Show. A young woman with innocent eyes and a sweet face opened her mouth and sang like she was possessed by the blues. Janis Joplin. Bottle of whiskey in one hand, cigarette perched between her fingers. Daring flair. Folk was fading. In its place, poet troubadour Bob Dylan had gone off to Woodstock after a motorcycle crash in ’66. Van Morrison settled in the tiny town too.

Music was everywhere and the growing feeling of breaking free was heavily on Jerome’s mind. It was time for him to explore his mission. He had enough money but no desire to follow in either of his parents’ footsteps. Summer would provide the time that he needed to decide what he wanted to do. If not that, at least to get it out of his system. Maybe he would visit Monterey, Palo Alto, and San Francisco. Then he could work his way around the country if need be.

In San Francisco at Haight-Ashbury, Jerome looks around. It’s a completely different scene than what he’s used to. Haight-Ashbury is a haven for those looking for peace. People walk around in sandals, bell-bottomed jeans, and flowing shirts. A few guys he sees have good-sized Afros. The smell of jasmine fills the air of one shop as a potential customer opens the door. Music pours out. An old man with no shoes plays a small flute with his little Yorkie dog bobbling about on the sidewalk. Two blonde girls with their hair tied back glance at Jerome. They sit at a bistro table in front of a sidewalk café, smiling at him. Awkwardly yet shyly, Jerome waves back. Walking towards the ice cream shop, he stops to take in the sights again.

Inside, Jimi Hendrix is wailing away on his Stratocaster to a group of ice cream patrons, licking in time to the beat of Mitch Mitchell’s drumming on Highway Chile. Jerome taps his foot to the music. A few hippie kids bop to the tune as they wait for their turn in line. Jerome makes his order. Sounds of yet more music are heard. When would all of this sonic glory end? Who knows? Jerome is only too happy to bask in it. Above all, this time though it isn’t psychedelic. It isn’t screaming guitars, thudding bass, or a big beat from a drummer. This time it is simplistic. A song that had been around from earlier on. Barry McGuire’s Eve Of Destruction grabs people’s attention.

Across the way at the Golden Gate Park’s panhandle is the little section affectionately known as Hippie Hill. Just as its name suggests, hippies and students look at a crowd carrying signs.

A few people chant:

“Hey! Hey! LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?”

Jerome slows down in licking his ice cream until he stops. The commotion and the scene of distress take over his consciousness. It is something he has never experienced. A protest. He had never thought he would stand at the crossroads between pop culture and politics within the confines of a town known more for its psychedelic dwellers and experimental music. Signs get heaved up. One reads, Cambodia is NEXT! The chants escalate until a young man in a suit addresses the crowd.

“OK, OK. While you have your say, I’d like to bring up a few special guests. They are soldiers.”

The crowd immediately boos.

“Now, wait! They want you to hear them. The least thing you can do is hear them out.”

One student says, “Why should we? The women and children they’ve killed. Did they have a voice?”

Cheers and claps are heard along with yells of “Yeah!”

Brendan Jenko, dressed in an unbuttoned shirt and dark T-shirt, takes to the small boxed platform. He has since grown his hair shoulder-length and sports a mustache. About to speak, he competes with the piercing loud feedback until backing away. Once it ceases he steps forth next to the stand. “Listen. I know what it’s like.”

“Booooooooooo! Boooooooooooo!”

“I wouldn’t expect you to know.”

One girl shouts, “Tell us, what does blood taste like . . . particularly of young children?”

Brendan blows out a sigh.

A young man in a white shirt and tan jacket with glasses addresses Brendan. “What are your thoughts on the issue of national independence and unification led by Stalinists? Also, what’s your take on imperialism? You know that America has no right in being there. You stick your nose in others’ business and it might get cut off.”

Brendan stands stoically. He listens with his head bowed down, rubbing his chin. Nodding back, he regains courage from the student’s questions. How is this former soldier supposed to know anything about what is going on? He has his views, and he is going to let them be known.

Jerome weaves his way through the crowd, keeping a steady gaze on the soldier.

Brendan steps up to the microphone again. His voice fades sometimes with the tone of sadness and confusion. Other times it grows strong with punches of poignancy. He points a wary finger to the crowd, specifically the woman who asked the first question.

“First, I’d like to answer the young lady. You. Over there. You asked if the women and children of Vietnam . . . if they had a voice? I’ll tell you. Never underestimate a human being with the capability to kill. Men. Women. Children. Mothers. Fathers. Brothers. Sisters. All the same. This has been nothing simple. It’s not cut and dry with a country full of men in uniform fighting on the front lines. It’s everybody. We did not know who the enemy was. I saw the most frightful sights. Children carrying live hand grenades, knives, rifles. And they weren’t afraid to use them. They were little soldiers. Mercenaries. They fought like everybody else. They knew what they were taught, like us who were shipped out. The women are no different than the men. They’re there to fight for their land too. You just wouldn’t know who to trust. Our own captain was led to his death by a boy no more than eight or nine years old. Got ambushed by a group of Vietcong and shot full of holes.”

Jerome continues to walk around. He can tell there is something about the young soldier who looks to be no older than he is. It is as if he might be on the same page as himself. Somebody on a mission. To Jerome, Brendan Jenko had dreams and aspirations of his own. Ones that were never realized. Ones that could now be free. Perhaps he too has the same thoughts.

Brendan looks over at the young man with glasses.

“The young man over there. Bookworm. I don’t know much about your egg-headed values. I didn’t study much of current history. I didn’t study much at all. Hell, I wasn’t a fantastic student. I had dreams of getting a business degree so I could do other things with my life. So, I don’t know anything about imperialism, Stalinists, or agendas made by separation or unification. I do know one thing. That’s what I saw. To me, that’s all that counts because it’s going to be something I’ll always have to live with personally. It’s what I saw through my own eyes. Not on the TV. Not on the radio or in newspapers. What I saw? They were atrocities. Unspeakable things I never thought I would see. Comrades blown to bits. Areas we thought were safe were actually a death trap. Grown men were crying like little boys. I remember a guy who I befriended in the two years I was over there. He was killed three months later. There wasn’t enough of him left to fill the body bag to ship it back for burial. Guys I saw that came in normal were sent back home only to be treated like they belonged in a junkyard. They’ll never be the same again. So, you ask me about politics and I’ll tell you there are no politics to people who never expected this.”

Everybody looks at the wary soldier. Jerome walks back the other way, in between a hippie couple. Just as Brendan looks down to choke in a swallow, he hears a voice cut above all of the crowd.

“How did you stay sane? What got you through those times?”

Brendan catches his breath and looks up with his eyes moving back and forth. It is the voice of sympathy, not of antagonizing nor stupidity. To him it is refreshing. Again he responds with confidence.

Bluntly, he says, “The music,” trying to peer over the crowd to see who had asked the questions. Brendan can’t see him but hears him. “Who . . .” The man comes into his view. Somebody young like himself. Multinational appearance, dressed like a student. Dark eyes, warm and compassionate. He smiles. Brendan smiles back.

Brendan returns to speaking with more authority from that little bit of brightness that somebody understands him. He addresses the whole crowd. “I went in the service when I was eighteen. Not by choice. I was drafted with one of two options. Either leave the U.S. and go up to Canada like a coward to avoid it, or face it like a man and be brave. If I had the chance to answer that question before I went there, I would say I’d rather be a coward. I’m not proud of what happened. For me it’s too late to think of what I can do. How I can make a change? It’s too late.”

Jerome speaks up again, “It’s not too late.”

Brendan bows his head down. A smile creeps on his face when he looks back up.

“It’s not too late,” Jerome repeats. “How would you like to grab a coffee? It’s on me, man.”

Brendan smiles warmly. “Yeah. I would like that.”

After the protest rally, Jerome and Brendan sit at a café. Brendan grouses while pouring a packet of sugar into his coffee. “I know it’s a goddamn election year. Still, there’s no reason for those other guys to stay there. No egg-headed students are going to tell me what I saw or what I went through is insignificant because of casualties. There’s always gonna be casualties in war. That’s the truth. So, they can stick their political agendas straight up their ass.” He shakes his head in disgust and then eyes Jerome. Letting out a sigh, he quietly apologizes, “Sorry. Nothin’ you need to hear.” Again he pauses to put his head down. Stirring his coffee, he remarks, “You asked me back there what got me through.”

“Yeah.”

“The music was a huge comfort for the guys. I had a little portable tape player that I would play stuff on. Mamas & the Papas, Bob Dylan, Beatles. Whatever I could find. Among all that chaos, that’s the one thing that made me breathe a little easier and made it possible for me to close my eyes when I slept. It was like a lullaby.”

“Did you ever think of doin’ anything about it when you got out?”

“Like what?” Brendan smiles before taking a sip.

“Well, you said that you wanted to get into business. Did you ever think of mixing the idea with music?”

“Become one of those business guys that run a record company or manager?”

“Actually . . . yeah.”

“You doin’ LSD or smokin’ some bad reefer, man?” Brendan smirks.

“I’m serious, man. There’s a lot of people out there who need representatives to show them that there’s other avenues out there aside from the big name labels. Look at the music we’ve had lately. Great, groovy stuff. Can you imagine what’s out there, man? I’ve been lookin’ for an opportunity like this.”

“You need money, my friend.”

Jerome looks at him, pleased by being called friend. Indeed he had found one. Just like him. An unshakable feeling of wanting to make a difference but not knowing exactly how other than musically. “That’s no problem. I have enough money.”

Brendan looks up from his cup of coffee with a slight smile and nod. He knows this guy is an unbelievable dreamer.

Jerome’s eyes slowly close as he gets his temples massaged. Getting lulled into a trance, a girl puts a rolled joint into his mouth. He sucks in, enjoying the sweetness of life. The long-tressed blonde with a leather band tied around her forehead is only too happy to accommodate Jerome. She steps away to grab a beverage for him. She then adds a little drop from an eyedropper to the edge of the cup of hot coffee. Jerome doesn’t even notice as he is too mellowed out. The girl returns with the cup of coffee and a smile on her pink lips. Getting to her knees, she releases the joint from his mouth. Inching closer to his face, she admires him. “Jerry, you remind me of Jimi.” Lightly she plays with his hair.

In a stoned haze he tells her, “You can light my fire, baby.”

She smiles and then puts the cup of coffee up to his lips. “Have some.”

Jerome takes a sip. Immediately he feels himself transported to another dimension. Blinking, he sits up more to look around. The girl’s face becomes several in a kaleidoscope vision. Little blue and yellow dots emerge from deep within his mind. Everything becomes a swirl.

Brendan takes a good look at the business cards made up. He wonders how he can pull off becoming a band manager or even know how to look for artists. A fledgling company wouldn’t be easy to get off the ground when big name record deals could snag artists for much more than he could offer. Brendan has been lucky enough to recruit a friend of his. A fellow drafted soldier named Giusseppe Costanza, better known as Zeppy.

Zeppy had no way of moving into the manufacturing business his father owned. Listening to heavy machinery would make him lose his mind. It is too much of a reminder of the machine gun fire he heard in the Vietnamese jungles. Every now and then Zeppy needs counseling at a hospital. Working with Brendan would be a thrill as he too shares a love of the music.

Brendan offers to Zeppy as he looks at the cards, “We could be a stepping stone to greater things for these bands.”

Zeppy questions his friend, “Do you honestly think Warner Bros. or Capitol would be willing to get any of these guys eventually? Everybody wants another Dylan instead.”

“That’s what we’ll give them.”

“What about bands like the Grateful Dead or Jefferson Airplane?”

“Yeah. But we need more artists like Dylan. The kind that are meaningful, not trippy.”

“Folks that are under thirty like us, right?”

“Yeah. People that are from our generation. I don’t know what Jer has in mind.”

“Jer? Who’s Jer?”

“He’s a guy . . . a young guy I met at one of the protests. You know, Zep, I could see in his eyes he was dead serious about getting into music. What motivates a guy to drop out of a good college and follow an uncertain future is beyond me. But, hey, I’m not the one with an investment banker for a father and a doctor for a mother. He’s got money . . . but still . . .” Brendan’s voice trails off.

“He quit all that?”

“Yep. For the music.”

Brendan pulls out his wallet and looks at a small stained photo.

“Zeppy, I’ve gotta go back to the East Coast.”

He presents to Zeppy a tinted photo of a blonde girl professionally dressed in a blouse and some makeup.

“Leslie Davis. That’s my girl. Met her at one of the rallies up in Utica. She works for an underground newspaper. Politic stuff. Journalism. I wanna go back, man. She’s real. As real as they get. Not to mention sweet.”

“She’s very pretty!” Zeppy muses with awe.

Several weeks pass when Brendan and Zeppy walk around next to what looks to be a flatbed truck in Schenectady, New York.

“This is the Silver Sardines gear?”

“That’s what the guy over there told me. Eugene Chandler. He’s the lead singer’s father and also looks to be the band’s manager.”

“Huh. Interesting.”

“Nobody wants them because they think they sound like all of the other kids out there.”

“We’ll just have to see.”

A female voice is heard from a short distance away. “Brendan?”

Brendan turns around to see Leslie. Quickly he races over to give her a hug.

She tells him, “I couldn’t believe when you called me and said you would be here. I had a hard time trying to find the exact park, but then I saw there was a band playin’ here. And when you said you were tryin’ to get into the music business, I figured this was the right one.” She looks directly at Zeppy. “You must be Jerome?”

“Ah, no. This is actually my other friend, Zeppy Costanza. You saw him at the rally that time. Only, I didn’t introduce him.”

Zeppy answers, “Actually, my name is Giusseppe, but folks call me Zeppy for short or if they’re not Italian.”

Leslie lets out a laugh. “Oh, OK.”

Brendan offers up, “Jerome is over in the city. He has a pretty good idea as to what he’s looking for. Something different but electric. He wants something like another Hendrix or Joplin. Jerome . . . he’s a different kind of guy. Very good though. He’s got a great heart.”

Over in Manhattan, Jerome smokes a cigarette as he scours the nightlife scene of the city. Coffeehouses offer up a bevy of upcoming folk artists. Poets read at Washington Square Park. The smell of coffee and assorted street stenches fill the air. Boutiques that are already closed mirror Jerome’s reflection as he walks by. He hears music pouring out of what looks to be a club. At the door is a colorful sign on a small chalkboard. T & Val is scrawled in vivid pink and green letters with blue swirls as if somebody had taken their cue from the graphic artists who made the posters and bills for Fillmore shows. The names sound a bit folkie to Jerome. A crowd of some seventy-five or so people clamors around the small stage. The bar itself is full of people looking on from their pints of beer.

A long-haired man steps up from behind Jerome. Jerome looks at him as he utters, “Excuse me? Who’s playin’ here tonight?”

The man answers enthusiastically, “T & Val, man. You know of Hendrix, right?”

Jerome nods back. “Yeah. I sure do.”

The hippie puts a hand on Jerome’s back. “My friend, imagine Hendrix, Big Brother and the Holding Company, the guys called Santana, and mix it up with wild shit. They are fuckin’ amazing.” He turns to face the stage, throwing out a peace sign with his fingers. “You’re fuckin’ amazing, man! Woohoo!”

The hippie disappears through the crowd, leaving Jerome very confused. T & Val. He still thinks it is a bit strange for a folkie-sounding name.

Another guy, with shorter hair and dressed in a T-shirt, tells Jerome, “Listen. If you’ve never heard this band, I strongly advise you to not stand too close to the speakers or use some tissue to stuff your ears. They are loud. Folks have been tryin’ to figure out T for a while. Sayin’ that one is possessed by rock ’n’ roll. Not Elvis or Chuck Berry either. A big Beatles fan. Plays heavy! They play some of the festivals in Central Park. From what I know, after this gig, they’re goin’ their separate ways. Damn shame. Val’s great, too. Everybody around this street, even the coffeehouses know when they’re gonna be onstage. That’s when everybody makes money.”

Just as the man is about to say more, both hear a loud screeching noise like a cat being tortured. Rather than a live animal, it’s the shrieks of a Fender Stratocaster screaming through the speakers. Jerome turns to see where or whom that sound is coming from. The audience claps and cheers. A man similar in skin color to Jerome slams away on some bongo drums. The bassist with long, brown hair chimes in with a funky rhythm. Val strums while T scampers up the fret board, making strange sounds that accompany the frenzied music and the even more frenzied crowd joyously cheering.

In the dim light, flashes of pink pulsate. Jerome’s eyes go wide. His mouth is only able to utter, “Girls.” In shock, he watches as they mop up the stage with no competition in sight. He has never heard or seen anything like this band.

At the park, Brendan, Leslie, and Zeppy watch the band onstage. Brendan is fully impressed by the Silver Sardines. They prove in an hour-long show that they have what it takes to make it in the business. Good songs. Worthy lyrics. It helps an awful lot when the lead singer, Rory, introduces a couple of songs he wrote in protest of the war. Brendan eases his head back with Leslie resting her head against his chest. Zeppy gets taken back to the years he served. The words about not knowing beyond the rice fields strike him hardest. He knows that feeling all too well. While the music goes on, Zeppy turns to Brendan. “What are you gonna do about Jer?”

Brendan answers with a slight yawn, “I left instructions with one of the road crew guys. They said they’d be willing to let me use their phone in the trailer after I told them what I was up to. Of course that Chandler guy couldn’t have been happier. I offered to pay him for the call and he said not to worry.”

“Do you even know where he is?”

“Jer? He’s somewhere in the city. I’m sure there’s a phone nearby . . . especially a pay phone near the street. I wouldn’t worry much at all.”

The band finish playing. Leslie is awakened by the cheering of the crowd. Slightly embarrassed by falling asleep on Brendan, she sits up.

“You OK, honey?” Brendan asks, pulling back the hair from her face.

“Yes. Just that I didn’t even realize I was tired.” She comes to her senses. “Oh no. Tell me I didn’t miss much, did I?”

“They were really good actually.”

“Oh shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem.”

A man approaches the three of them. He walks over to Brendan.

“Hey, are you the one who left a message with the boss about the phone?”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“You’ve got a phone call. Somethin’ about a Jerome?”

“Yeah. I’ll get it.”

The man shows Brendan to the trailer. He hands him the phone in the small cramped space. Brendan holds the phone up to his ear.

“Jer? What?”

“Who? No. Are they signed to anybody? Yeah. Bye.”

Brendan gets off the phone and begins to head out of the trailer. He pumps his fist in the air.

In the city, Tina and Valerie look from backstage.

“Did you see that guy? He looked like a little brother of Jimi Hendrix or something. Kind of darker-skinned,” Valerie says.

“The one that was lookin’ at you?”

“Yeah. I mean, no!”

“I was starting to wonder if Nate had some competition.” Tina laughs.

“No. Although, he is kind of cute. Did you notice how he walked towards the stage?”

“A real glutton for punishment . . . on the ears.” Tina looks over. “Oh. Hey, here he comes.”

Jerome approaches a man in front of the stage, who then points to the back. The girls peek to see him. Jerome wanders to the small back area of the club. “I’ve gotta say, that was an amazing show you put on.”

Valerie, with no interest, tells him, “Thanks.”

Tina looks at him.

“Where did you learn how to play like that? What was it? Like, uh, a music teacher?” Jerome asks with astonishment.

“Records,” Tina answers readily.

“Records? Wow! Anyway, the name’s Jerome Dagmar. I’m sort of searching for new talent for a new music venture.”

“Music venture? Is that something new?”

“Um, it’s . . . well, I can’t call it exactly a label, and I can’t say that I’m really a manager. Although, we . . . my partner and I are trying to get something off the ground.”

Valerie admits, “That’s nice.”

“I’ll give you my card.”

Tina smiles wistfully. “For whatever you’re offering.”

“Right. Listen. I can’t offer much, but you were really great. Your band really needs a break.”

“Mister, what people are looking for is the next Joni Mitchell or Joan Baez,” Valerie says.

“I’m looking for the next big thing.”

Tina takes over the conversation. “You have to understand that labels or talent scouts want men who know how to play. What counts is what’s between the legs when it comes to music. We’re not into that at all. We’re not wanting to hit the sack with anybody for what we do. We genuinely love the music. It’s what we’re about.”

Jerome takes a step back as he looks down at his business card. It is going to be a hard sell with the two girls completely being skeptical. He begins to walk away. Tina then calls out, “Aren’t you going to give us a card?” Jerome turns around. Walking back, he hands a card to Tina. “Thanks,” she says as she looks down at the card, “Jerome.”

Jerome gives a tight-lipped smile before leaving.

Brendan, Jerome, Leslie, and Zeppy contemplate their business venture. Brendan looks out the window of a shop.

“We have a problem. Even if we wanted to start this label up, we don’t have one iota of how to do it, and we don’t have a place to call headquarters,” Brendan informs them.

“We’ve got money,” Jerome adds.

“Right. We have start-up money and that’s about it. I know we can get bands. Ones that nobody else wants to take a chance on or don’t see anything special with.”

Zeppy asks in a confused tone, “Are we taking rejects?”

“No,” Brendan responds. “We’re taking people who have dreams and making them a reality. That’s our goal.”

Jerome looks straight ahead as he thinks aloud. “Make . . . Th . . . Hap . . . Happen.”

Brendan turns to Zeppy. “What kind of name would we . . .”

“MTH Records,” Jerome says aloud.

“What?” Brendan turns his head to Jerome.

“Make Things Happen.”

Leslie looks at Brendan. “That actually sounds good. Very fitting for you.”

Zeppy tells them, “Groovy!”

Brendan says, “Great. We’ve got a name for when we pay our taxes but still no physical setup.”

Zeppy tells them, “Maybe we can like get some information at the festival goin’ on pretty soon. I’m gonna get us tickets. They’re around eight dollars apiece, man! Three days, man! A bunch of names.”

In Bethel, New York, on August 15, people walk in droves over hills and down dirt roads, parking their cars where they stop them. Everyone does it. The sun begins to beat down over the grassy knolls of Max Yasgur’s Farm. Eager concert-goers had already begun to overtake the small town a couple of days earlier to get prime seating on the grass in front of the stage. A band of hippies from California called the Hog Farm had already been setting up their own area and recruiting decent looking people as their security. Even as people are setting up, carpenters remain busy putting on the finishing touches. Some festival personnel are on walkie-talkies, telling the artists how to get to the festival and commanding helicopters to land in certain areas behind the stage.

Brendan, Jerome, Leslie, and Zeppy gear up as they leave the comforts of their 1967 station wagon behind with blankets on their backs. The crowds continue to swell.

Zeppy asks Brendan, “Hey, man. Does this take you back?”

“It sure does. Walking for miles. Not knowing where the hell it’ll lead to. Only, we’re not carrying grenades or guns.”

Zeppy laughs as he gives Brendan a pat on the back. Brendan smiles back with ease.

Over at the Hog Farm tent, Tina Merrick and Valerie Bartholomew are feeding hungry concert-goers. Every once in a while, Tina situates the vest she wears, the only thing covering up the top half of her body, over bell-bottomed jeans, sandals, and a handkerchief around her forehead. Valerie wears a skimpy, rust-green macramé midriff top. Tina tops off hot dogs with mustard and ketchup. “Next!” she calls out.

A man with no shirt on carries his naked toddler son on his shoulders as he orders.

The sun bakes through people’s backs as Valerie looks up.

“Looks like it’s gonna rain.”

“That’ll be a drag,” Tina remarks back while handing a hot dog to the man. When he disappears into the crowd, she utters quietly, “Poor kid. His back is gonna be killin’ him after.”

“The kid? Baked buns,” Valerie admits.

Both girls giggle from the remark.

Valerie asks, “What’s with that vest?”

“It’s hot, or haven’t you noticed?”

“I’m noticing a little too much of you. Since you’re dressed like that. You know they have a watering hole, Leon’s Lake. Bunch of people over there.”

“No bathing suit,” Tina answers dryly.

“Birthday suit. Most of them have no clothes on. Wanna join them?”

“No way! Uh-uh! Man, that’s nasty. Let me guess, stoners.” Tina shakes her head in disgust.

“Hey, do you have any change on you?” Valerie asks.

Tina passes along a hot dog to a customer. “Yeah. Hold on. Let me check.” She scours the pockets of her jeans. “What’s it for?”

“I wanna get one of those buttons they have over there at the stand. A little something from the festival.”

Tina pulls out some change and a small crumpled card. She hands over the change to Val. In turn, Valerie walks away. Her friend is left holding the card between her fingers. It’s faded, but the name on it is still somewhat visible. Jerome Dagmar - musically interested business. There is an accompanying address and telephone number from New York. She looks up while poking the palm of her hand with the softened edge. It is still something to think about. Tina remembers only a few months back that Jerome came backstage to one of their shows. There is something about him that makes her curious. The card seems like it is there as a reminder. She has washed those jeans over a dozen times, and that item had still been locked into place until she would rediscover it. Lost in thought, she wonders what all of it means. Maybe it is a way of telling her that she and Val should take a chance on the upcoming label.

Way over on the other side of the field, Jerome gets stoned with some pills he bought from a local vendor. It doesn’t affect him overly as it’s not that trippy, but it’s enough to take him somewhere else. He wanders off without telling the other three and finds himself listening to giggling and splashing. Upon further inspection, Jerome sees a small lake full of skinny-dippers enjoying themselves. He has never seen so much exposed flesh in one place. Although surprised at the finding, he can’t quite turn away from it either. So many young girls, pretty . . . and blonde! Sitting by herself is a scraggly sunshine-haired girl. To Jerome, she looks as sweet as the center of nectar. Soft, pale skin. Innocent and naked. Her flesh doesn’t turn Jerome off. Not at all. He goes to sit by her, which she doesn’t mind. With only a glance and smile, it’s enough of an invitation for him to stay.

On Saturday, the sky opens up, drenching the festival entirely. Tina gets lost in the sweet sounds of Mountain’s bassist, Felix Pappalardi, singing one of her favorite songs, “Theme For An Imaginary Western.” Sly & the Family Stone make the best out of the weather with one huge sing-along during the medley consisting of “I Want To Take You Higher.” Sly Stone begins to coax the audience as they clap along. “What is happenin’ here is we’re going to try to do a sing-along. A lot of people don’t like to do it because they feel it’s going to be old-fashioned, but you must dig that it is not a fashion in the first place. It is a feeling. If it was good in the past then it’s still good. We would like to sing a song called “Higher.” If we could get everyone to join in, we would appreciate it.” Seconds later he launches his vocal chords strongly with the rest of the band chiming in, “Wanna take you higher!”

“Higher!”

Some of the audience start to get into it more as another round of “Higher” is yelled.

“Wanna take you higher . . . HIGHER!”

The band kick into the music stronger. The audience responds with echoes of “HIGHER!” In an insane volley of sound way up on the hill filled with people, Brendan, Jerome, Leslie, and Zeppy join in. A whole sea of hands lift way up giving the peace sign. Further back, Tina and Valerie are alerted from their booth to see what is going on.

Later on, with ponchos, the audience, saturated from the rain and slickened by the mud on the field, groove to many more of the sounds.

Tina and Valerie, wearing ponchos, help at the Freak-Out tent, once there’s virtually no more food to be served. The Freak-Out tent is what it eludes to: the aftereffects from bad acid trips. People would tend to become delusional and hallucinate. The girls are no nurses, but they do try to soothe those in need before the professionals give the patients a shot of Thorazine to calm them down. Brown acid would be a major problem.

Sunday, it’s more of the same. More freak-outs. Brendan has to watch out and make sure Jerome doesn’t take anything that might resemble a drug. “Don’t take that!” he warns.

Country Joe and the Fish give an enthusiastic set including the protest of the Fish Cheer, going into “Feelin’-Like-Fixin’-To-Die-Rag.”

At the Freak-Out tent, Valerie wanders off. Tina tends to more patients and soothes them while asking what exactly they took.

A voice calls out, “We’ve got another one, man!”

Tina turns her attention to somebody on a stretcher. She takes a second glance with curiosity. Walking closer, she says, “Sir, you’ll be OK. There will be help for you in just a few minutes. What did you take?” As she looks at the man again, it starts to hit her. He is no ordinary patient. A large black man lay on the stretcher with a bandana around his head and a flowing shirt. Incoherent and tripping out badly, he is tended to. Tina’s jaw opens as she examines him with the realization as to who he is. “Oh my God.” She covers her mouth with her hands, stumbling back. Picking up the hand, she knows he would never remember. Suddenly, she is interrupted by two assistants who pick up the stretcher and carry the man outside.

Tina had come in contact with her hero. She had just held the hand of Jimi Hendrix.

Finishing off the insane weekend, helicopters buzz around, carrying the musicians and various crew members away.

Jimi Hendrix is the headliner who appears in the morning hours of August 18, finishing with only half the crowd in attendance to the strains of “Hey Joe.”

Brendan leads his crew consisting of Jerome, Zeppy, and Leslie down a street in Greenwich Village. He stops to look up at a building, checking to make sure he has the right address.

“Here it is!” He excitedly points to the number.

Leslie holds onto his arm.

“Oh! It’s great!”

Brendan points a finger to the small stairway leading to a door with paint chipped off. He holds Leslie’s hand as he rushes towards the stairwell. Jerome and Zeppy look down, deflated in what they thought would be home base. Both men look at each other. Leslie turns to look behind her to see if their expressions match hers.

Brendan turns to his unhappy crew. “Aw, come on, man! It’s great!” Unlocking the door to open it, he announces to everyone with him, “It used to be a bookstore. A lot of the poets would hang around here. Ginsberg, Kerouac, Ferlingetti.” A small window at the end of the room provides some light. The place is empty with bare wood floors, dust, and some webs, but a nice amount of space. Leslie wipes a dangling cobweb away from her face. Zeppy picks off some of the sticky webs from his fingers.

Jerome looks on in shock of the place. “It’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

Turning back and then looking at the space, Brendan retorts with slight agitation, “C’mon. Use your imaginations! This could be great. Just . . . just imagine a nice carpet. A sofa over there.” He points to the left side of the room. “The desk could go over . . . right here. I’m thinkin’, uh, cherrywood. Some posters along the walls.” His eyes turn back with anticipation towards the other three.

Nobody buys Brendan’s vision.

Leslie walks further into the room. Zeppy follows her. “Is this a bathroom?” she inquires.

“Looks like it might be,” Zeppy replies with modest knowledge.

Jerome stands, looking at Brendan. “You know we have a good amount of start-up money, man. I’m sure there’s someplace around the west side.”

“This is,” Brendan answers matter-of-factly.

“It’s just that . . . will anybody be able to find us?”

“Sure. I know what you’re thinkin’, man. It’s not going to work because it looks like a dump. I’ve got news for you. You’re the one who showed me the vision, man. You made me realize that things could happen the day I met you.”

Jerome looks down, contemplating changing his mind.

Disappointed, Brendan looks back at Zeppy and Leslie. There seems to be a sense of loss and defeat in his blue eyes. He bows his head down in shame. Jerome sees his expression and eyes the room with more optimism. Beginning to walk around, he starts to visualize things. “I think a tapestry of Hendrix would be good here.” He points to the right wall. “Beige couch. Against the right-hand side. The floor. Indonesian or Oriental rug. Has to be dark.”

Brendan slowly looks up.

Zeppy begins to chime in with more thought, “How about an end table with a lava lamp next to the couch?”

“Yeah. Yeah. And gold trim on the top near the ceiling.”

“Gold at the top. That sounds really good, man.”

Leslie turns her attention to the bathroom. “White and green would really spruce that up. White tile. Green toilet seat. Possibly some pictures of trees. Even a photo of Central Park would do.”

Brendan walks between the three, putting his left arm around Leslie and his right around Jerome. He smiles straight ahead at the bare walls and emptiness that awaits a future transformation.

Two weeks later, Leslie wears her hair up in a ponytail and dons her best overalls. Jerome is busy placing gold trim against the ceiling while Zeppy hands him tools. Brendan takes various measurements around the room. Taking a rag, he cleans the bottom crevices of the walls nearest the floor.

Zeppy asks, “Hey, Brendan? What happened to that band that we saw over in Schenectady?”

“The fishy guys, you mean? Silver Sardines?”

“Yeah. Them.”

“It fell through. They wanted to join a real label.”

A knock is heard at the door. Leslie turns her attention. Brendan goes over to answer it. He opens the door to see a long-haired brunette casually dressed with a small piece of paper in her hand. Tina Merrick looks up to see the man before her.

“Hi. I hope I have the right place. I’m looking for, uh . . . Jerome Dagmar?”

“Yeah. Yeah. He’s here.” Brendan turns to look at Jerome, who is standing on the ladder. “Jer, someone’s here to see you.”

Jerome gets down from the ladder and approaches the door. Brendan blocks his view, then steps away. Jerome becomes shocked to see Tina. As he grabs hold of the doorway, his expression turns to one of gratitude.

“How’re ya doin’?”

“Fine.”

“I thought you and the band were splitting up.”

“We did. Val and I need a band because the other guys are going their way and we’re goin’ ours.”

“How did you even find us?”

“I tried calling the number you left on your card and it wasn’t working. Then I got redirected over here and . . . it’s not far from where we would usually play.” Tina looks past Jerome. “So, this is the place?”

“Yeah. We just got it. It needs a bit of work.”

“If this isn’t a good time, I’ll come back when it is.”

“No. No. It’s fine. As a matter of fact, come on in.”

She steps inside with Jerome leading with his hand.

“Where’s your partner?”

“Oh. She’s . . . um . . . around. Actually, I came by myself. Yeah. I think it would be good for us. It’s not like any major label would pick us up, and if it doesn’t work? Then I guess we could go our separate ways and head back to the clubs, or go home.”

“Yeah. Although, I’m determined to see that something happens. When I saw you girls there, I just knew there was a load of talent. Let me introduce you to everybody else. This over here is Zeppy. Actually his name is Giuseppe Costanza. Leslie Davis, and my partner in crime, Brendan Jenko.”

The five of them begin to talk. Tina looks around, pointing to various parts of the room that interest her.

Within another month, the small record company business office is completed. An Oriental tapestry of a dragon hangs above the beige couch. A lava lamp bubbles on the table stand. Above, bordering the ceiling is an eight-inch thick strip of gold. A large cherrywood desk is placed a little ways from the middle of the room. Another couch is against the left-side wall. There is some extra space above for possible future plaques. Some Fillmore posters hang close to the bathroom. The bathroom is decked out in dark green and white with a single oil painting of Central Park. Next to the doorway is a small shelf with speakers to provide the music that will be pumped into the room.

By the end of 1969, it was apparent that the music business was getting bigger. Woodstock might have been a financial disaster but had become a turning point pivotal to the changes of the following decade. Altamont was simply a disaster in every way. Nice way to finish off a decade or a year that boasted peace, love, and happiness. Music was blooming and so was the cash flow. Promoter Bill Graham was having a tough time getting entertainment for the Fillmore shows. Gone were the days of bands playing for hours on end, into the morning. Just jamming. It seemed nobody wanted to set up on a flatbed truck and play to a handful of people either. Larger venues were starting to get some of those artists. The audiences would get larger, and so would the demands from band management. Record labels started becoming a little more picky as to whom they chose for their roster. Everyone was feeling the change, and there would be more to come. Leslie stops typing. Tina and Valerie face the door and then look at each other.

Jerome and Zeppy return to the office with deli food. Tina and Valerie continue playing, this time with an impromptu jam between the both of them. Jerome nods in amazement.

With his mouth full, Zeppy comments to Jerome, “Jer, perhaps those girls need a band. A drummer and bassist would be nice.”

“Where are we goin’ to get them from? A lot of folks won’t even bother without some kind of plan.”

“What are you talkin’ ’bout? Get an audition together. They do it all the time. How do you think a lot of players get hired?”

“No.” Jerome stares at the girls doodling with guitars on the couch. “They need something different. Something special. Players who fit the profile of what they do. A specialty in wanting to play rock ’n’ roll, but from someplace completely left field.”

“Left field? You might have to go someplace away from here.”

“Like where?”

“Midwest. I have a cousin whose wife is from those parts, and they have these offbeat cover bands all over the place. I think one is Cowpoke Society. Some just play whatever they feel like, but you have to be careful though. They have a southern way of looking at things. If you get what I mean.” Jerome looks at him, unable to comprehend. Zeppy takes a bite of his sandwich and announces, “Cuer.” Putting up his finger, he indicates for Jerome to wait until he can speak. “Color,” he says after swallowing.

“Oh.” Jerome nods back. He turns back to Zeppy. “What if I tried to fit in?”

“Best of luck, man. Have you ever seen a zebra mixed with leopards?”

Jerome smiles back widely. “OK, OK. But it’s worth a shot.”

“Perhaps, but I have to let you in on a little something. Cowpoke Society bring in a mean crowd. The place they regularly play at, Judd’s? My cousin told me they’re thinkin’ of getting a tomato stand at the front door.”

At Judd’s Bar in a little Indiana town, Cowpoke Society enter the stage from a side entrance. They wave with glee at the crowd. All of the band members get into place. The drummer goes to sit behind his kit. The lights come up, revealing the band are behind a fencing of chicken wire.

The lead singer announces, “OK, folks. Ready fer some Haggard?”

The audience cheers them on. Cowpoke Society kick in the start of all-cover songs with “Okie From Muskogee.” The drummer looks out at the audience with boredom.

Jerome walks through the front door, noticing there is no tomato stand anywhere in sight. It was a curious thing that Zeppy had mentioned. Why would a bar need a tomato stand? A few onlookers take a glance at the stranger. Wearing a cowboy hat, red flannel checkered shirt, and some worn boots, Jerome eyes the townsfolk looking at him. With slight hesitation he chews on a toothpick. A few more onlookers glance his way with bullying intentions, making sure they tap their friends on the shoulder to take a look.

One remarks loud enough, “Hey! Lookie here. We got ourselves a Charlie Pride here.”

Some men dressed in overalls and well-worn baseball caps at the bar turn with unscrupulous eyes. Clutching their bottles of beer, they watch as Jerome carefully walks around in hopes of finding a decent spot to watch the band. As people turn their attention to the darker-skinned stranger, the band continue to play. In the audience, toes begin tapping to the beat of the music. The drummer rolls his eyes. Jerome notices something odd. On the floor at a few tables are some paper bags. He tries to take a peek inside one but he’s met by the unnerved stare of a woman who looks bigger than he is. She manages to look scruffy, sporting a slight mustache compared to the clean-shaven record businessman. Jerome edges away at the sight of her.

On the stage, Cowpoke Society try to rev up the crowd, which is getting a little more excited. Jerome takes notice of the drummer going through the motions of playing but looking bored to death. It’s not the way Jerome thinks anybody on a stage playing music should look. He feels rather sympathetic to the wavy dark-blonde-haired drummer. The music isn’t all that great, but it is a cover band and the audience seems to like it.

They finish playing the song to a crowd getting on their feet for a standing ovation. The drummer blows out a sigh of relief that it’s finished. The lead singer with the guitar speaks to the audience. He walks up to the microphone. “Hey. Who here’s a-ready fer sum good-time music?”

“Yeehaw!” an audience member shouts.

The lead singer points to the drummer, who lifts his sticks, takes a glance at the man with the guitar, and takes another look out at the audience. The drummer does the count-off.

“1 . . . 2. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4!”

Immediately he ravages his set with bombastic fury, playing out the beat to Jimi Hendrix’s “Fire.” The bassist looks behind him trying to catch up. The lead singer’s jaw drops as his guitar lines get entangled with the bassist’s. He throws up his hands, unable to do anything. Everybody turns to look at the drummer.

Immediately, the rowdy crowd boos and hisses at the band on stage. Emerald green and amber bottles of beer are chucked at the chicken wire fencing, bouncing off left and right and then smashing into pieces on the floor below.

“N’body wantin’ ta hea’ that chicken and horse shittin’ tunes! Gittum off!”

Another audience member shouts, “Boo! Boo!”

“Bad fruit! Bad fruit! Bad fruit!” The chants echo throughout the small bar.

Jerome quickly finds out what were in those paper bags as rotten fruit, smelly and gray-green in color, liberally get thrown, mashing up against the fencing. Some of it splashes onto the band members, who are grossed out.

The singer announces to the drummer with nobody able to hear him, “Gawd dammit, Randy! Not that ’gain!” Randy ignores his fellow band mates. He simply plays his heart out. The other guys wipe away the rotting matter from themselves, leaving the stage very angered by the whole ordeal.

The bassist grumbles, “Now they’re gettin’ more evil with rotten fruit. Damn Rando.”

Still, Randy plays on as though he has the full support of his fellow band mates. Closing his eyes, he lets the rhythm take him to a more spiritual place. The music possesses his soul as though the Jimi Hendrix experience were channeling him. Jerome watches with his jaw hanging down. Ignoring the rotting items and bottles being thrown, he moves zombielike through the crowd, crunching over shards of glass to get a closer look. Moving his hat on his head, he looks on with the same shock and amazement that he had when watching Tina and Val for the first time. So much passion. So admirable to just sit there at that drum kit, pouring all of his soul into the music. That’s what it is about! Passion. Jerome gleams with joy while the crowd’s boos and jeers subside into the far-off vortex of his mind.

Upon his return, Jerome chats with Tina and Valerie in what looks like an airplane hangar. A small desk sits near the large garagelike doorway while a dark crimson red drum kit is placed no more than ten feet away. Both girls wear sunglasses. They wander over to the two folded chairs in front of the desk, plopping down on them. Jerome can tell that they are bored.

Valerie says, “So, tell us again how you found this place?”

Jerome responds quickly, “Brendan told me about it.”

“Oh. I see. Brendan told you about this. The same as Zeppy told you to go all the way out to Indiana and find a drummer. Why does that sound weird?”

“I don’t know. We’re tryin’ to help you, perhaps?”

“You know that our sound deserves specific attention. You can’t just stick any drummer in,” Tina protests.

“Why don’t you trust me?”

“Perhaps it’s because you went to some redneck bar.”

Jerome corrects Tina, “That’s hillbilly.”

“Fine. Whatever. You go to some hillbilly bar in the middle of nowhere out in Indiana and pick up a drummer for us. I’m sorry, but we don’t play that kind of music. We’re into rock ’n’ roll, not country and western.”

“Will you just give him a chance? Please? That’s all I’m asking,” he pleads.

Tina looks right at him. “Fine,” she concedes.

Jerome walks away from them to confer with the drummer set to audition.

Valerie pokes an elbow at Tina to get her attention. Quietly she says, “Hey. Sueeeeeeeeeeeeyyy!” Both girls giggle at the farm call.

Jerome reappears with Randy in tow. Valerie stops her giggling immediately upon sight of the fairly tall, lean, wavy dark-blonde-haired vision in front of her. Strong jaw, rugged in demeanor, light Copenhagen colored eyes. Valerie swallows hard. “Oh my God. He looks like Paul Newman in Hud.”

Tina reminds her, “Be careful.”

“As long as he doesn’t have a Joanne.”

“No. But you have a Nate.”

“Nate who?” Valerie says as she stares at the drummer.

Randy casually walks by the girls. With a slight smile, he charms his way. “My, aren’t you sweeter than a moon pie.” He breaks into a big smile.

Valerie’s jaw drops. Tina looks slightly amused as she puts her index finger against her friend’s jaw, closing it. “Let’s see if his playing is anything like his pickup line.”

Randy goes to straddle the drum stool. Valerie ogles him. He sets up the kit the way he needs to. Giving a thump on the bass drum, he checks underneath, changing the tightness of the head. This gives Tina enough time to question him.

“What’s your name?”

“That would be Rando, ma’am.”

“Rando?” she says with slight peculiarity.

“Randy Smith. But folks call me Rando.”

“OK. Um . . . Rando. Who are your influences?”

“Aww, I’ve got a lot. Mitch Mitchell, Ginger Baker, Buddy Miles . . . Gene Krupa. You know that Krupa was around before Buddy Rich? John Bonham. The guy who he was taught by, Carmine Appice from Vanilla Fudge. Uh, Ringo, of course!” He points a finger out. “Oh, I know! That kid that did the Woodstock Festival with Santana. Ah, I can’t remember his name, but he was the youngest guy on that stage at any time. Eighteen, I believe. Shooowwweee! That’d be young! And . . . and . . . the guy from the, uh, Dylan band. Band? I think that’s it. The singin’ drummer from Arkansas. Shoot, there’s so many out there.” Randy taps on the snare drum as though stalling for extra time due to his nervousness. He stops. “Whenever you want me to start.”

Tina announces, “Go ahead.”

Randy smiles nervously. His fingers fumble, losing the sticks. They fall to the cement floor, tapping their own rhythm. “Oops,” he casually says.

Tina and Valerie watch with little expression. Valerie begins to wonder if Randy is only good to look at.

Randy looks up to see the girls with their stone-faced expressions. Taking a deep breath, he can tell they’re no longer amused by his antics or charm. “OK.” He goes for a slow start, with stuttering beats that fall flat. Not what he is looking for. Not what they want to hear. With shear disgust, Tina lowers her tinted sunglasses down to her nose, revealing her eyes looking ahead at him the way a librarian would give a threatening glance to somebody too loud. She darts her eyes to Valerie. Valerie returns a look of disappointment.

Jerome says, “Take your time. Better yet, just show them what made me bring you here. Nobody is gonna bite your head off, man. We just want to see if you can fit the bill.”

Randy tightens up, counts off the beats in his head, and goes for it. Starting with a double cymbal crash that startles the girls, he gets into a groove and plays with in-the-pocket precision. Drumrolls when needed, sixteenth note fills that make the floor rumble under everybody’s feet. Tina’s jaw begins to drop. Valerie gives a big smile.

“Yeah!” she hoarsely calls out. “Rock out!”

Jerome nods his head in agreement with what Randy is doing.

Randy plays out a Ginger Baker beat.

“Oh my God! He can do ‘Toad’!” Valerie enthusiastically exclaims.

Tina watches with breath stilted by the variations of Randy’s repertoire. From behind, Jerome puts a hand on her shoulder. Valerie smiles as her confidence has been restored. When Randy finishes, he puts his sticks down next to his sides. Tina’s jaw stays unhinged. Quickly she closes it. Randy looks out at the three of them.

“Is that OK? Ya know, ’cause if it isn’t, I could simply do somethin’ else.”

Jerome looks at both Tina and Valerie and then turns back to Randy. “No. No. I think that’s fine.”

Tina removes her tinted sunglasses, blinking from disbelief, and drops her pen on the desk.

“Do you think you can really make something out of this? Because this is not child’s play. The music business is something you don’t take as a joke. It’s growing. There are a lot of leading players. You’ve got CBS, Capitol, Warner Bros., Roulette,” Rupert Grimes, a business insider, explains to Brendan, who sits back in his chair chuckling.

“Rupert, by all means . . . we’re not looking to compete against the major labels.”

“You’re not?” Rupert, a man of tall stature with thinning dark hair, looks on in shock.

“No. This is our operation.”

“What are you hoping to accomplish? No. Really? You rent out a basement and expect to get any business? Listen. How many people do you have working with you?”

“It’s me, Jerome, Giuseppe, and Leslie’s our secretary.”

Rupert looks at Brendan with confusion. “Secretary for what? I’m trying to be the voice of reason! Do you understand that if you can’t employ more than three people, your company will never get off the ground? You need A&R people. Radio folks who know radio, because you’re going to need it, my friend. Radio is important to the success of artists. It’s what puts butts in seats at concerts. It’s what drives people to buy those records that are essential. Everything goes hand in hand, and you have nothing. My God! You have your girlfriend as secretary!”

“Are you saying it’s impossible?”

Rupert eyes Brendan with the sense of not knowing how to answer.

“Are you saying that people shouldn’t dream?” Brendan asks. “Or, for that matter, strive in trying to make things happen? Why don’t you tell everybody who ever worked hard and struggled that they’re not allowed to believe because it’s not practical by your standards. Tell all the kids who dream of becoming somebody, ‘Don’t bother. It won’t get you anywhere.’ You know, when I was in Vietnam, there wasn’t a day that didn’t go by that I dreamed I would get out of there alive. That’s what kept me going. That’s what gave me the will to live. I lived by my dreams in order to tell you that I won’t stop. No. I may not be as smart or as practical as you, but I have a lot going for me . . . and those are my dreams.”

“I want to help you.” Rupert throws his hands up. “But it’s going to be an uphill battle.”

“Then, goddammit, get in the trenches with us. Don’t just say it. Do it!”

All the while Tina and Valerie sit on the couch nearby doodling on guitars. Brendan points to the girls.

“We have them so far.”

“Jerome told me that you guys just got a hillbilly drummer. Nice. A drummer alone. That’ll go over well.”

“That drummer is for those ladies.”

“What kind of music are you pursuing with this little venture?”

Jerome, who has been in front checking out papers that Leslie has typed up, pops his head up. “Anything that the majors don’t take.”

“Rejects?” Rupert rolls his eyes. “Great.”

“No. Different bands. Bands that can’t be categorized.”

“Tell me how in pray tell you plan on getting them airplay if they’re that different?”

“It all depends how people feel.”

“These ladies. They’re musicians?”

Tina looks up after plucking a chord. She looks at Jerome.

“You see them, don’t you?” Jerome asks pointedly.

“Women are a hard sell.”

“Don’t be such a hard-ass, Rupert,” Brendan pipes in.

“You’re going to need business investors who believe in what you’re selling.”

Tina lets out a soaring note from her guitar. Rupert darts his eyes over. She raises a brow. Jerome turns with a smile. Brendan bows his head down.

One note says it all.

Rupert defeatedly tells the bunch, “You’re on your own. Remember what I said, fellas. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.”

“Yeah, and it’s cat-eat-mouse.”

The puzzled businessman looks down.

“Rupert, remember, people didn’t think Michael Lang, Artie Kornfeld, John Roberts, and Joel Rosenberg could pull off what they did.”

“You’re comparing this to Woodstock? That was three days. This is a career.” Nodding again, Rupert looks at Brendan disdainfully. “You’re crazy.”

Jerome offers up, “Let me bring you to the door.”

“No thanks. I think I can find it myself.”

Rupert then leaves with the thud of the door closing behind him.

Brendan remarks, “I don’t think we’ll be invited to his Christmas party.”

“Hmm. No belief. No dreams. How sad,” Jerome interjects.

Organizing some papers on the desk, Brendan breathes back, “What do you expect from a failed A&R guy?”

Valerie steps inside the guitar department of Sam Ash on Forty-Eighth Street. Looking at a row of brand new guitars, she spots somebody at the register. All of those savory looking instruments, waiting to be held, mastered, owned. A black man sporting an Afro with a dark T-shirt plucks away on a bass he’s trying to tune. Valerie begins to smile as she listens to the groove. She mimics the beat with her body moving to the beat. He looks up with a smile. “Yes. May I help you?”

“Uh, yeah. I need a pack of Ernie Ball 14s. Really, my partner needs them.”

“We’ve got those. Pretty popular with the heavy rock set.” He reaches for a package on the wall behind him. “So, I take it that he’s into that thick sound?”

“No. He doesn’t play. I’ve tried to get . . .” For a moment she thinks of her boyfriend, Nathan Reilly, before fixing her eyes on the cashier. Suddenly it hits her. “Oh. Oh! What a dummy! My partner! My partner . . . she’s a guitarist. She’s lead, and I sort of do rhythm and sing some. My boyfriend, on the other hand, he won’t even pick up a guitar. Or any instrument, for that matter.” She watches him doodle on the bass. “Are you in a band?”

“Right now? No. Would love to. My mom says, ‘Aaron, gonna need to put food on the table. Music’s a nice hobby but it won’t pay the bills.’ So, I get both. Play music and get a steady paycheck.” He laughs. “Bein’ the next Larry Graham or Jack Bruce will have to be put on hold for now, or at least until I get some good money.”

Valerie rummages in her pocket for money and pulls out a business card for MTH Records. Slowly she says, “Maybe you can still have both. We’re looking for a bassist who can rock.”

He exchanges looks with her. She sheepishly smiles.

During a particularly warm evening, Jerome and his blonde companion, Gwen Pierce, whom he met at the Woodstock Festival, walk inside a hotel. Attached to the lobby is a restaurant. The two walk in and are seated at a table. Jerome looks around at the surroundings. Only three other couples are there for dinner. In front is one step leading to a slightly higher floor. The corner displays a single keyboard. Gwen looks over to the right, seeing a sign written out on the blackboard. She taps Jerome on the shoulder. He turns to her. She points ahead. On the board are the words:

The sensational sounds of the one-man maestro, Chet Hunter! 8-10 PM.

Jerome checks his watch. It’s just about eight o’clock. A man with long, brown, curly hair, a maroon suit, and a white button-up shirt goes to sit at the keyboard. He quietly remarks, “Dressed to thrill. Dressed to kill.”

A man sitting with his wife comments back, “Yeah. To kill an audience.”

She chokes back her laughter.

Gwen groans in anguish at the not-so-funny entertainment.

An older couple eye Chet with disgust. The woman lets her feelings be known. “We didn’t come here for your brand of comedy.”

Chet speaks into the microphone, “Oh, I can feel the love tonight! Maybe a little more.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a devilish manner.

“No love from me!” the woman volleys back.

“Nice to know there’s a hotel nearby. Easy access.”

“Pig!”

Jerome and Gwen exchange glances. Both wonder why they’re there. She looks at another couple who are busy dining on steak. A waiter takes Jerome and Gwen’s order. They then wait to hear how sensational Chet Hunter truly is. He performs some standard lounge fare such as Frank Sinatra, Bobby Darin, Paul Anka, and Elvis Presley. He garners a little more attention for his reworking of “Heartbreak Hotel.” He shouts out, “Time for some real rock ’n’ roll!”

The audience cringes and moans. Except for Jerome.

Something tells him that underneath all that lounge bravado is a real passion. A true rock ’n’ roller bursting to get out. His voice has the right feel, but it isn’t what he is playing. If only he could show his true self. Chet eventually breaks into a version of the Guess Who’s “American Woman” that sends patrons eyes scrambling to glance, a look shot at him so vile as though they’ve eaten bugs. One couple leave immediately, forgetting about the check but simply tossing the bills on the table without waiting for change. Jerome looks around. Gwen eyes the next couple getting up to follow suit. Two couples down and two left to go. A battle of wills and tolerance. Gwen finally asks Jerome if they could leave. He stalls as ten o’clock draws near. Foregoing his pseudoleisure act, Chet rips into the Spencer Davis Group. It is there, even if it is only half of the song. Chet’s curly mane, bouncing. A twinkle reflecting off his hazel-blue eyes. A slight smile curls as he knows he is hitting his stride and is feeling it. Jerome smiles back while bobbing his head up and down with understanding. Gwen looks pleased that Jerome was right, but now she just wants to go home. He continues to soak up what he has heard. “Hey, man, can you play ‘Keep Me Hangin’ On’ like Vanilla Fudge?”

“If you pay, I will play,” Chet says as he taps on his empty tip jar.

Jerome gets up to approach the stage. “I can do you one better.” He drops a card into the jar. Gwen looks at him. He nods back. Would this guy take the bait? Chet quickly retrieves the item. Looking at it, his face changes to interest as his jaw drops. He glances back up to see the final couple leaving. “Hey, wait!”

Jerome turns a glance over his shoulder.

Brendan finishes his phone call. “I’ll be sure to relay the message. Yeah. We’ll see how it goes. OK. I’ll see you soon. Bye.” He puts the phone down. Looking at Tina, who sits partially on top of the desk, he comments to her, “He truly is crazy and ambitious. Wait until you hear this. He and Gwen went to a hotel restaurant. Well, to make the long story short, you ladies lookin’ for a keyboard player? ’Cause you’ve got one now. Not to mention, Jer said he could sing his ass off. A bassist and keyboardist in one week. Keep it up, ladies.”

Valerie sits on the couch, restringing her guitar.

During the day, Jerome returns with Tina and Valerie’s new keyboardist. Chet Hunter. The girls along with Randy Smith and the newly recruited bassist, Aaron Brown. They try out a few songs and seemingly begin to gel together as a band. Later, they sit around trying to come up with a proper name for the five-piece band.

“I don’t know. Fabulous Five?” Aaron suggests.

“Nah. Dark Pink?” Randy tries out on the group.

“Sounds too corny.” Chet rolls his eyes.

“Brainiac, got any suggestions?” Aaron replies.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Chet smiles back. “Savage Blue or Electric Blue.”

Everybody groans.

Jerome rallies the five. “Think of something you can live with for a few years. Think about who you are. What you represent. What you could imagine the album covers to say. The ’60s are gone. You don’t need that hokey shit.”

Tina begins to contemplate aloud. “Well, our band is a bit different. No doubt we have two great singers from what we heard an hour ago. Everyone’s on the same page when it comes to style. But it’s really hard to put a label on something so unconventional. I mean, what do you . . .”

“Stop!” Jerome shouts. He points a finger at Tina, who sits motionless, as if frozen except for her eyes that survey the others. “That’s it!” Jerome says with enthusiasm. “The Unconventional.”

Zeppy, Brendan, Leslie, and Jerome sit around the room while a portly man in a blue polo shirt and black slacks talks. The man sports a virtual black beard, and his dark eyes peer to all those in attendance. Brendan tightens up as if to let out a heavy sigh. Jerome looks down. Leslie is busy typing in the corner of the room.

Steve Brigham is a savvy promotion guy who has handled many record business types throughout the tristate area. He explains the gist of the business. “Who have you talked to?”

Brendan looks at Jerome, hoping he says the right name. “Rupert Grimes.”

“Did he tell you anything?”

“He basically told us we don’t have a chance in hell at running our own company,” Jerome politely answers.

“Oh. That’s Rupert for sure. Did he say anything else?”

“He blasted us for not having much. We can’t help it, Steve. We’re just starting out, and we all know that you have to start from somewhere,” Brendan answers briskly.

“Yeah,” Jerome says. “He expects us to be college grads with a master’s degree in investment. We’ve got some money. Granted, it’s start-up. Look, if those four guys from the Woodstock fair could pull off what they accomplished, why can’t we?”

Steve looks at Jerome. “If you’re going to use Woodstock as your barometer, I suggest you find a different instance. Woodstock was a financial disaster. Lang and company were virtually two million in the hole.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “No. No. Keep in mind what you have. How much is that anyway?”

“Fifty to sixty grand,” Brendan readily says.

“Oh. That’s not much, but should be enough for right now. How many bands are signed with you guys?”

“One right now,” Jerome reveals. “They’re not in it for the money. They would have never agreed to take this chance if they didn’t have creative control. That plays a big part, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s a large piece of bait if they know that they’re only little fish in a big pond,” Steve informs them.

“They don’t care about that,” Jerome continues.

“Fifty to sixty is what some major acts are getting for touring alone.”

“It’s all we can afford. That’s why we only have one act.”

“You have to think of managing costs. Not to mention a crew for the band. I’m sure they don’t set up their own equipment.”

“We’re in talks with a sound company. Um, McEvry Productions,” Brendan replies.

“We’re doing the managing ourselves.” Jerome thinks of something else. “How about the bad stuff that goes on with radio?”

Steve says, “Payola? We don’t do that. We only rent space for advertising.” Returning his attention to Brendan and nodding his head, he sighs. “Well. You know you’re gonna be dealing with lawyers, contracts, agents . . .”

“What do you mean? Literary?”

“Real agents, Jenko.”

Brendan squints back with an incredulous look. “I thought only Hollywood types have those.”

“No. Everybody has those. Not just Hollywood.”

“I’ve heard of booking agents but regular ones?”

“You’re going to need to read up on a lot if you want this business to get off the ground.”

“We’ll do that.” Brendan briefly looks down at the floor before returning a serious glance at Steve.

“I’m willing to help you, but I have to know that you know it’s going to be an uphill battle.”

“You have our word, Steve.” Brendan clasps his hands against the radio promoter’s in unification with a firm shake.

Zeppy, who has been silent throughout the conversation, says, “Right!”

Jerome drives a big white van with Tina in the passenger’s seat. Valerie and Randy are in back. All four listen to the radio. Valerie flips through a stack of flyers advertising for The Unconventional. Throughout Manhattan they stop at street corners in search of the nearest posts. Jerome parks near the sidewalk, letting Tina out to put up flyers. Valerie and Randy exit the side door and take off down the street to the next street corner. Once they complete their mission, everybody gets back in. They set off repeating the task.

Jerome becomes slightly agitated at the yellow cabs that swerve in front of him.

“Damn! They have no consideration for anybody.” He turns to Tina. “Got Houston?”

“We’ve got just about everywhere in the Village. Houston, Waverly, Christopher, McDougal, University, Carmine, Bleecker. All of them.”

“OK.”

“Soho’s next,” Valerie adds.

Randy asks as he watches the street signs passing by, “That street back there is called How-ston? It looks like Houston to me. Hew-ston.”

The radio station begins playing Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.” Tina and Valerie start singing along.

“Whole lotta love. Nyraaawm! Whole lotta love. Nyraaawm!”

The song fades away.

The solemn deep voice of a DJ is heard. “It’s, um, my understanding that we have some news . . . that has . . . just come through. James Marshall Hendrix, known to the world as Jimi Hendrix, died earlier today at the age of twenty-seven. It’s not fully known what the cause of death is. He was found earlier today in his room at the Samarkand Hotel in London. This is ultimately a very sad day for music. We’ll play a little something and keep you up to date. Again, Jimi Hendrix, dead at the age of twenty-seven.”

“The Wind Cries Mary” comes through the airwaves. The hushed rush of Jimi’s Stratocaster and Noel Redding’s bass shimmer into focus as the song progresses with Mitch Mitchell’s soft cymbal splashes. Tina’s, Valerie’s, and Randy’s eyes go blank as they sit motionless. Jerome still drives onward as if nothing has happened. He can’t bear to show how hard it hits him. Not in front of the fledgling band. After all, they could hold it together. He could too. He has no choice. He is the driver. At yet another stop, he tells the group in a rushed, flat tone, “Uh, why don’t all three of you go out there and post for a few blocks up Prince Street? I’ll catch up with you guys.” He lets them off as his eyes start to fill with tears, waiting until they somberly disappear down the street. He drops his head against the steering wheel, weeping to the guitar strains of the song. It would only be two weeks later that the world lost Janis Joplin to a drug overdose. Heroes and idols burned out from accidental overdoses, drinking binges, loneliness, or spinning too far out of control. They had their heyday, and now they were getting buried.

Inside the confines of the hanger, the band convene to put their ideas into reality. Aaron hooks up his bass to an amp. Tina and Valerie tune up their guitars. Randy taps out a quick beat to make sure the sound is right. Chet tinkers with a few keys on the keyboard.

“Let’s go for big,” Tina tells everybody.

“I was thinking colossal,” Valerie interrupts.

“That’s even better.” Tina points to Valerie.

“How are we gonna get this mammoth sound?” Chet asks with indefinite understanding.

“Deep chords, throttling bass lines, low keys, and floor-shaking beats. A nice dark sound,” Tina advises.

“Think it’ll work?” Valerie asks.

“The only way we’ll know is if we try it. Ain’t that right?” Randy looks at his band mates.

“Let’s do it!” Aaron yells out.

Tina turns around with further enthusiasm, commanding, “Let’s do it, guys! Show what we learned from the big boys playin’ the Garden. Yeah!” She points to Aaron. “Gimme that deep bass groove that I know you can play.” Then over to Chet. “You drive the melody. You’re going to let it ride. The whole song is your playground. Val and I will do some interchanging and . . . Rando . . . oh, Rando, you’re gonna give it to us hard. Let it all out, baby. The way I know you can,” she coos teasingly toward the drummer. Aaron begins a low bass line with Chet’s subtle crescendo of keys creeping.

Randy calls out, “Hey! Who’s gonna sing?”

Tina gives the signal for Chet and Aaron to lower the volume of their playing.

“Good question. We’ll see who’ll fit.”

“What if it’s us?” Valerie asks with a quizzical expression.

“Then . . . get your lungs ready. For the most part, I think Rando and Chet will handle the bulk of that.” She turns to Randy, Chet, and Aaron. “OK. Take it from the top. ‘Gypsy Soul.’”

Randy counts off by clicking his drumsticks. “1 . . . 2 . . . 3.”

Over the course of 1971, The Unconventional play all over the state of New York. From colleges to clubs. Fairgrounds to parks. Jerome joins them at every show possible to see their progress. He watches with glee, as a parent would watch a child grow and flourish. When they aren’t playing, they are in the studio, working on more new tracks. Tina would start up a jam with Randy improvising on drums. Followed by Aaron on bass. Valerie would fall in. Chet adds just the right amount of keyboard. Jerome gets to see the band’s woodshedding improve, but they just have no albums made.

Getting a producer would be a challenge.

On the road, though, is where The Unconventional shine. Every time they get on a stage, the crowds get confused at what they are seeing at first, due to the makeup of the band. But as soon as a chord is struck, people are light on their feet.

The Unconventional play a gig at a park near Buffalo. Tina makes her guitar screech and scream, taming it with the direction of her fingers. Randy rhythmically comes up from behind with a snare shuffle and the driving force of his bass drum thumping. Clearly a showcase for the two of them. Going back and forth. The tension builds up until the rest of the band kick in.

Who would imagine that a band consisting of two female guitarists, an Indiana-bred drummer, a funky bassist, and a lounge-singing keyboardist are able to sustain the appetites of hungry rock fans?

Watching them from the side of the stage are the roadies.

Swarming around two black tractor-trailer trucks are some of the guys from McEvry Productions in charge of The Unconventional’s sound. The road crew consists of burned-out hippies who have seen enough of peace and love. Technical gurus who can wind around the wires inside a broken speaker. Rejected musicians, unceremoniously kicked out of a band or two . . . possibly three. Guys looking for adventure in the field of rock ’n’ roll.

The now forty-four-year-old Frank McEvry leads his crew of misfits through swirls of dust onto an empty stage already barricaded off with a line of speakers ready to be placed. Freddie helps him out.

A little over six feet with dark hair around the sides and none on top, Freddie Gruleski is the grizzled old veteran of the crew at fifty-two. The oldest among the men, he keeps everybody in line. He doesn’t take any shit from anybody and is by far the most outspoken. Freddie says what’s on his mind. He can be cranky too.

Steve Halston is bold and aggressive. If provoked in an unprofessional manner, he will let them know how he feels or argue out a point. Small in stature at five foot four, he has a wiry frame and a mane of long, copper-toned hair and matching beard. His temper can only be matched with that of a shrew.

Doug Linnman has the attitude of a high school jock and the physique of a marathon runner. At six foot two, the long-haired blonde can definitely move when he needs to. He supports a fiancé and child. The pay may not be all that good, but he does have a serious addiction to music. One day he’ll get to tell his grandchildren of what it was like being a rock ‘n’ roll roadie.

Stepping out from a truck is Sean Adams, an affable, cherub-faced man in his early twenties. A shade taller than Steve, but more portly. His passion lies in pulling trucks, driving night and day whenever, wherever, and monitoring mixes. It’s not much of a life for his new wife, Katelynn, but she knows all too well that the road beckons her husband. Sean’s background consists of fish delivery.

They all head out to greet the day and set up for the band at a park.

Doug whines, “Man, these outside concerts are a bitch! The sound absolutely bites, man!”

Freddie walks behind him. “Wanna pacifier, Dougie?” Sean and Steve snicker. Freddie looks back at them. They immediately turn serious. “You know, Dougie, your son is better behaved than you and he’s only two!” Doug gives Freddie a look. “Don’t just stand there making faces. Get to work. Time is wasting.”

The reluctant roadie continues to carry out his duties.