California Here I Come Again by Peter Reum

California Here I Come Again

By Peter Reum

When the date was set for the dedication of the State of California Beach Boys Historical Site and Monument, something in my gut told me it was an event that should not be missed. I came to Hawthorne with memories of summer vacations spent with my aunt  and uncle in nearby Inglewood in the Fifties and Sixties. Their home was less than a mile as the crow flies from the Wilson’s home site. 

Things were different then … people worked in defense and aerospace, and the communities of Inglewood and Hawthorne were less ethnically diverse than they are now. I remember the bread truck and the Good Humor truck driving through their neighborhoods selling ice cream and fresh bread. Milk was delivered in bottles to your door. Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm were the places to go, and Marineland was just down the coast in Palos Verdes. 

Through many trips to California from 1957 to 1967, I became acquainted with what radio stations called the ”Southland.” People wanted to experience  a way to rid themselves of the evil that they had experienced during World War II, and to regain their optimism. California was just the place  to do that. Gas was 29 cent a gallon, bread was a quarter a loaf.  Jobs were plentiful, and cars were $2500, and could be readily financed. The picture that emerged from California was a land that looked west to Oceania, yet also was  superbly self-aware of the mystique  that had been built up about its prosperity, climate, and natural beauty. Who can forget those Rose Bowl Games in Pasadena, and the parades down Colorado Boulevard in sunny weather while the rest of the nation was locked in frost...or their first meal at a Chart House Restaurant?

Brian Wilson captured the innocence of that time in sound the way that George Lucas captured it visually in American Graffiti. We are left wondering if life will ever be as simple and as pleasant as those times we remember  from our early adulthood when we had not experienced life’s complex dilemmas, and our biggest  worry was where to cruise on Saturday night.

At the same time, the surfing culture, so underground and hidden in the Fifties, was building to a crest that subsided in 1963 with the death of our President. The glory years of the Los Angeles Dodgers  from 1959 through 1966 reflected a power that California had over the rest of the country that was both beguiling and bewitching. The idea of 92,000 people showing up for a 1959 World Series game  at the L.A. Coliseum was unthinkable elsewhere in America. People  were trying to figure out what a “California Girl” really looked like. I remember entire magazines being devoted to the subject.

As a child, my biggest thrill was getting a Sandy Koufax autograph from my baseball hero. The Dodgers would broadcast games on KFI with Vin Scully calling the play by play. For me in landlocked New Mexico, they were a late night guilty pleasure for many years.  Brian Wilson grew up in that time in California where it was in its own stage of adolescence, still testing itself against the rest of America musically., culturally,  and economically. My dad worked for the University of California for 33 years, ironically in New Mexico. I would look forward to those plane trips he occasionally made when we got to travel along and see what our cousins and other relatives were up to.

I still remember the day in 1964  when my cousin showed me tricks on this piece of wood with little wheels that looked a little like today’s snowboards.  He called it a “skateboard.” The things that he would do on it amazed me.  Three months later, Jan and Dean had a song about it on the national charts. I was so proud I knew about it first.

California was also a hotbed of alternative life styles. People lived in the desert, and my cousins had a vacation place out there.  The beach was crowded, but everyone liked to go and watch the “real surfers.” Of course, we had no idea the real surfers were in Baja to get away from us. The University of California campuses were a hotbed of alternative thinking.  Marcuse was there, as was the whole protest movement that began in Berkeley. Esalen Institute was firing up the whole Human Potential School of Psychology, and everyone went to encounter groups.

Most of all, the sheer size and diversity of climate and natural wonders in California instilled a respect  for  things organic and natural which are reflected  in Brian’s later music and the life styles of several Beach Boys. Brian’s 1967 rant on smog is, to me, a rant against the loss of the adolescence of California that began with the Watts riots,  the student protests in Berkeley,  the questioning of the need for the very defense plants that sustained the South Bay for years, and the violation of unspoken boundaries so many people considered “Californian.”

Perhaps the ultimate symbol of California was Sunset Magazine, for years a periodical my mother subscribed to and imitated in her New Mexico home. There were recipes, articles showing incredible homes,  gardening tips, pieces about natural spots in California, and the whole California vibe was “genteel.” As The Beach Boys lost their innocence with drugs, Manson, and legal quagmires, California lost its innocence with smog, the defense industry, too many people moving there too quickly, and racial tension.

But the part of California that I knew the best was good old South Bay. The people there were hard working blue collar. They worked hard and played hard. People would gear up for the weekend and head for places outside their little pieces of the American Dream. My cousins would head for the desert in a thing they called a “dune buggy.”  They would ride it around on these sand dunes in the hot sun all day long, or drive it down by the beach. Everyone liked open cars, because you could see and be seen.  Disneyland was not  somewhere my cousins went.   It was someplace to take the family from outside California. Pacific Ocean Park was a great place to go and see people having fun, and was where the real Californians went.  Everything revolved around cars, and to have one was to be Californian. It was unthinkable not to have a car, even if you were in high school.

Underneath everything was the Hispanic heritage that California and my home state of New Mexico shared with each other. I felt at home in California because places had Spanish sounding names. My aunt and uncle had several  Mexican-American neighbors with whom  they got along well. I could drop by their house for a fresh tortilla and butter and jam just like I could back in New Mexico. They liked  me and called me ‘Guero,” which in their language meant friendly light haired neighbor. I spoke their language, and they were impressed that a “gringo” would take the time to learn. It felt safe in Hawthorne and Inglewood, because there were lots of Brown people, just like my hometown in New Mexico.

There seemed to be a fascination with things tropical. Restaurants had tropical themes, and my cousins took hula lessons.  Later, one of them got into dancing at one of those tropical restaurants. We would marvel at the sheer variety of things to do there. You could literally jump in the car, and in an hour literally be doing almost anything.  This is the feel that comes across in Brian’s early music.  If things get slow, let’s hop in the car and, as Brian and Mike Love suggested, “find a new place where the kids are hip.” Brian Wilson and his songwriting collaborators, had their fingers on the pulse of this maelstrom we called California. The prosperity, the independence, and the freedom he communicated  about his home state became an ideal worldwide. Brian Wilson became California’s ambassador to the world.

Fast forwad to 2005….My plane was late, and I didn’t know if I’d make it on time. I drove down the 105, exited on Crenshaw and doubled back toward the Hawthorne Airport, just like Yahoo Maps said. I wondered if I’d be able to find the site in time. At 12:50, I saw a bunch of older, Caucasian people walking down a sidewalk en masse. They didn’t look like they belonged here. “I’m close,” I thought to myself.  I parked, walked in following the herd, walked down a street, and there everyone was, and it was 1 p.m. and things were running late. It was hot, and I didn’t have a pass to sit with the fast crowd, so I stood outside the barrier with Murray Hughan from Scotland and a delightful classmate of Brian’s who tutored him in spelling in 7th grade at Hawthorne’s equivalent of junior high school. She showed me her high school annual, and we talked about life in 1960 in Inglewood and Hawthorne. 

Then it began, and Fred Vail played the famous “Surfin’” rehearsal tape heard live so many years ago in the home we were remembering. I was standing literally 100 feet from where The Beach Boys rehearsed that first year and learned the 15 to 20 or so songs that made up their repertoire back then. Mr. Moto came rushing back into my memory. 

Paula Bondi-Springer and Harry Jarnagan, the event’s organizers, gave their thanks to several deserving people who helped realize this monument and special occasion, and Hawthorne High School’s Band played a selection of tunes that probably were things they rehearsed for the occasion. The Hawthorne High Choir sang a selection of Beach Boy songs, many of them written in that very house being commemorated. I couldn’t help but reflect on how the local people that came were Hispanic, African American, and Oriental, and how this neighborhood came out to support this event, despite 45 years having gone by, and the differences in demographics over time passing. 

People whose imaginations were lit so may years ago also came from France, Australia, Japan, Scotland, Ireland, England, Canada, South Africa, and all over the United States. The presence of so many people who were there when things began and then attended that day was a testament that while life goes on, it also stays the same. Hawthorne High School is still there, and so is York Elementary, where the Wilsons attended  elementary school. A woman I spoke with was wearing a “York Elementary School Parent-Teacher Association” t-shirt. I asked her if they still had a music education program. She sadly replied “we do, but it’s being cut back every year.” 

I saw many old friends, and missed many more who have passed on. In Bloom, composed of Carl’s son Justyn, Dennis’ son Carl, and friend Mario Tucker played live, as did Tripsitter, a fine group from the Las Vegas area. Billy Hinsche of the old Beach Boy Band accompanied David Marks singing Dennis Wilson’s “You and I.” His performance was breathtaking, and it sounded as if Dennis was there singing at times. This performance also included Dennis’ grandson, Matt, on rhythm guitar. 

I saw faces I remembered through the years whose story is entwined with this improbable musical journey through California. Former wives of several Beach Boys were in attendance, as were their children and grandchildren. The family tree has flourished and expanded, and all of these people were here to honor the memory of 6 boys from South Bay whose musical vignettes and stories publicized and extended a California youth subculture throughout the world. Today, bands from Ireland,Italy, The United King dom, Germany, Australia, Brazil, Spain, and many other countries still attempt to recreate what was born in the living room of that little house in the fall of 1961. 

Alan Jardine got up and graciously addressed Brian and gently reminisced about the first few days of The Beach Boys in the Wilson home, recalling his mother renting the instruments. Remarkably, Alan’s mother Virginia was in the audience. Alan played a tape of his new recording of “Sloop John B,” talking about his new children’s book based on the tune. Sadly, two of the men who made all this happen were there in spirit only-Carl and Dennis Wilson. Their families, having turned out in force, participated in many aspects of the ceremony. The monument’s builder, Scott Wilson, Dennis’s son, was recognized. The monument’s unveiling was a powerful moment, as for the first time in many years, several surviving Beach Boys united to draw the curtains away. Applause rippled throughout the crowd for several minutes. 

As the last surviving Wilson from the house, Brian’s presence was of course, poignant. Brian told friends of mine later that he had enjoyed being back in Hawthorne, and that he was deeply touched by the efforts of all the people involved to remember and honor the music he and his family were so much a part of. Many might have feared that Brian would have unpleasant associations that day. Nothing could be further from the truth. Brian loved what everyone did, and later showed his appreciation by singing “In My Room.” I could feel my emotions swell from so deep inside me that it was all I could do to keep my wits about me. Only a man who has come to some degree of peace with his past could revisit those powerful emotions so plaintively written 40 plus years ago. His band ably provided acoustic guitar accompaniment and backing vocals. Sadly, the sound system did not pick up Brian’s lead on “In My Room” clearly. They also did “Surfer Girl.” Brian thanked the crowd for coming, and related that he felt “good about being here today.” 

On this warm day in May in Hawthorne, the memories of sadness were left behind, and the good was remembered. When it all falls away, what is left is the music, that beautiful, haunting, exhilarating music that six kids from South Bay recorded and the world embraced. 

The rest of the weekend I spent with old friends and fans from all corners of the globe. I had lunch and spent Saturday afternoon with my friend David Leaf, who kindly showed me some sites we added to the bus tour that Domenic Priore and I co-hosted on Sunday. David took me up to Brian’s Laurel Way Home, and we drove by the Bellagio Road home, where so much of Brian’s history in the Sixties and Seventies happened. David and I were talking and I related as to how many people had come from places thousands of miles away to honor Brian and the Beach Boys. David said he’d like to reward their kindness and effort. We hatched a plan to get Brian to meet the tour bus with David the next day through cell phone contact using Domenic’s cell. Keeping the whole thing a secret was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do for a while. 

Once and future Beach Boy author Peter Carlin, Domenic, and I went to a fantastic concert put on by the Monument Committee Saturday night. Several South Bay musicians sat in, including the Bel Air’s lead guitarist, Eddie Bertrand, and John Maus, Carl and David Mark’s guitar teacher, who later became one of The Walker Brothers in England. David Marks, Billy Hinsche, and Bobby Figueroa led an all star band assembled from the players in the 1970s Beach Boy touring band. The memory of Carl and Dennis was honored by Billy Hinsche who played a new song he composed for the occasion with Michael Anglehoff, who Carl recorded with in 1976 on an album called Angelo. The music was fantastic, and David Mark’s musicianship was highlighted. All of us walked to a reception later where we hooked up with Stephen Kalinich, Marilyn Wilson-Rutheford, Jon Stebbins, Alan Boyd, and too many other faces to recall without insulting someone. It was a great way to end a fun day. 

Sunday was the bus tour, and it was a 60 passenger bus, making going to Laurel Way, Deadman’s Curve, or the Bellagio Road home impossible due to city tour bus regulations. There is no one more knowledgeable about the music scene of greater Los Angeles and it cultural treasures than Domenic Priore. Knowing I had neither the technical expertise nor the local area expertise to be a tour leader, I asked Domenic to be our main tour guide. Domenic stepped up and programmed a route that covered South Bay, Hawthorne, Hollywood, and the Miracle Mile. We saw the sites of EVERY studio the Beach Boys ever used, stopped at the Beach Boys star in Hollywood for pictures (I had attended that ceremony back in 1979). We found the site of the fire house used in the Good Vibrations promo film, now a museum, and visited the final resting places of Carl and Audree Wilson, a most powerful and moving green spot of beauty amidst soaring skyscrapers and urban crowding. 

Undoubtedly, the highlight of the bus tour, even for old salts like Domenic and myself, was when we stopped in front of the El Rey Theater and on to the bus popped Brian Wilson. Pandemonium ensued. People screamed, laughed, tears flowed, and Brian said “Thanks to those of you who came to be with us this weekend from so far away. I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of you. Feel free to shot some quick pictures and then I have to go to an interview.” He was there less than 3 minutes, but the fact that he made that effort was profoundly moving to all of us. Even the bus driver said, “I don’t know another famous person who has ever done something like that on our busses.” 

So back we went to Hawthorne, to get a final group photo taken and to be near the Monument we saw unveiled one last time. It seemed so isolated when we went back. Everyone wanted pictures. Pictures of the Monument, pictures of each other, and pictures of the group. It reminded me so much of that time when Brian took pictures of the people in his life during Smile-just before he stopped recording very actively and went into his period of “chilling.” Who knows when such an occasion will happen again? Probably not in our lifetimes. It was all the more special that we got together to remember and celebrate. For many of us, it was not just history, it is the soundtrack of our lives.  

Copyright 2005 by Peter Reum-All Rights Reserved