Tuesday, May 28, 1968

 from ’68 – A Novel

  

“Did you hear about the Scorpion?”

Skip had heard the question so many times during the day that he’d lost count and could not remember the first person who had asked. The news had spread out across the country in successive shock waves from the epicenter, the Norfolk Navy Base at Hampton Roads, Virginia. It began with a news bulletin broadcast by the CBS television affiliate in Norfolk on May 27 at around 6:00 PM local time: the USS Scorpion was overdue in port and the Navy had declared a SubMiss (submarine missing) alert. The crew of ninety-nine officers and enlisted men were drawn from thirty-three of the fifty states and long-distance phone lines lit up as families reached out to notify their loved ones.

The second wave came on Tuesday morning, May 28, when major newspapers across the country reported the SubMiss alert and the fact that the Navy had launched a massive open-water search operation. In Norfolk, The Ledger-Star proclaimed, “No Trace of Sub Found as Navy Presses Search.” The headline in the New York Times read, “U.S. Nuclear Submarine with 99 Overdue.” Again, phone lines were jammed, reaching into every corner of the country, including Vallejo, California.

Vallejo, the home of Mare Island Naval Shipyard, was an integral part of the nuclear navy. Beginning with the USS Sargo in 1957 and extending to the USS Drum in 1970, Mare Island would contribute seventeen ships to the nuclear submarine fleet, including seven “boomers” (the Navy’s nickname for ships armed with ballistic missiles) and ten fast attack boats. Mare Island was also one of several sites for the Navy’s nuclear power school. Any tremor that affected a nuclear submarine would be felt in Vallejo.

With the five o’clock shift change on the shipyard, the crowd at Skip’s Place began to grow, larger than normal for a Tuesday evening. It seemed that the shipyard workers needed to come together, to talk about what they’d heard, and hopefully, hear some encouraging news about the fate of the Scorpion. Skip knew it was just a matter of time until someone would walk in with a story of connections to the ship and its crew. He didn’t have long to wait.

“Hey, Robbie. How’s it goin’?”

“Goin’ good. What’s up?”

“Did you hear about the Scorpion?”

“What about the Scorpion?”

“She’s missing. The Navy put out a SubMiss alert yesterday afternoon.”

“Damn! That’s my brother-in-law’s ship!”

All along the bar, eyes turned in Robbie’s direction. No one said a word. After several seconds, Robbie broke the silence. “Hey, Skip, I gotta call my sister in Norfolk—”

“Sure, Robbie.” Skip didn’t wait for him to finish. “Use the phone in the office.”

“Thanks, Skip.” Robbie hurried toward the door to the small office located off the end of the bar. “I’ll pay you for the call.”

“Can you believe that? His brother-in-law’s ship?”

“Anybody know what class it is?”

“Yeah, it’s a Skipjack. Built in Groton.”

“Did we build any Skipjacks?”

“Just one: the Scamp. Launched in 1960. It’s a good design—faster than hell. I hear it maneuvers like a sports car.”

“Yeah, a hundred guys crammed into a sports car. I tell you what, it’s no job for sissies.”

            “You been on one, Jack?”

“Yeah. My last six years were in the submarine service … the last three on the USS Haddo.  She’s Thresher class.”

Now all eyes turned to Jack with the respect due someone who knows.

“Yeah, no job for sissies. You have no idea what it’s like out there, underwater for weeks at a time, bored out of your skull, and then all of a sudden you’re in places you’re not supposed to be, under a Soviet destroyer or some other damn ship, and your heart’s pounding so hard you’d swear they could hear it on their sonar. I pissed myself more than once, and that’s no lie. Collisions and near-collisions, stuff you’ll never hear about, because the Navy doesn’t want you to know.”

Jack finished his beer and signaled to Skip for another.

“And you have no idea what it does to the wives, either. Killed my marriage, that’s for sure. She just couldn’t take it—the separations, the silence, the missions you couldn’t talk about. She was a good woman, too.”

Everyone felt bad for Jack. It was quiet again along the bar. He continued.

“You know, when you’re scheduled to go on patrol, they put it to you straight. Make sure your affairs are in order. Make sure your insurance premiums are paid up. Like I said, no job for sissies.”

Robbie emerged from the office and rejoined his friends. Skip slid a shot and beer in front of him and he threw back the shot.

“I can’t friggin’ believe it! My sister says she and the kids were down at the pier in Norfolk, waiting for the ship to come in. They got there at noon and she’s due in at 1:00 PM. There’s a Nor’easter blowing, the rain practically going sideways. They’re waiting in the car, trying to keep warm, stepping out every now and then to see if the ship’s coming. One o’clock comes and goes and they’re still waiting. Around 4:00, someone from Squadron comes down and tells them she’s been delayed and they should all go home. It’s easy to believe a delay, because of the lousy weather, so they go home. And on the six o’clock news, they break in with a report that the USS Scorpion is overdue and a sub missing alert has been issued. My eight-year-old nephew hears this and runs into the kitchen to tell his mom. Can you believe that shit? No call from Squadron. They hear about it on TV.”

Robbie was quiet then. His friends bought him another round.

Jack, the former submariner, spoke up. “Hell, as my old man used to say, ‘There’s the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way.’ I guess this is the Navy way.”

“Look, Robbie …” Skip felt the need to offer some hope. “Missing doesn’t mean lost. She may be out there in the storm somewhere, disabled, unable to radio in. They’re launching a search. They could find her … anytime now.”

“Yeah? Maybe you’re right, Skip.” He dropped his eyes and thought about it for a few seconds. “I’ll have to take some time off … check on flights to Norfolk … my sister’s gonna need some help.”

Robbie’s friends took his car keys and ordered another round for him. They’d see to it that he got home safely.

 

In the days and weeks to come, the news would trickle out to the Scorpion families and the world at large. Around mid-day on May 27, Memorial Day, the Submarine Squadron 6 command became concerned and began a series of radio transmissions asking Scorpion to check in. Receiving no reply, Squadron transmitted alarm up the chain of command, and at 2:15 PM, COMSUBLANT (Commander, Atlantic Submarine Force) requested two reconnaissance aircraft to begin a search along the ship’s intended track. Finally, at 3:15 PM, the official SubMiss alert was broadcast to the Atlantic Fleet.

Years later, additional facts would become public knowledge. The last radio transmission from Scorpion was received shortly after midnight on May 22, when the skipper, Commander Francis Slattery, gave his current position and said he planned to be in port at 1:00 PM on May 27. Later that day, SOSUS, the then-secret underwater acoustic monitoring system, recorded the explosion that sent Scorpion to the ocean floor under eleven thousand feet of water, four hundred miles southwest of the Azores. On May 23, Vice Admiral Arnold Schade, commander of the Atlantic Submarine Force, requested and received approval to launch a top-secret search for the wreckage of the submarine.

Of course, the Scorpion families, waiting on Pier 22 in the middle of a howling storm on May 27, knew none of this. Not that it would have provided any comfort to know that their sailors were on eternal patrol.

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 The Power of Words

 

I just finished reading Doris Kearns Goodwin’s An Unfinished Love Story – A personal history of the 1960s. This is a must-read for history lovers, especially if you came of age in the decade of the 60s. It will take you through all the milestones etched in your memory: the first televised presidential debates; Kennedy’s inaugural address; the Cuban Missile Crisis; and on and on. There are triumphs, such as the Civil Rights Act (1964), Voting Rights Act (1965), and Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon in 1969. And there are tragedies: the assassinations of JFK, MLK, and RFK; riots in many of our great cities; and of course, the Vietnam War and the debacle of the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago.

Richard “Dick” Goodwin was in his twenties when he joined the Kennedy campaign in 1960 as an assistant to chief speech writer Ted Sorenson. During a remarkable career in public life, Dick Goodwin worked for John Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Eugene McCarthy, and Robert Kennedy. His fingerprints and his words are found in major speeches and policy declarations for all these men. Pick a major policy initiative of the 60s and Dick Goodwin was there.

I first became aware of Doris Kearns Goodwin in 1994 when she appeared in Ken Burns’s documentary, Baseball. She recalled listening to Brooklyn Dodger games on the radio and keeping score to give her father a play-by-play account when he arrived home from work. She was six years old and convinced she was keeping her father’s love of the Dodgers alive. I’ve been a fan of DKG ever since hearing that story. In addition to being a baseball fan, she has compiled a distinguished career as a presidential historian. Her books include: Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream; Team of Rivals – the Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln; Leadership in Turbulent Times.   

Dick Goodwin met Doris Kearns in 1972; they married and were together until his death in 2018 at the age of eighty-six. This book was their last collaborative effort, a sequential review of more than three hundred boxes of archival material Dick had accumulated over his years in public life. The fact that he died before the book was completed suggests the title: An Unfinished Love Story. That Doris went on to complete the project gives their story its exclamation point.

Beautifully written. Packed with emotion. Highly recommended. As I said in the beginning, this is a must-read, especially if you are of a certain age.

 

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 Sunday, May 5, 1968

from '68 - A Novel

John Harris stood on the sidewalk on the north side of N Street, taking in the well-maintained vista of Capitol Park in Sacramento. He took Martha’s hand as they started down the broad walkway that led past the east entrance to the Capitol Building. They came to a spot near an ancient magnolia tree and John came to a halt. Across the grass and through the trees, he could see the landscaped grotto that housed the monument.

            "There it is, Martha." John gestured toward the structure in the grotto.

            “I see it, honey. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah. Just give me a few minutes.”

He was there at his doctor’s suggestion to confront his demons, to see if they could be beaten back, or at least controlled. If he could do this, then maybe the nightmares would subside. Maybe he could even sleep through the night. He continued north along the walk and turned right onto a paved path named for former governor Hiram Johnson. And then he was standing in front of the monument to the USS California.

The California was John’s ship. He’d joined the crew in January of 1944 when she sailed from Bremerton, Washington. The Puget Sound Navy Yard had repaired the damage sustained at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and the California would go on to fight in battles all across the Pacific, exacting a heavy measure of revenge against the Japanese. Her great 14-inch guns became an important part of the battery that would be arrayed to pound each successive island before the Marines went ashore, firing shells the weight of a small car against the shoreline defenses.

Then came the day, the battle of Lingayen Gulf, when a kamikaze came screaming out of the clouds, leveled off and roared into the California’s superstructure. That was January 6, 1945. Forty-four men died that day; more than one hundred and fifty were wounded. Emergency repairs were made on the spot; ship and crew fought on. More than two weeks later, when the job was done, the California steamed back to Puget Sound for permanent repairs. John was reassigned and he finished the war out of harm’s way. But the California returned to service in the Pacific, first at Okinawa and, finally, supporting occupation forces in Japan.

For John Harris, it was only the beginning. He would relive January 6, 1945, over and over in his dreams. He would see himself frantically feeding ammunition to the anti-aircraft gun, see the kamikaze glide into a level path headed for the ship, see the gunner firing desperately at the plane, and watch helplessly as it sailed overhead to explode against the ship. In his dream, he could feel the heat from the fireball, and he could hear his shipmates scream in agony amid the flames.

Now he was standing in front of the monument. It was a simple structure: two square stone columns supporting a stone cap across the top with the inscription: U.S.S. CALIFORNIA. From the crosspiece hung the ship’s bell, its clapper removed. The California was decommissioned in 1947 and sold for scrap in 1959. This bell was all that remained of a once mighty warship. The carved legend on the left column read:

ONLY BATTLESHIP BUILT ON THE PACIFIC COAST

LAUNCHED AT MARE ISLAND NAVY YARD NOV. 20, 1919

SHIPS BELL DEDICATED AND RUNG FOR THE LAST TIME

BY GOVERNOR EARL WARREN OCT. 27, 1947.

On the right column, the World War II battles were listed in order:

PEARL HARBOR/MARIANAS/LEYTE GULF/SURIGAO/

LINGAYEN GULF/OKINAWA/JAPAN.

John read the inscription on the columns, then read it again. When he got to the line RUNG FOR THE LAST TIME, he felt his blood begin to boil. Rung for the last time … It should be rung every year on November 20, the day she was launched at Mare Island.  Rung for the last time … It should be rung every December 7, once for each man who died at Pearl. Rung for the last time … It should be rung every January 6, for the men who died in the flames at Lingayen Gulf. His chest was heaving now, his breath coming in great gasps. Sold for scrap in 1959. Sold for scrap? How do you sell steel for scrap when it has been washed in the blood of brave men? She should be afloat today, with a special berth at Mare Island, open to the public. Let people stand under those guns and imagine the roar and how they lit up the night sky. Let them stand on the spot where the bomb penetrated her hull at Pearl. Let them touch the scorched and twisted steel plate where the kamikaze hit. Let them see, and touch … and maybe even feel.

His breathing was returning to normal now. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket to mop his forehead and dab his eyes. He felt Martha touch his elbow gently.

“John … are you okay, honey?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m fine now.” He took two steps forward and placed the palm of his right hand against the surface of the bell. Finally, he stepped away. “Okay, Martha. Let’s go.”

She wrapped her right arm around his ample waist as they walked away, heading back to N Street and the entrance to the park.

_____

_____

 

 Moonstruck

  

The conference call included three men, a small but very powerful trio of advisers to EXPOTUS. Perhaps the conversation went something like this:

 

Epshteyn: Today’s court appearance did not go well, definitely not according to plan. Steve, you promised all hell would break loose. Hell stayed home.

 

Miller: What about fundraising? Did you put out the usual ‘asks’ by social media? All the usual platforms, especially those with video content?

 

Epshteyn: Of course. We didn’t miss a single outlet. I think our base is becoming jaded, bored, disinterested. The contributions just trickled in. Barely enough to cover legal fees.

 

Bannon: That’s disappointing. I thought sure EXPOTUS blasting the judge and violating the gag order would be a big hit.

 

Miller: We’ve tried everything to get the judge to react and throw EXPOTUS in jail, but he won’t take the bait. We’ve got to come up with new ideas. EXPOTUS in a prison jump suit would blow the roof off our fundraising.

 

Bannon: I think I have something. How ’bout this: at the next court appearance, what if EXPOTUS moons the judge?

 

Miller: Oh my God! You mean actually drop his pants?

 

Bannon: Exactly!

 

Epshteyn: Wow! That certainly ought to do it. Straight to the slammer, for sure. The contributions would pour in.

 

Miller: Wait a minute. I’ve played golf with EXPOTUS. I’ve seen him in the locker room fresh from the shower. It’s not a pretty sight.

 

Bannon: No problem. I have Hollywood connections. We’ll get the best makeup people in the business.

 

Epshteyn: Makeup? For his backside?

 

Bannon: Sure. You don’t think these movie stars do their nude scenes without makeup, do you? Moles, pimples, blemishes, unsightly hair—it all has to be covered up.

 

Miller: Geez, I had no idea. Do you think we should run it by our usual focus group? Maybe give ’em a demo?

 

Epshteyn: You could stand in for EXPOTUS, Steve. We’ll get you a blue suit, a red tie, a yellow hairpiece.

 

Bannon: No time for that. I say we go straight to the mattresses.

 

Epshteyn: So, do you think EXPOTUS will go for it?

 

Miller: Are you kidding? By the time I finish pitching it to him, he’ll swear it was his idea.

 

Bannon: All righty then. I’ll reach out to the makeup artists. Miller, you make the pitch to

EXPOTUS. Epshteyn, you tip the media that something big is going to happen.

 

Miller: Let’s go for it.

 

Epshteyn: Here’s to the next full moon.

 

All three: CHEERS!

 

And so it goes in the back rooms of power. Remember, all’s fair in love and politics.

_____

 

 

HISTORY ACCORDING TO THE VICTORS

 

The cable news networks have a camera station set up inside the capitol building in Washington D.C. Reporters stand in front of the cameras, microphones in hand, and report the latest happenings from the House and Senate. In the background stands a white marble statue of Jacques Marquette, a Jesuit priest, who in 1673, accompanied by Louis Jolliet, laid eyes upon the mighty Mississippi. The engraving on the base of the statue reads:

 

WISCONSIN’S TRIBUTE

_____

JAMES MARQUETTE   S.J.,

WHO, WITH LOUIS JOLIET

DISCOVERED THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER

AT PRAIRIE DU CHEIN, WIS.

JUNE 17, 1673

 

Imagine the dialogue at that historic moment. Maybe it went something like this:

 

Marquette: Oh joy, oh rapture! Jolliet, look at this magnificent river. Such power, such potential!

Jolliet: Praise be to God, the creator!

Marquette: [Speaking to his guide and interpreter, a Sioux known as Many Tongues LeBeau] LeBeau, ask our native friends if they are familiar with this mighty stream.

LeBeau: [Speaking to Proud Eagle, a chief of the Menomonee tribe] Chief, the white devil wants to know if you are ‘familiar’ with the river.

Eagle: Is this white mans' humor? Are we ‘familiar’? Our people have lived on this river since time began. Tell him we were here while his ancestors lived in caves and ran from the giant lizards.

LeBeau: [To Marquette] He says he’s never before seen these waters.

Marquette: But how can that be?

LeBeau: There is a legend of a great flood where only a handful of beasts survived. Native people stay far away, on the other side of yonder ridge.

Marquette: Did you hear that, Jolliet? We are the first to stand on this ground.

Jolliet: Praise the Lord!

Marquette: Ask him how far—in legend—the river extends.

LeBeau: He wants to know how far the river runs.

Eagle: It begins upstream at a lake we call Itaska and extends far down river to where it empties into a vast open sea. By canoe, a brave would take a hundred suns to reach the sea.

LeBeau: [to Marquette] He says he has no idea.

Marquette: It appears to be navigable. Think of the commerce, think of the trade, think of great cities rising on its banks! Ask him if legend has given this mighty torrent a name.

LeBeau: What do you folks call the river?

Eagle: We call it Misi-ziibi. It means Big River.

LeBeau: Big River? That’s the best you’ve got?

Eagle: It sounds better when you say Misi-ziibi.

LeBeau: The chief says it is called Misi-ziibi, which means ‘Mother of all waters, flowing swiftly to the heavenly sea’.

Marquette: Oh rapture! Oh joy! Jolliet, we have discovered the Mississippi. I will call it ‘River of the Immaculate Conception’.

Jolliet: Halleluiah!

Eagle: These people are crazy. Why are they so worked up?

LeBeau: They think they discovered the river.

Eagle: Sheesh… Tell him there were other white devils, way down river, who were here in the time of my great great grandfather.

LeBeau: Father Marquette, the chief congratulates you and your friend, Monsieur Jolliet, on this grand discovery.

 

So it is written. So let it be carved in stone. Back to Wolf Blitzer in the studio…

_____

 

Lone Rat

 

It was a quiet January morning and Homer Bumwell was hard at work in his palatial office. His massive desk held four large flat-screen monitors, one tuned to CNN, the other three focused on company business. As President and COO of YahYouBetcha, the fastest growing online gambling operation in the U.S., he took great pleasure in keeping track of the betting action on the company’s many platforms. With the NCAA championship game on the horizon and the Super Bowl just a few weeks away, the gamblers were out in force. Thank God for cloud computing and infinite capacity, he thought. Go ahead, suckers, bet to your hearts’ content.

The monitor tuned to CNN was on the far-right side of the desk, the sound muted, the banner at the base of the screen scrolling news that included the words “active shooter” and “Iowa.” Bumwell paid no attention.

There was a polite knock on his door and Bettsy Lovelady, his secretary, popped her head in. “Good morning, Mr. Bumwell. Mr. Zipper is here to see you.”

Homer checked his Rolex. “Great, right on time. Send him in.”

The door opened wide and Hardy Zipper, Vice President of Business Development, walked briskly into the office, his right hand extended to shake hands with the boss. “Mr. Bumwell, thanks for seeing me on short notice. How are you, sir?”

“Never better, Hardy, never better.” They shook hands firmly. “Let’s use my conference table so these damn monitors won’t be in the way.” They walked to the large mahogany table surrounded by comfortable leather chairs. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a placid lake where the occasional trout broke the surface to slurp up an insect. Bumwell sat at the head of the table while Zipper took a chair to his right. “Now, what’s on your mind, Hardy? Why did you insist on meeting first thing this morning?”

“I have an idea to run by you, sir. I think you’re gonna love it. It has great growth potential and, quite frankly, it’s based on a gift that just keeps giving.”

“Hmm…well you certainly have my attention, Hardy. Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, so you know how our volume drops off after the Super Bowl. Football fans are the best there is and they can’t get enough action. But after the Super Bowl, things get quiet. Our revenue takes a dive. March Madness is a nice bump, and the NBA is pretty solid, but nothing makes up for the football action. And we all know baseball is a dud. Very few gamblers want to bet on baseball.”

“Okay, I’m with you so far.”

“My idea could fill the gap between football seasons and I think you are going to agree it has significant growth potential.”

“I’m listening.” Bumwell glanced at his watch. Get to the damn point, Hardy. I don’t have all day.

“Okay, here it is. We build a site to bet on the next mass shooting.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“I kid you not, sir. We could lay out a sweet menu of betting options for our clients. Like, how many days until the next ‘active shooter’ event.”

“I don’t know, Hardy, they happen so often now.”

“Or covering the spread on how many victims.”

“Hmm…that’s interesting.” Homer drummed his fingers on the conference table.

“How ’bout the shooter’s weapon of choice?”

“Nah, ninety percent of ’em use that frickin’ AR-15.”

“But we could give long odds on something other than an AR-15. And how ’bout this—the venue. Is it a school, a church, a synagogue, a shopping mall, a dance hall? Think of the possibilities, sir. The list is endless.”

“I’m startin’ to feel you, Hardy. How about the shooter’s choice of social media? Did he post his manifesto on FaceBook, Instagram, Truth Social, or whatever—”

“And don’t forget the potential parlays, like ‘I’ll take more than ten victims, at a school, and YouTube for social media.’”

“By God, Hardy, I think you’ve got something.”

“Our tech crew could put up a site in no time, including an app for the iPhone junkies.” Hardy was grinning ear-to-ear.

“You got that right. But what can we call it? How ’bout ‘Lone Wolf’. These whack jobs typically act alone.”

“Sir, that’s an insult to wolves. I’m thinking we call it ‘Lone Rat’. How does that grab you?”

“I love it! ‘Lone Rat’ it is. Okay, okay…let’s slow down a little. We want to do this right. Let’s call a meeting of the management team to brainstorm ideas. Then we can meet with the statisticians and odds-makers to make sure they can handicap this shit. After that, we’ll call in the tech geeks and get the ball rolling. Oh, and in the meantime, I’d better run it by legal. We need to make sure any exposure won’t break the bank.” Homer leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Hardy Zipper…”

“Yes, sir?”

“You are one hell of a guy! No wonder I pay you the big bucks. The ball’s in your court, Zip. Now get the hell out of here and get to work.” Zipper was halfway to the door when Bumwell jumped to his feet. “Wait a minute! Here’s another one: they could bet the over-under on how many senators and congressmen will offer thoughts and prayers.”

“Brilliant, Chief! I’ll add it to the list.” Zipper closed the door behind him.

Bumwell returned to his desk. On the monitor tuned to CNN, the Sheriff of Dallas County Iowa stood in front of a bank of microphones, about to convene a press briefing in a town called Perry.

_____

 

 Author's note: The review that follows was posted in January 2020. I'm reposting it here in memory of Charlene Imhoff Dividson who passed away December 18, 2023. That's her in the picture below, second from the right--beautiful, talented, and a dear, sweet friend. Rest in peace, Sis.

Remember When…

By C.W. Spooner

“Sly walks in and says, ‘Does anybody sing harmony or are y’all going to sing melody?’”

-          Charlene Imhoff Davidson

That was the In the Beginning moment for a doo-wop group that came to be known as the Viscaynes, six kids from Vallejo, California. “Sly” was Sylvester Stewart, known in his community as a musical prodigy. Guitar, keyboards, horns—was there an instrument he could not play? And there was the voice that could hit the sweet high notes when they were needed.

Frank Arellano and Charlene Imhoff had a group and showed up for talent contests. That’s where they first heard Sly, a classmate, Vallejo High Class of ’61. Frank asked for help to “get our harmonies together,” and Sly said “sure.” The group grew to six members, including Charlie and Verne Gebhardt and Maria “Ria” Boldway. They began to meet in the Gebhardts' rec room, equipped with a piano and encouragement from Charlie and Verne’s parents. Along the way, Mike Stevens joined to play piano. They’d stay in that room for hours.

All that practice paid off and they began to win talent competitions. In the spring of 1961, they auditioned for the Dick Stewart Dance Party, the San Francisco equivalent of Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. They were accepted. The television appearance and talent show wins led to recording sessions in San Francisco where they cut a series of 45-RPM sides, including “Yellow Moon.” That tune became a hit in the Bay Area, reaching number 16 on radio station KYA’s Top 60 chart.

This backstory is meant to call your attention to a reissue of those venerable tracks recorded in 1961. It is titled The Viscaynes & Friends, and it’s available on MP3, CD or vinyl. Amazon delivered my CD a few days ago and I’ve been spinning it ever since. Songs like "You've Forgotten Me," "A Long Time Alone," and "Heavenly Angel" take me back to a simpler, brighter time when absolutely everything was possible. My only complaint is that two of my favorites are missing: “Stop What You’re Doing,” and “I Guess I’ll Be,” both featuring Charlene’s clarion voice. You’ll have to go to YouTube to hear those two.

As we know, Sly went on to fame and fortune as the star of Sly and the Family Stone. But fame and fortune cuts both ways, especially in the music business. Sly has seen some very hard times, but the latest word is that things are a little better. Will there be a happy ending? Let’s hope so.

None of that dims the legacy of the recordings that will live forever with the release of The Viscaynes & Friends. There is a quotation in the liner notes that captures the pure joy of the ride home from a recording session. It could be attributed to any member of the group, because their collective memory is as tightly woven as their harmony:

“We did not come home until five o’clock, six o’clock in the morning, because we recorded all night. Coming home, it was the coolest image ever. I close my eyes and I can see it, all seven of us, in Mike Stevens’s dad’s convertible. We are coming across the Bay Bridge, and the sun is coming up, with the top down, singing to the top of our lungs. It was the coolest thing ever.”

I highly recommend this album. Put it on, close your eyes, feel the wind in your hair, and watch the sunrise over the East Bay hills.

_____

PS: This release of the "Complete Recordings 1961 - 1962" came out later and included Charlene singing lead on "Stop What You're Doing" and "I Guess I'll Be." 

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