It's April 1965 - You're Gonna Start A Band - People Laugh - You Don't.

Your Life - Your Times - Your Tunes

Your dad blew a gasket – he's been doing that a lot lately. He squints at you across the dinner table – won't look you in the eye – he hates your music – hates your hair – he's starting to hate you.

You don't care – this is important – this is your life – your life depends on it – your life is music – you're going to be famous.

Your mom understands . . .kind of. How about Flute? How about Violin? How about Piano lessons? Nope. Guitar – Rickenbacker 360 Maplelglo semi-hollow body Electric Guitar – just like George Harrison's.

Mom is baffled – gives you the "you'll get over it" speech. You've been saving – worked your fingers to the bone wrapping Christmas presents at May Company. It's Rickenbacker or nothing.

Dad won't drive you to Betnun's to get the guitar – it's sitting there, you saw it in the store window – dad leaves the room – slams doors – yells something about Reform School. Mom gives in.

You have a vision – it's burned into your brain. You're gonna form a band; The Bo-Tiks – first all-girl rock band in L.A. – two girls from English class want to join – you get together on weekends – you sing folk music. That was before Ed Sullivan. Ed Sullivan changed your life. You could do that – you could write songs. You wonder if boys could be groupies.

Mom drives you to Betnun's. A boy got there first – he's trying the Rickenbacker out – your Rickenbacker – he can't play to save his life. He thinks you're staring at him – attempted Beach Boy all the way down to the Pendleton – has to be your age. Laughs when you tell him you're buying that guitar. Dives into the "no chicks in Rock Bands" rant – sucks his stomach in – hands you an "ain't I hot?" gaze – you hand him ice water. You wish he would crawl back under the rock or evaporate.

After an hour it's yours. You give Sol a wad of cash and he beams – you beam – you're the proud owner of a Rickenbacker. The store is loaded with noise – half the teenagers in L.A. are busy plucking and imagining. The drum room is one long riff on Bustin' Surfboards.

Mom's been waiting in the car – leafing through your copy of 16 Magazine. Secretly she's in a panic – keeps thinking "where did we go wrong?" – she also thinks you're brave and it must come from her side of the family – She nods as you present her with the shining-gleaming goods. She wants to give you an "atta girl" but doesn't want to take sides. Domestic bliss is going to be in short supply for a while. Years maybe.

On your way home you prepare for World War 3 – until your dad stops listening to Lawrence Welk there will be no peace. Maybe if you baked him something . . .

You get home and it's eerie calm. You sprint to your room and avoid an ambush. You open the case, gaze lovingly at the Rickenbacker and realize you didn't get an amp. You can't plug it in anywhere – you can't crank it up to 10 – can't practice chords. You sigh as your shoulders droop to the floor and cringe at the thought you'll be spending months working at the Orange Julius on Pico until you have enough money to buy one.

Maybe your mom could pull a few strings . . .

Meanwhile, you flick on KHJ and beg your brother to loan you his tape recorder so you can start grabbing songs. You're on a mission now.

Just wait til the band gets together . . . .

Here's a blast of KHJ during their sneak preview week for Boss Radio in April 1965 with Roger Christian.

https://pastdaily.com/2024/07/06/its-april-1965-you-live-in-l-a-youre-a-teenager-youre-gonna-start-a-band-people-laugh-you-dont/