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

It's January 1966 - You Have This Band - You Want The Flu.

Just your luck.

Your band – the one you've had since you first heard Bustin' Surfboards. You practiced every weekend – drove the neighbors insane. They no longer speak to you. But you were determined. Bought every Beatles record the second it came out – could play Gloria in your sleep. First one in your school to wear Byrd glasses – told everyone Roger McGuinn was your cousin.

The Senior talent show – first time the band would play in public. You were nervous – but if you could play in front of everybody who knew you, you could get booked at Pandora's Box to play in front of a bunch of strangers – and get paid for it. Life was on a crash-course to becoming sweet.

Spent Christmas vacation forking over all your allowance on clothes at Sy Devore's – had the Sonny Bono thing down. You were destined to live on the Sunset Strip.

But then . . .

Hong-Kong Flu. It was going around – it was deadly – everybody was getting it. Stories from friends about throwing up everything they've eaten since birth. Trapped in bed for a week; dying.

You didn't get it – but your singer who was also rhythm guitar did. Two days before the big debut – the Talent Show. Down with a 104 fever and steps away from an ambulance.

Panic – freak out. Calling everybody you knew – calling everybody they knew – calling total strangers. Begging – pleading – promising the moon.

Finally – found the brother of a cousin of a guy you knew in Homeroom. Said he could do it – was taking singing lessons. Knew all the songs – knew all the right keys. Lived in Reseda but could skip school that day – would take the bus if you could give him a ride home.

You were desperate – you would have said yes if he wanted a limo.

You told him to dress hip and be at the school auditorium after lunch.

You hung up the phone and stopped sweating – you were saved at the last minute.

Day of the show you're pacing – you've broken out in a rash – he doesn't show up until five minutes before you go on. Steps off the bus looking like he spent a month at Station 8. Carries a long case. He doesn't have an amp. That's okay.

You don't ask questions – you run to the auditorium and make your way backstage.

The entire school has been hearing about this band you've put together. They are yelling and stomping in anticipation like it was the Hollywood Bowl.

You're shaking like a room full of hormones – your hands could fill a tidal basin.

You don't notice your replacement singer and rhythm guitarist has pulled a trombone out of the case and taps the microphone.

A Trombone??

The audience goes dead quiet – your bass player and drummer look like they'll faint.

Somewhere in your perspiring brain you hear the words "The show must go on" – and you strike the opening chord to Gloria and determine to make the best of it. You make the profound discovery that the Trombone will never replace a guitar and that the rest of the band will never speak to you for the remainder of your sad, wretched life.

You are terrible – you now know why your neighbors scream obscenities when they see you – the yelling and stomping have turned into resounding howls and boos. You last all of five minutes before you're ushered off stage amidst a hail of paper cups and math books.

You're going to go down in history as the worst band that ever played before an audience anywhere. You are praying to catch the flu or at least get hit by a bus.

When it's all over and you have escaped the waves of laughter and made your way home, you sneak into your room, collapse on the bed, pull up the covers and pretend you're invisible. Not even the dog wants to investigate.

The only thing you hear is your maudlin breath and the sound of a radio in the distance, playing one of the songs your band hopelessly mangled.

Life is a pisser – but music is forever.

You wonder how much you can get by selling your guitar.

And while that's going on, KFWB is filling the air with Reb Foster – all on January 20, 1966.