Summer Song Challenge

My British Invasion

Seeing The Kinks at 23

1979 seemed a turning point in Pop/Rock/Soul music. On an episode of Dick Clark’s American Bandstand that summer, I remember the ageless host declaring that “Disco is Dead.” That was news to the jammed dance clubs I attended at least twice weekly — Wednesday, Saturday —though once that summer I remember “Good Times” by Chic segueing into something I had never heard, and I mean both song and style.

The song was “Rapper’s Delight,” by The Sugarhill Gang, and it sampled the rhythm and grooves of the Chic song. How could I/we have known what all was portending?

Birmingham, Alabama, would not be anyone’s first thought when thinking of gay dance clubs, but the city had a fine roster of venues, and the temperature outside matched the rise and fall of these various outlets, particularly Belle’s and The Lighthouse. The Gizmo was always there, too, as someone’s fallback.

Soon, newer clubs would spring up focusing on Punk and The British New Wave, though by that time I had left Birmingham for grad school in Knoxville. New Wave clubs in that town emerged as fast as men’s gelled hair, and local bands like The Hostages, Candy Creme and the Wet Dream, The Five Twins, and The Squad dominated the local strip.

Sometime in 1980, I saw a new band at Outlaws (or was it Deseperado’s?), called REM. Seems so funny and archaic now.

Back to Birmingham.

I turned 23 that summer, not a legendary of landmarked birthday for anyone, and so I don’t remember any real party. I’m not sure either where all my friends were — some refused to come home from their various universities; some were already married and settled.

I had graduated from college back in May, and grad school didn’t start until mid-September, so I had a long summer in Alabama, working for my father by day, and when not out dancing or watching movies in crowded multiplex theaters, roaming the rural stretches beyond Bessemer on those long daylight savings time nights. Sometimes driving was all we did, because it was cheap, afforded some privacy to get stoned, and allowed everyone to crank up tunes to challenge and affirm our awareness.

And then there were other moments, ones I remember more fondly than the others.

Like that birthday evening.

I’m sure my folks gave me a nice supper and beautiful clothes as gifts. But by 6:30, I was out of the house, ready to hang with friends. As I said earlier, my friend group on this night was sparse, just David and Sarah. I didn’t mind so much, mainly because of Sarah.

I won’t divulge the secrets that I know about her, about us. It was killing me back then, but now I like knowing that I had something I couldn’t explain with Sarah. It wasn’t quite unrequited. Nothing was ever consummated, either. I had known her since kindergarten, and in my memory, she was the first girl I ever had a crush on.

Those were the days when, even in kindergarten, the class celebrated Valentine’s Day by giving each other Valentines. Every one in the class got one from everyone else. But I was sick that day, so one of my little friends both took my Valentines to class and brought the ones for me home. And there I sat in my bed, my left ear throbbing, reading my Valentines.

I don’t think I had ever spoken any words to Sarah, or had her speak to me. Yet, there was her Valentine for me.

It said, “Be My Honey Lamb,” with, of course a little lamb and a heart created on the cover by Hallmark. And Sarah’s name, naturally, underneath.

What does a five year-old think, feel, know about love?

All I can say now is that I experienced feelings that I must call love as I held that card and read it over and over.

After that year, Sarah and I went to different schools, and it must have been ten years before I saw her again. She came to a party held by our Sunday School class. She was Julie Gilmore’s friend, and there we were, teenagers, hormones engaged.

Sarah wore what they called “Gauchos” and she was as pretty as I remembered.

We didn’t become friends on that night, but right after high school, she started working with another close friend of mine, and soon our paths paralleled almost every night.

Like me, Sarah loved to get stoned, to go out dancing, and so we did, more often than I probably remember. I know she considered me a close friend. I believe she trusted me completely. And we experienced some wild nights together and separately.

I wanted us to be closer, wished for it, especially in those summers when we saw each other constantly. I knew, though, her desire didn’t match my own. Not that there wasn’t something there, but even now, I wouldn’t be able to describe what that something was. I think I understood that chemistry is important, but it’s so hard to let it sink in that what mixes well for one, doesn’t always gel for another.

But as I said, I will refrain from telling about those parts, because for my birthday that year, I still had some hope for us; I still thought the potential was out there.

I picked Sarah up first, and then we grabbed David. They both had presents for me.

David gave me a white Master Frisbee, and so, after we smoked a joint, we ventured down to the lake near where he lived and formed our triangle to toss the new disc.

Sometimes I picture heaven as a place where you’re happy and free and standing in a meadow by a lake tossing your frisbee to your close frinds and loved ones. Over and over. On and on and on.

It was like that, that birthday night. We grew sweaty as we ran and tried to arc the frisbee in strange and unaccountable curves.

As we took a break and smoked another joint, Sarah gave me her present: a much folded piece of notebook paper, with a semi-hard center.

Wouldn’t it make a great story if within that paper she had written “Be My Honey Lamb?”

No? Too hokey; too schmaltzy; too Low Budget?

As I opened the paper, I know she wrote something on it, almost like this was a labyrinth that I had to descend to meet my own fate. But when I got to this core, there was a blue ticket waiting.

I had told Sarah some time earlier that I was dying to see The Kinks, who were playing at the concert hall in the Birmingham-Jefferson Civic Center.

This was 1979, remember, and in the midst of dying Disco and rising Rap and New Wave, how could anyone want to see a leftover British Invasion band that wasn’t The Beatles or The Stones?

Well, I did (and as I would discover on the night of the show, so did 1500–2000 other Birminghamians in a packed hall).

When I saw the ticket, I was ecstatic, though it was just the one ticket.

“Don’t worry,” Sarah laughed, “I’m going with you.”

And she pulled the other ticket out of her jeans pocket.

At that moment, I felt like a five year-old kid getting a Valentine. A stoned five year-old kid, that is.

I remember the night of the show. I drove us to the venue, and got us properly stoned on the way. But when the usher led us to our seats, the soundboard had gotten there first.

“Ummm, let me see what to do,” the poor woman said.

Soon, she led us to another pair of seats, even closer to the stage. We sat there for a few minutes, until another usher found us and asked to see our tickets.

This usher then led us to another pair of seats, even closer to the stage.

I was not so stoned that I couldn’t see where this all was heading. And so I was not surprised when yet another usher found us and again asked to see our tickets.

“This is the third time we’ve been asked to move,’ I said, “and we like these seats and are definitely NOT moving again.”

It wasn’t the usher’s fault, or even the sondboard guy’s. But this was our night, I thought. A night Sarah had given to me, and no way were we going to be displaced again.

I have no idea where the couple whose seats we took ended up, but no one bothered us again.

The show was one of the best I had ever seen, too. The Kinks ran through their old stuff like “You Really Got Me,” during which I thought the walls were about to cave in and also during which the lone African American guy in the crowd was pumping his fists in synch with the rest of us whiteys. They played “Lola,” of course, a song I wrote about a couple of years ago here.

And then they played their current hit from their latest release, Low Budget:

“(Wish I Could Fly Like) Superman.”

You know that’s a Disco song, right? It was a standard at Belle’s that summer.

We were all dancing in our seats as the song kept trailing on and away from us to our utter amazement and setting love.

That night was in August, and a few weeks later, I left town for another life. I kept in touch with Sarah, but you know how those things go. Remember, the song says “I wish or Want to fly like Superman.” It’s only a simile, not any true life.

Sarah did give me one more gift, for Christmas that year.

A framed photo of herself, kneeling by a creek of running water. She was gorgeous, of course, and this should have been another in the series of specialized mementos designed to boost me, gel us.

But it wasn’t, for she gave the same gift to everyone that year, and besides, I had already met someone else to “come dancing” with.

In my life, I saw only one other British Invasion band, The Who, but by the time I saw them, Keith Moon was dead.

I haven’t seen Sarah for thirty-five years. I don’t know where she is, nor have I tried to find her.

Still, a Valentine is a Valentine, a honey lamb, a honey lamb, in 1961, 1979, or anytime.

I’ll always love The Kinks, and you, Sarah. And especially, that summer.

Likely, this is my last entry in The Riff’s summer song writing challenge. And if so, I want to thank our host, Noah Levy, and especially Jessica Lee McMillan, my musical comrade, whose dreamy vision into Bossa Nova and all summers made my memories real again.