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Abstract

m for eighth-grade graduation. He could keep time okay and do a little low-level razzmatazz with the sticks, but it was pretty clear he had a lot of work to do.I wasn’t too bad on bass, but for some reason, I had problems singing and playing at the same time. So Zip’s younger brother Kip — who was not officially in the band — would sometimes try to sing while we focused on improving as musicians. Kip could do a couple verses OK, but he’d usually end up off key and need to regroup during the song.One thing Kip could do was screech like Vince Neil of Motley Crüe. But that wasn’t really the sound we wanted, so we never asked him to do it. He just did it on his own whenever he felt like it.* * * * The main reason we didn’t have a band, though, was because Lucas Fonterra and his family moved to Bemidji, Minnesota, early in the summer between 11th and 12th grade.Fonterra had no problem singing and playing at the same time, so he had done most of our vocals except when Zip did his drum solo and I kind of jazz-improvised some shoo-be-dee-wa-wa vocalizations as he pounded the skins.We were pretty sure that after we practiced this innovative interplay enough to turn it into a showstopper, his drum solo and my jazzy vocals would be a big crowd-pleaser at our arena shows. We’d probably use it to close out the first set.That summer, Zip and I had a lot of jam-session conversations about meeting up with Fonterra in Atlantic City after graduation and spending a month or so just playing together so we could tighten up before we headlined our first gig.All the talk about reuniting with Fonterra in New Jersey helped give us the false hope of impending greatness as we marked time until the summer of ’85.It’s important to note that Fonterra had no clue about any of this. Zip and I didn’t cook up The Jersey Dream idea until after he’d left for Bemidji. * * * *<figure id="4978"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*F97dgIJZ0__2RDWqweLIcQ.jpeg"><figcaption>Original photo by the author</figcaption></figure>Fonterra only wrote us once, a couple weeks after he moved. He addressed the letter to both of us even though he mailed it to Zip’s address, probably because that’s where we had our basement studio set up. He didn’t say much, just that he was “still playin’” and that he missed “jammin’” with us. He included his address and phone number.We called a few days after the letter arrived, but no one answered. Not everyone had answering machines in those days, so we didn’t get the chance to leave a message. Cell phones still lived in the future, and calling long-distance was still a pretty big deal. So Zip and I would practice in his basement and say things like, “Man, we gotta get in touch with Fonterra and get him in on this Jersey plan.”We tried calling again a few weekends later. One of Fonterra’s older brothers answered. When

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Zip told him who was calling, all he said before hanging up was, “Man, he ain’t here.”Not even a goodbye, much less anything like, “I’ll tell him you called.” Unlike Lucas and his other three brothers, Lanny Fonterra was always a bit of a jerk.* * * * A few different guys sat in with us as we looked for a new guitarist. A couple of them were OK, but Zip and I had a secret dilemma.The name of our band was Fonterra. We all thought it sounded the coolest of our last names choices.We toyed around with “Tilroy” for a bit after Fonterra left town, but because Styx had released that awful “Mr. Roboto” song with its annoying “Kilroy” bit, we didn’t want our name to remind people of that song. My own last name, Mondale, was out the question for obvious reasons.After senior year started, we tried writing the title song for “The Jersey Dream,” thinking that we would record a rough-cut version and send the tape to Fonterra. That would pique his interest, for sure. We spent the second half of September and early October working on the lyrics, but the only thing we liked was a couplet that made no sense:<blockquote id="20a5">“Gonna live and breathe The Jersey Dream!</blockquote><blockquote id="d8cd">Nothin’ here is at all like what it seems!”</blockquote>By the time Christmas break rolled around, Zip and I had pretty much quit talking about The Jersey Dream. Every now and then, we would get together in his basement for a jam session, but the thrill, as they say, was gone. * * * *Instead of barreling east in a’69 Chevy with a 396 in the summer of ’85, I joined the United States Army. When I learned I was going to basic training at Fort Dix, well within driving distance of the Jersey Shore, I was ecstatic.Alone in my bedroom, I pulled the bass out of the closet, plugged in the amp, and started to play. It did not sound good.Then I thought about how Jimi Hendrix had been in the Army before he attained rock superstardom.“Once I get out of the Army and start college,” I thought, “I’ll be able to practice all the time.” I also thought I’d have time to visit Atlantic City and take in a show by Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes, or maybe Little Steven, perhaps even The Boss himself.But that never happened.After basic, I got shipped to Fort Benning, Georgia, for infantry training. No weekends off to scoot away to the beach. From Benning, it was on to Germany, a place so far away from where I had been up to that point in my life that the past seemed as pliable as the future.With the right mental soundtrack and a little creative imagination, southeast Missouri, the Jersey Shore, an Army base in West Germany — anywhere I might roam, really — could almost begin to seem interchangeable.Read more by this author at <a href="https://cdarrenr.medium.com/">https://cdarrenr.medium.com/</a></article></body>

The Jersey Dream

A Short Story Set Here, There and Everywhere

Fort Dix is as close as I ever got to the Jersey Shore.

That’s a lot closer than most people from southeast Missouri ever get, but it wasn’t close enough for me. I never got close enough for The Jersey Dream to become anything more than a comforting fantasy about a future that would never arrive, other than where it had already taken root in my mind.

The Jersey Dream was about getting out while we were young, a la that great Garden State icon Bruce Springsteen. We, in this case, being me and my band mate Zip Tilroy. Zip and I attended Pope Leo High School from 1981 to 1985 — back when so much had not yet happened.

* * * * *

In those days, life was simple: Go to school, do homework, party on the weekends like we had the right to do so. All the while, we kept our eyes on the prize: graduation, freedom and that liberating drive to the East Coast where we would stake our rightful claim as Jersey Shore rockers who just happened to hail from the Show-Me State.

Why not? Stranger things have happened.

Once we got to Jersey, things would be different. Sexy women everywhere, at all hours. Cool cars. Swank beach condos. Parties packed with A-list celebrities and their weird, wild entourages at rollicking all-nighters in exclusive neighborhoods, poolside affairs where record company and movie executives mingled easily with the stars who helped make them rich.

We’d call our first album, “The Jersey Dream.” We had no doubt that it would become a smash-hit success and earn us millions.

Zip and I did not know that we were conflating southern California with New Jersey, but had we known, we wouldn’t have cared. Besides, it was an unspoken assumption that the West Coast phase of our career would just naturally grow out of our Jersey Shore successes. At least that’s what I assumed.

* * * * *

The band itself, though, had some problems.

The biggest one was that we didn’t really have a band. Zip had a drum set his parents bought him for eighth-grade graduation. He could keep time okay and do a little low-level razzmatazz with the sticks, but it was pretty clear he had a lot of work to do.

I wasn’t too bad on bass, but for some reason, I had problems singing and playing at the same time. So Zip’s younger brother Kip — who was not officially in the band — would sometimes try to sing while we focused on improving as musicians. Kip could do a couple verses OK, but he’d usually end up off key and need to regroup during the song.

One thing Kip could do was screech like Vince Neil of Motley Crüe. But that wasn’t really the sound we wanted, so we never asked him to do it. He just did it on his own whenever he felt like it.

* * * * *

The main reason we didn’t have a band, though, was because Lucas Fonterra and his family moved to Bemidji, Minnesota, early in the summer between 11th and 12th grade.

Fonterra had no problem singing and playing at the same time, so he had done most of our vocals except when Zip did his drum solo and I kind of jazz-improvised some shoo-be-dee-wa-wa vocalizations as he pounded the skins.

We were pretty sure that after we practiced this innovative interplay enough to turn it into a showstopper, his drum solo and my jazzy vocals would be a big crowd-pleaser at our arena shows. We’d probably use it to close out the first set.

That summer, Zip and I had a lot of jam-session conversations about meeting up with Fonterra in Atlantic City after graduation and spending a month or so just playing together so we could tighten up before we headlined our first gig.

All the talk about reuniting with Fonterra in New Jersey helped give us the false hope of impending greatness as we marked time until the summer of ’85.

It’s important to note that Fonterra had no clue about any of this. Zip and I didn’t cook up The Jersey Dream idea until after he’d left for Bemidji.

* * * * *

Fonterra only wrote us once, a couple weeks after he moved. He addressed the letter to both of us even though he mailed it to Zip’s address, probably because that’s where we had our basement studio set up. He didn’t say much, just that he was “still playin’” and that he missed “jammin’” with us. He included his address and phone number.

We called a few days after the letter arrived, but no one answered. Not everyone had answering machines in those days, so we didn’t get the chance to leave a message. Cell phones still lived in the future, and calling long-distance was still a pretty big deal. So Zip and I would practice in his basement and say things like, “Man, we gotta get in touch with Fonterra and get him in on this Jersey plan.”

We tried calling again a few weekends later. One of Fonterra’s older brothers answered. When Zip told him who was calling, all he said before hanging up was, “Man, he ain’t here.”

Not even a goodbye, much less anything like, “I’ll tell him you called.” Unlike Lucas and his other three brothers, Lanny Fonterra was always a bit of a jerk.

* * * * *

A few different guys sat in with us as we looked for a new guitarist. A couple of them were OK, but Zip and I had a secret dilemma.The name of our band was Fonterra. We all thought it sounded the coolest of our last names choices.

We toyed around with “Tilroy” for a bit after Fonterra left town, but because Styx had released that awful “Mr. Roboto” song with its annoying “Kilroy” bit, we didn’t want our name to remind people of that song. My own last name, Mondale, was out the question for obvious reasons.

After senior year started, we tried writing the title song for “The Jersey Dream,” thinking that we would record a rough-cut version and send the tape to Fonterra. That would pique his interest, for sure. We spent the second half of September and early October working on the lyrics, but the only thing we liked was a couplet that made no sense:

“Gonna live and breathe The Jersey Dream!

Nothin’ here is at all like what it seems!”

By the time Christmas break rolled around, Zip and I had pretty much quit talking about The Jersey Dream. Every now and then, we would get together in his basement for a jam session, but the thrill, as they say, was gone.

* * * * *

Instead of barreling east in a’69 Chevy with a 396 in the summer of ’85, I joined the United States Army. When I learned I was going to basic training at Fort Dix, well within driving distance of the Jersey Shore, I was ecstatic.

Alone in my bedroom, I pulled the bass out of the closet, plugged in the amp, and started to play. It did not sound good.

Then I thought about how Jimi Hendrix had been in the Army before he attained rock superstardom.

“Once I get out of the Army and start college,” I thought, “I’ll be able to practice all the time.” I also thought I’d have time to visit Atlantic City and take in a show by Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes, or maybe Little Steven, perhaps even The Boss himself.

But that never happened.

After basic, I got shipped to Fort Benning, Georgia, for infantry training. No weekends off to scoot away to the beach. From Benning, it was on to Germany, a place so far away from where I had been up to that point in my life that the past seemed as pliable as the future.

With the right mental soundtrack and a little creative imagination, southeast Missouri, the Jersey Shore, an Army base in West Germany — anywhere I might roam, really — could almost begin to seem interchangeable.

Read more by this author at https://cdarrenr.medium.com/