Psychedelic
Bubble Gum

CHAPTER 1

Anyone Here Play the Banjo?

The California sun was just a soft red ball hanging well below the tops of the stately palms as I walked west down Hollywood Boulevard to my one room apartment on Whitley Avenue. It was a chilly February evening in 1958, and I was exhausted as I trudged past the seedy bars, Woolworth’s, Frederick’s of Hollywood, the silent street people with downturned eyes, and the gawking, vocal tourists. It had been an especially long day at the print shop, and I had hoped to get off in time to hang out at the little recording studio near work. Once again that would have to wait for another day.

I remember not even having the energy to attend my evening classes at the Don Martin School of Radio. Becoming a big-time disc jockey had been my dream since childhood, but after a couple of months of trying to make it a reality, that dream had begun to morph into an even more challenging Hollywood aspiration than I had imagined. I told myself “tomorrow will be better, and after all I’m only eighteen.”

When I rented the $19-a-week studio apartment, my landlady had been kind enough to loan me a hot plate and a couple of pans so I could heat up some soup and boil water for tea. With my clock radio softly playing top forty hits, I pulled down the Murphy bed from my closet and sank into the mattress.

The disc jockey’s voice was an assault on my ears. It seemed manic and insincere, not at all like the down-home style I would try to emulate when I became a jock. Ray Odom, my hero deejay on KHEP country radio, the number one station in Phoenix, would address his unseen audience as “Friends and Neighbors,” while these L.A. guys seemed to be talking to themselves, in love with their own voices. Finally, he put a record on and I began to relax. I don’t know if it was my long day of work, the ever-present loneliness, or the pure emotion that was streaming through the radio as Elvis sang his new hit “Don’t,” but gradually I drifted off into a reverie of memories and feelings.

I had known for years that I wanted something unique and way more exciting than a traditional job in my hometown, and I couldn’t wait to get started. In my senior year of high school I had signed up with an Army Reserve Unit and had begun attending weekly training sessions at my local armory. The military draft was still in force, and I had always felt a sense of patriotism and loyalty to my country. I realized I could get started pursuing my dreams and at the same time begin serving my country by attending weekly training sessions and two-week summer camps th