(The True Story of the Birth of Surf Music)

As Witnessed by Brother John the Beachcomber, and revealed to brother ferenc@pollodelmar.com

Surfer Joe was a mediocre long-board rider and guitarist. The only child of parents who had moved to the Los Angeles basin after WWII looking for work with a defense contractor. Joe grew up a middle class mis-fit, never a piece the "Leave it to Beaver" puzzle that surrounded him. He found solace and company amongst the Southern California surfers, peaceful types who cared not for work, but were deeply passionate about waves and "Mary-Jane." One day in the summer of 1961, Joe crawled out of his Woodie hoping to catch a few sets before sunrise. He smoked a bowl and headed out, only to find the ocean in placid stillness. Well, Joe figures, why waste a tasty buzz and he paddled out and lay back on his board, and promptly fell asleep.

When Joe awoke as the sun set, and land was nowhere to be seen. He stood on his board and looked around; nothing but the still ocean. He sat back down, scratched the scruff on his chin and started to paddle. And paddle and paddle and paddle. Night fell and a very tired Joe again lay back on his board. Looking up at the unpolluted sky he saw a stars, like a million eyes looking back down on him. That night, black dreams overtook him, voices swirled around whispering incantations in some forgotten language.

He woke the next morning in delirium, clinging with white knuckles to his long-board. The sun already a distinct white disk high in the cloudless sky above him. Joe still heard the disembodied voices from his dreams, but the sound was taking form. The voices feminine, singing a sirens' song, legato syllables that covered him like skin, caressing him warmly as a breeze.

Nightfall came again, the sun hitting the western horizon with a distinct sizzle. In the sky above him he saw the blinking light of a Tel-Star Satellite, in geosynchronous orbit above his position somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. To escape the hunger and pain of his physical body, he focused all his attention on the com-sat and all of the radio stations that bounced off the satellite beamed down into his brain. The sound was white noise like the crash of the surf. From this mire of frequencies he could focus on two polar opposites, the super AM wattage of a Border Radio station located somewhere to the east in Tijuana and an equally powerful station to the west in Honolulu, broadcasting live from the lobby of the Waikiki Sands Hotel, the voice of the Pacific Islands. The sounds of sweet Hawaiian slack key slide guitar scrambled in his brain with the leather guitars of Duane Eddy and Johnny & The Hurricanes.

This crazy mash of music confused and made him so dizzy he rolled off his board. Joe gasped for air as he went under. He sank deeper into the void of the netherworld, all senses eclipsed. He saw the void around him illuminated from above by the full moon. In this peace, he found within him the strength to rise to the surface once more. Like a dolphin, he shot from the water and back onto his long board. Joe clung ever tighter to the fiberglass, digging his nails into the through the resin and into the fiberglass, grinding his teeth smooth as fell asleep.

He awoke the next morning to see a man walking across the water towards him. Joe rubbed his eyes. It was Leo Fender. "Hey Joe," Leo said, "Try out my new outboard reverberation tank system. I 'd check it out myself, but I don't play." Surfer Joe pulled out his Stratocaster and plugged into Leo's new amplifier, the Fender Vibrolux. He turned down the treble and cranked up the reverb to 10. He arpeggiated a barre A minor chord, then double picked a glissando on the low E as he dragged his left hand down the string. A deep bend on the tremelo sent all the notes awash as they cascaded into the infinite fake space of the reverb.

"Pretty cool, eh?" said Leo. "Come by my shop when you get back and I'll fix you up." He gathered his amp up, and headed back across the water.

Surfer Joe stared at the man as he disappeared in the distance, and wondered where he had gotten such a cool pocket-pen protector from in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It was then that he noticed a blue mountain range coming his way. "That's odd" he numbly thought.

Joe put the 2 of the placid stillnes of the ocean together with the 2 of getting dragged out halfway across the Pacific and came up with the 4, a tidal wave. TSUNAMI. He kneeled on his board and accepted his fate, paddling like mad man. The deep trough sucked him back, pushing him up the face. He stood, arms straight out from his sides and hug ten as he rode that mother the several hundred miles back to California, where he was dumped on the beach set of a Frankie and Annette movie. His last memory was upchucking several gallons of sea water into the virginal Ms. Funicello's mouth as she applied mouth to mouth recessatation to his emaciated and overexposed corpus.

After a brief convalescence, Surfer Joe headed to the clubs in the Redondo Beach area, and played the new sound that he had found in the ocean. He called his sound "Surf Music" or literally, "the music of the surf." It was extremely popular with the locals and was touted in the music biz press as "The Next Big Thing." Tragedy came in the guise of four Soviet agents, posing as mop-top British musicians. They came to LA and killed him. But it was to late, as the Children of the Beach had heard the Gospel; the word was Water and the Water was deep, and the Water was good.

This testimony brought forth and Copyright May 27, 1994 by
Brother Ferenc@pollodelmar.com

ENTER A CHICKEN SCRATCH

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