A Thousand Light Years From Stardom

On the road with “4 Girl Groups From the Early 1960s Who Defined a Classic Sound”

My Android feed this morning contained the following feature: 4 Girl Groups From the Early 1960s Who Defined a Classic Sound

I clicked on the story to find that I’d actually hit the road and played behind two of those four “iconic” groups. Somehow, the word iconic seemed out of place. “Ironic that they became iconic” would have been more accurate in the case of the two outfits I traveled with. Let me tell y’all how those two periods of employment went.

The year was 1977, just over a decade after the Shirelles had recorded their last of many hit records. It was late July when their manager called to ask if I could put together a band to play 29 dates in August.

I’d just been fired from a Catskills Mountains lounge band for the crime of making love to the girl singer, and was unemployed for three weeks until John the manager called about the Shirelles gig.

So I took the job, found some guys with a PA system and vehicles, split the money evenly so there wouldn’t be a problem with the boys, and off we went from New York City to points as far north as Port Stanley, Canada — as far west as Petoskey, Michigan — and as far south as Atlanta, Georgia.

Yup! We did a lot f driving.

In fact, this was one of the most professional “oldies” gigs I ever did (and I played several). The Shirelles were a four-girl group. Three of the originals were actually still part of the band (very uncharacteristic of oldies bands at the time; most members were fakes), and although Shirley, the actual lead singer on the records had gone off on her own, Doris filled in admirably. Mickey and Beverly could barely carry a tune — but Doris could sing the leads well.

When it came to the two almost tone deaf members, all’s I could think was “Imagine all the talented people trying to make a living in the music business — and these two managed to climb to the top of the heap as teenagers who could barely sing!”

File that one under some people have all the luck.

As with many acts at the time, high school girls were pulled to front the mirage — but studio musicians and professional singers actually made the records.

While all the Shirelles were real — and Doris could take over the lead vocals — the same was not true of the not-so-marvelous Marvelettes.

They were completely fucking fake.

Not one of the girls I went out with had been in the original group. Nor did they sound anything like the originals, or sing the harmonies correctly. It was an embarrassing sham to even be seen on stage with them.

Anybody with half an ear had to think “What the fuck is this? I want my money back. These ain’t no Marvelettes!”

My stint with the not-so-marvelous ones was brief as I and my band of merry jazz heads got fired in a hurry. The girls wanted me to replace the drummer.

Not in the cards. He had the truck! So I stood by Doug. And they stood by their ultimatum.

Back to The Shirelles. They had one hit I really liked in my youth (Foolish Little Girl). Just after getting fired, I met a woman who was also writing songs with my then songwriting partner. (I should say that songwriting is a polygamous deal. We all had different writing partners on different days.)

Helen was a middle-aged housewife type who played the piano like a man — and with sophisticated harmonies. I recognized her as a talent right off. No jealousy involved.

Years later — and way after I’d seen neither Helen or my songwriting partner for a decade — I came to discover that Helen had written Foolish Little Girl and It Hurts to be in Love (another song I liked in my youth). I had no idea when I knew her. Helen was a force. I knew she had it going on, but I didn’t realize she’d composed part of the soundtrack of my youth.

I remember when my father, who was part of the 50’s and 60’s rock and roll scene, told me that the guy who wrote half the hits I listened to and bought back then was in fact a wheelchair-bound middle-aged man named Doc Pomus.

Sometimes, the real talent is behind the scenes and who’s out front presenting the facade are the bums. Thus the ironic v. the iconic. And so it goes in show business.