Category: The Vinyl Dialogues Book Page 11 of 16

The incomparable Peter Noone of Herman’s Hermits closed the “Sixties Spectacular” show Oct. 10 at the State Theatre in New Brunswick, N.J.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

A few songs into their set, “Yo” Vinny – the frontman and lead singer for The Bronx Wanderers – answered the question that many in the audience likely had been thinking: How do I get these kids to play songs from the 1960s?

On the surface, it seemed like a legitimate question. The Bronx Wanderers opened the “Sixties Spectacular” show Oct. 10 at the State Theatre in New Brunswick, N.J., that featured Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, Jay and The Americans and Peter Noone of Herman’s Hermits.

“Yo” Vinny – the elder statesman of the band – has surrounded himself with a group of twenty something musicians that includes his sons, Vin A. “The Kid” and Nicky “Stix,” and some of their friends. The group covers songs by Dion and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.

Jay and The Americans performed all their hits.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

The way he got the “kids” to play the classic ’60s songs, he said, was that he suggested they learn to play a song from another generation that they could work into their set.

Then “Yo” Vinny stepped to the side, relegated himself to background vocals, and The Bronx Wanderers broke into their version of “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen.

And it absolutely kicked ass. It was as spot on as any band could cover any song. By the end of the tune, the crowd that was there to hear those great hits by those great bands from the 1960s was on its collective feet cheering the musicianship and showmanship of those “kids” doing a cover of a classic song from the 1970s.

When was the last time you’ve been to a concert and the opener got a standing ovation?

Gary Puckett, right, speaks with Sandy Deanne of Jay and The Americans before the show.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

The great thing about the overall performance of The Bronx Wanderers was that it was only the beginning. The show got even better from there.

Gary Puckett and The Union Gap was up next, and they provided the smooth sounds of the band’s hits “Woman, Woman,” “Young Girl” and “Lady Willpower”; Jay and The Americans followed with all of their hits – supported visually by some great red pants worn by all the members; and Peter Noone from Herman’s Hermits closed the show, with the 67-year-old Noone dancing and moving around the stage like his undershorts were on fire. Noone is a fabulous singer and entertainer. We all should have that much energy at 67 years old.

Kudos to my friend Jim Anderson, one of the promoters of the show who was instrumental in setting me up to interview Sandy Deanne of Jay and the Americans, Noone and Puckett. Jim and his colleagues put on a first-rate show. If you didn’t leave the State Theatre thoroughly entertained and satisfied with that show, then you should check your pulse . . . you may be dead.

Howie Kane, left, of Jay and The Americans, greets “Yo” Vinny from The Bronx Wanderers before the show.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

The other cool aspect of the evening was that the artists came out after their performances and spent time visiting and signing autographs for the fans. It was a scene right out of a Beatles news reel. There we were, those of us whose teen years are well in the rearview mirror, acting like teenagers and mobbing our musical heroes, the ones who provided the soundtracks of our lives, for pictures and autographs.

Lock up the giddy grandmothers, indeed. And the grandfathers, too.

The only band not to appear after its performance was The Bronx Wanderers. “Yo” Vinny had sent an apology through the event’s emcee that the band had to catch a plane for Chicago because it had a gig in the Windy City. (Editor’s note: Later word from “Yo” Vinny reveals that the band actually didn’t fly, but instead left as soon as their performance was over and drove through the night to Chicago, arriving Sunday afternoon.)

But after setting the table for the other artists on the bill, my sense is that The Bronx Wanderers would have been mobbed as much as the other artists.

With all due respect to Peter Noone and Herman’s Hermits, it was evident that with this “Sixties Spectacular” show, something told me I was into something good.

Hall & Oates christen new Philadelphia Fillmore in true Philly style

By Mike Morsch

On October 2, 2015

In The Vinyl Dialogues Book

Philly’s own Daryl Hall and John Oates played the first show at the new Philadelphia Fillmore on Oct. 1, 2015.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

The reality of a Hall & Oates show for me is this: Daryl and John could come out on stage, stand on their heads and play polka music on accordions and I’d be happy with it.

For the record, there is no accordion in the H&O band. This is probably a good thing, although I have no doubt that Charlie DeChant could play one if asked. (But for a moment, just ponder what “Kiss on My List” might sound like on an accordion. Or . . . maybe not.)

So this will not be an unbiased report on the opening show of the new Philadelphia Fillmore concert venue, which starred Philly’s own Hall & Oates, on Thursday, Oct. 1.

The original Fillmore was an iconic venue in San Francisco in the late 1960s that became the focal point of the psychedelic music scene of that era. Back in the day, artists like The Grateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix and Santana performed at the Fillmore. Those concerts were staged by the legendary concert promoter, the late Bill Graham.

Bonnie MacLean signs copies of the poster she created to commemorate the opening of the Philadelphia Fillmore. With Bonnie is her son, David Graham.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

The Philadelphia Fillmore is located in the former Ajax Metal Co. building – which itself dates back to the 1890s – off Frankfort Avenue in the Fishtown section of Philadelphia.

The building is big and roomy. It actually has two clubs – the ground floor main room which can hold around 2,500 standing on the floor and another 1,200 seated in the balcony; and a smaller club on the top floor of the building that holds around 450 people.

Philadelphia Mayor Michael Nutter was on hand to help Hall & Oates christen the venue. It was a big week for the mayor, hosting Pope Francis and then Hall & Oates in the same week. Nutter, who while in college in the 1970s was a DJ at Club Impulse in Philly, where he was known as “Mix Master Mike,” might be hard-pressed to admit which end of the week he enjoyed more. But my sense is that he might at least concede that Hall & Oates are probably more hip than the pope.

As for the concert itself, it’s a pretty simple review: H&O delivered, the Fillmore delivered and the crowd delivered. Even though the show was sold out and the house was packed, I was able to move around both levels of the club without much trouble to take photos.

Among those who didn’t deliver were Mother Nature – she can be a ratfink when it comes to the timing of rain – and my knees, which barked at me quite a bit after standing for about three hours during the show.

In addition to the poster created by Bonnie MacLean, this poster was also given to fans who attended the first show at the Fillmore.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

The set list was vintage Hall & Oates, and included, in order:

“Maneater” (1982)
“Out of Touch” (1984)
“Did It In A Minute” (1982)
“Say It Isn’t So” (1983)
“You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” (1980)
“Las Vegas Turnaround” (1973)
“She’s Gone” (1973)
“Sara Smile” (1976)
“Do What You Want, Be What You Are” (1976)
“I Can’t Go for That” (1981)

First encore:
“Rich Girl” (1977)
“You Make My Dreams” (1981)

Second encore:
“Kiss on My List” (1981)
“Private Eyes” (1981)

Having seen H&O many times in concert, that’s pretty much the set list one gets. In fact, John has told me in an interview that he and Daryl believe it’s their professional obligation to play all those great hits in concert.

Daryl and John thank the enthusiastic Philly fans.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

If I had a complaint about the set list, it would be that given the time of year and the circumstances of the event, “Fall in Philadelphia” from H&O’s first album, “Whole Oats” in 1972, would have been an appropriate addition for this show.

Also on hand for the event was artist Bonnie MacLean, former wife of the aforementioned Bill Graham, who created some of those memorable and iconic psychedelic concert posters for the San Francisco Fillmore in the mid- to late-1960s. She was commissioned to create a Fillmore-style poster commemorating Hall & Oates and the inaugural show at the Philly Fillmore.

On the way out after the show, each fan was given a print of Bonnie’s artwork as well as another poster commemorating the event. Both are very cool collectibles.

Daryl. John. Fillmore. Philly. It was as close to perfect as it could get.

Memories of the ‘Def Leppard Method of Babysitting’

By Mike Morsch

On September 1, 2015

In The Vinyl Dialogues Book

Rick Allen, longtime drummer for Def Leppard, listens to some stories from fans during an appearance Aug. 31, 2015, at Wentworth Gallery in King of Prussia, PA.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

I was reminded this week that I once successfully employed the Def Leppard Method of Babysitting when my oldest daughter was an infant.

That’s because I had the chance to interview and meet Rick Allen, who has been the drummer for Def Leppard since the late 1970s. Allen was appearing at Wentworth Gallery in King of Prussia, PA, along with his art exhibit “Rick Allen: Angels and Icons” in conjunction with a Def Leppard concert the following evening in nearby Allentown, PA. Wentworth Gallery curator Tom Curley, a dear friend with whom I have worked many times on stories, invited me to do a piece on Rick’s appearance and come out to the gallery and meet the rock star.

Talking to Rick took me back to 1988 when I became a father for the first time. In those days, we were a young family that needed to have two working parents with opposite schedules. When one of us was working, the other would care for the baby. I liked the arrangement because it allowed me to spend quality time with my daughter and it saved us the cost of daycare, which we couldn’t afford anyway.

In those early days, the baby was nursing. But that created a problem for ol’ Dad when Mom was at work: I did not have the proper equipment for the task at hand. This did not make the young lady happy, and as a result, she spent a good deal of our time together giving me seven kinds of what for.

I’m not exaggerating. She was like a baseball manager who was upset with an umpire’s call and she was determined to get in my face and take a chunk out of my hide, even though there was little I could do to change the situation. I’d try to feed her with the milk her mother had left, I’d make sure she was changed, I’d rock her in the chair, walk her outside, snuggle with her, make funny faces. Nothing seemed to help.

It wasn’t a situation that could be fixed with the usual Dad tools: duct tape and WD40. And faced with seemingly unsolvable challenges, Dads are sometimes forced to improvise.

At that time, in the late 1980s, MTV and VH1 would play music videos all the time on TV. I usually had one of the channels on to listen to the music and watch the videos, something to help drown out the noise from the constant chewing out I was getting from one peeved little lady who wanted to nurse and couldn’t. I thought maybe the music might help sooth the situation.

But it didn’t. At least it didn’t until one day when the video for “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard was played. The song, released as a single off the band’s 1987 album “Hysteria,” reached No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 charts in July 1988, right around the time my daughter was six months old and had perfected her Earl Weaver imitation.

Fortunately for me, the song and video were popular and were played regularly on both VH1 and MTV. But it took a couple of times for me to notice that whenever the video was played, my daughter would stop crying and stare at the television. All it took was a little “Hysteria” to help solve her hysteria. Go figure.

Naturally, that gave me an idea. The technology in the late 1980s was such that I could have a blank tape in the VCR, set and ready to record “Pour Some Sugar on Me” the next time it was played.

And it worked like a charm. Once I had the video recorded, all I had to do was sit my daughter in her bouncy chair in front of the TV and hit the play button. The only problem was that there seemed to be no other song that would pacify her. I experimented with different artists and different songs but it was only Def Leppard and “Pour Some Sugar on Me” that did the trick. All I had to do was constantly hit rewind all day long, a small price to pay for some moments of peace.

She couldn’t talk and tell me what she was thinking then, but I did sense from the way she looked at me after the discovery that it was something like, “OK, man. You let me watch rock and roll videos when Mom isn’t here. Maybe you’re not such a pain in the ass after all. I will allow you to continue to be my Dad in relative peace.”

That was 27 years ago. I was able to share that story with Rick when we talked this week and I thanked him for helping me babysit in 1988. Fortunately, he did not ask for any compensation from me for his contributions to the effort.

My daughter and I are still Def Leppard fans. But we don’t rock out when we hear “Pour Some Sugar on Me” today. We listen. Quietly. And we are reminded of the time when father and daughter came to an understanding all those years ago, courtesy of some rock legends.

Shake, shake, shaking booty with KC and The Sunshine Band

By Mike Morsch

On August 9, 2015

In The Vinyl Dialogues Book

Harry Wayne Casey – a.k.a. KC of KC and The Sunshine Band – belts out one of his classic dance tunes Aug. 8, 2015, at the Tropicana in Atlantic City.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

Once tickets had been secured for the KC and The Sunshine Band show Aug. 8 at the Tropicana in Atlantic City, it occurred to me that I maybe hadn’t put enough thought into the specifics of attending the concert.

In the days leading up to the show, one question loomed large: At this age, could I actually shake my booty for an entire KC concert without pulling a hamstring, throwing out my back or asking a paramedic to sit in the seat next to me with a defibrillator at the ready?

At the height of its popularity in the 1970s, KC and The Sunshine Band was all about dance music. No surprise there for those of us who grew up listing to it. The opening lines to one of the band’s biggest hits are, “Everybody, get on the floor, let’s dance. Don’t fight your feelings, give yourself a chance. Oh shake shake shake, shake shake shake. Shake your booty, shake your booty.”

And there was a time, in the mid- to late-1970s, where dancing all night long wasn’t an issue for me. I graduated from high school in the spring of 1977 and started college at Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa, in the fall. Between 1975 and 1977, KC and The Sunshine Band had produced four No. 1 hits: “Get Down Tonight,” “That’s the Way (I Like It),” “Shake Your Booty” and “I’m Your Boogie Man”; and a No. 2 single, “Keep It Comin’ Love.”

KC played to an enthusiastic crowd of booty shakers at the Tropicana gig.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

In the middle of Iowa in 1977, there wasn’t much to do other than dance. (For the purposes of this discussion, tractor pulls don’t count because those were sanctioned events that involved competition and judging.)

So KC and The Sunshine Band was right in my wheelhouse in Iowa in 1977. There was a disco only a few blocks from the dorms. I can neither confirm nor deny that alcohol was involved at the time. But I can say this: If I could recall any of my disco shenanigans, I’m certain they’d be among the fondest memories from my first year of college. (Do a little dance, drink a little beer, throw up tonight, throw up tonight baby.)

But that was nearly 40 years ago. Fortunately, Harry Wayne Casey – a.k.a. KC – realizes that some time has passed. Now that’s not to say that KC’s crowds these days are too old to dance. Quite the contrary. It’s just that we all seem to know our limitations.

KC is now 64 years old, a fact that he revealed during the Tropicana show. “For the young people in the audience, think of it like this: I’m your mom’s NSYNC,” he said, to hoots and hollers from the faithful. “This is what Justin Timberlake is going to look like in 30 years.”

From the curtain, it was apparent we were going to dance, because the first song was “Shake Your Booty.” That sets the tone for a KC and The Sunshine Band concert these days, much like it did back in the day. And I know this because KC himself told me as much.

“‘Shake Your Bootie’ was really a song I came up with because I’d see people fighting the urge, wanting to have a good time, just not being themselves,” said KC in an interview a few weeks ago. “I wrote that song after witnessing people fighting having a good time, fighting those feelings, to just get out there and shake your butt, shake your booty. Have a good time, enjoy life because it goes by quickly. That’s what that song is really about.”

It was the second time I had interviewed KC. In the first interview a few years ago, he detailed the making of the band’s second studio album, the 1975 self-titled “KC and The Sunshine Band” for The Vinyl Dialogues. A portion of the most recent interview included KC’s recollections about the making of the group’s 1976 album, “Part 3,” which I hope to include in Volume III of The Vinyl Dialogues series next year.

But the great thing about a KC and The Sunshine Band show now is that although both KC and the audience members are going to do a lot of dancing, it won’t be constant. Neither the star nor the majority of the fans are 21 years old anymore. To help alleviate that, KC has hired some great females dancers for us to watch as we plop our tired booties back into the theater seats for a bit of a rest.

KC also used three costume changes during the evening. And to give the booty shakers even more time to re-energize, he mixed in a few ballads (but only a few) and told a story or two between some songs. It was a perfect pace set by an experienced performer. We danced . . . a lot. But we also had a couple of well-placed timeouts.

It was the first time I had seen KC and The Sunshine Band live, and it was my wife’s idea. We saw KC perform on TV at the Fourth of July celebration this year in Washington, D.C. She mentioned then that it was a concert she would like to see. As a KC fan, certainly I was in complete agreement, despite the fact that she is a product of the 1980s, so her booty is a bit younger than mine and more capable of being able to shake shake shake for an entire concert.

KC has still got it. He has a much fun as the audience at his shows. An entertainer, a performer, a singer, a songwriter, the Boogie Man keeps it real as well. When his voice didn’t perform like he wanted it to at the beginning of “Please Don’t Go” – the band’s fifth No. 1 single that was released in 1979 – he acknowledged after its conclusion that the song got off to “a rough start.” To me, admitting to being human is an endearing quality for a performer.

And those classic dance songs, well, there’s no question in my mind that they’ve transcended the generations and stood the test of time.

If you don’t believe that, then you’d better check your pulse. You may be beyond the help of any paramedics.

Rock the Yacht 2015 review: All the hits . . . and hearty handshakes, too

By Mike Morsch

On August 2, 2015

In The Vinyl Dialogues Book

Robbie Dupree
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

The next time I see Robbie Dupree, I’m going to have to apologize to him. You see, I may have been a little overly aggressive in our initial meeting.

Dupree is part of this year’s Rock the Yacht 2015 tour. Joining him on the show is Stephen Bishop, Player, Ambrosia and Little River Band.

I had the opportunity to see the first concert of the tour recently at the Mayo Performing Arts Center in Morristown, N.J. My friend Patti Myers, who serves as official webmistress for Player, hooked me up with a ticket and backstage access. An interview with Player’s Peter Beckett talking about the making of the band’s 1977 self-titled debut album appeared in The Vinyl Dialogues.

The night of the show, Patti was taking a friend of hers and me backstage to meet Beckett and Ronn Moss of Player. We went up on stage through a side door, out another door at the back of the stage and into a foyer behind the stage. It was about 20 minutes before curtain.

Standing there in the foyer was Robbie Dupree. I didn’t immediately recognize him.

“Hi Robbie!” said Patti as she gave him a hug, then proceeded to introduce us to the singer.

Stephen Bishop
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

He extended his hand to me and I shook it. I didn’t realize it at the time, but maybe I was a little more enthusiastic than I would normally be at meeting an artist whose music I enjoyed.

“Jesus Christ, man. Don’t squeeze so hard,” said Dupree.

Oops. Sorry Robbie. I didn’t mean to squeeze the bejeezus out of the man’s hand. I really didn’t. And I felt like a mope.

In was a brief exchange, however, and it appeared to me that no paramedics had been immediately summoned to attend to Robbie as we took our leave. We proceeded down some steps and to the Player dressing room, where both Beckett and Moss were getting ready for the show. I got to meet both of them, and they each had firm handshakes of their own. It was all I could do to not blurt out, “Don’t use that handshake on Robbie Dupree!” to Beckett and Moss.

The concert itself was spectacular. Dupree opened the show and appeared onstage without his hand bandaged, a sign I took to mean that I hadn’t actually broken the man’s hand. Whew. He sang two of his biggest hits, “Steal Away” and “Hot Rod Hearts” off his 1980 self-titled debut album.

Peter Beckett
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

Next up was Stephen Bishop, who sang his hits “On and On” and “It Might Be You.” Bishop, you might recall, had a cameo role in the 1978 film, National Lampoon’s Animal House. He is billed as “Charming Guy With Guitar,” who is sitting on the steps of the Delta frat house singing and playing for a bunch of young women when John Belushi’s character “Bluto” walks down the steps, pauses, then grabs Charming Guy’s guitar and smashes it against the wall.

Bishop was just as charming when he got on stage and was a real hit with the crowd that evening, despite the less than stellar endorsement of his singing and guitar-playing skills by Belushi’s character.

Beckett and Moss were up next, and they killed it. Their hit single “Baby Come Back” sounds just as good today as it did in 1977. Plus, those guys are just cool rock stars.

Ambrosia, who served as the house band for the first three acts, was up next. They still have original members Joe Puerta on bass and vocals; Burleigh Drummond on drums and vocals; and Christopher North on keyboards and vocals. And these guys still got it. They

Joe Puerta of Ambrosia
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

were tight and their vocals were spot on. It was great to hear them live on the band’s hits “How Much I Feel” and “Biggest Part of Me.”

Little River Band was the final group. One of my first handful of concerts I saw as a youngster in the 1970s was in Ames, Iowa, in 1978 and featured Little River Band, Head East and Foreigner. The current lineup of Little River Band features no original members, which was the only disappointment for me. Otherwise, the band’s sound and performance was excellent.

The Rock the Yacht 2015 show is a fun one, and I recommend it if it comes to your town.

And if you go and have a chance to meet Robbie Dupree, try not to break his hand. I wish someone would have given me that advice ahead of time.

Peter Beckett and Ronn Moss of Player
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

The story behind ‘A Horse With No Name,” straight from the horse’s mouth

By Mike Morsch

On July 23, 2015

In The Vinyl Dialogues Book

Dewey Bunnell of the band America wrote and sang lead on the song “A Horse With No Name.”
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

There’s a sign that makes the rounds on Facebook that frequently gets posted to my timeline. It reads: “All I’m saying is, at any point during that ride through the desert, he could have given that horse a name.”

The reference is, of course, to the song “A Horse With No Name” by the band America. My friends know I am a longtime fan of the band, so that’s why this sign is frequently posted on my Facebook page.

It turns out, though, that I have a little insight on this, thanks to the guy who wrote it.

The song was written by Dewey Bunnell, who along with Gerry Beckley and Dan Peek, founded the band America in 1970. Its self-titled debut album, released in 1971, didn’t initially contain the song. But after “A Horse With No Name,” which featured Bunnell on lead vocals as well, became a hit and went all the way to No. 1 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 chart, the “America” album was re-released in 1972 with the track.

But the controversy surrounding the song wasn’t that the horse didn’t have a name, it was that some radio stations refused to play it because of its supposed references to heroin use. “Horse” is a slang term for heroin.

I first interviewed Bunnell in 2006, and subsequently two more times over the years: once about the 1974 album “Holiday,” which is featured in “The Vinyl Dialogues,” and again recently about the making of the 1975 album “Hearts,” which will be detailed in “The Vinyl Dialogues Volume II: Dropping the Needle,” due to be released in August 2015.

And straight from the horse’s mouth, you might say, Bunnell has told me that “A Horse With No Name” is not about drugs.

“Not at all. It actually has changed a little bit in my mind as the decades have gone by,” said Bunnell in the 2006 interview.

“The central theme [of the song] was ‘solitary thinking in a peaceful place.’ The horse was really just a vehicle to get out there. I always loved the desert as a kid. ‘The heat was hot’ was an important feeling that I was trying to re-create there. [The song] was just a travelogue with an environmental message in there about saving the planet,” said Bunnell.

Bunnell said that when the band shot the cover for its third album “Hat Trick,” which was released in 1973, the photo shoot did include horses and band members did go out into the desert for a couple days to get some shots.

“We had fun, but I don’t recall the name of the horse I rode while I was out there,” said Bunnell. “A lot of horse people think I have a real working knowledge of the animal, but I don’t.”

So there you have it. Even when Dewey Bunnell had the chance to actually ride a horse in the desert, he still didn’t give it a name.

Next time I talk to Dewey, I’ll have to ask him flat out if in subsequent years, he’s ever thought if that horse he wrote about has a name.

The highly emotional and personal magic of a special Brian Wilson song

By Mike Morsch

On June 30, 2015

In The Vinyl Dialogues Book

Brian Wilson sings “Surfer Girl” at his show on June 29, 2015, at the Mann Center for the Performing Arts in Philadelphia.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

Music speaks to different people in different ways. But there is a point in every Brian Wilson show that lasts a little more than two minutes that I claim as my own: It’s when he sings “Surfer Girl,” and like a great song does, it brings back a flood of memories that touches deep in my heart and soul.

It reminds me of the time that Brian once rode along with me in my car when I really needed him.

On Jan. 4, 1988, a bitterly cold day, I had just arrived to work at a newspaper in La Salle, Illinois, when I got a phone call from my wife. “You’d better come home. Something is wrong and I think we need to go to the hospital.”

She was pregnant with our first child, but it was 10 weeks from the scheduled due date. I rushed home, got her and we departed for the hospital, a small, rural medical facility in nearby Spring Valley, Illinois.

Our physician, Dr. Basilio Padilla, was summoned, did an examination and determined that my wife was in labor. But it was way too early, and Dr. Padilla admitted her into the hospital, the plan being to use whatever drugs and technology was available at the time to stop the labor.

Dr. Padilla was highly skilled medical professional. A soft-spoken gentleman, he oftentimes had a smile on his face, and on this day, his demeanor and that smile assured me that he had this thing under control.

After enduring several hours of intravenous drugs being pumped into her system, my wife appeared to have steadied the ship. Dr. Padilla pronounced the crisis averted around 4 p.m. that day, but the situation was still considered high risk and bed rest was prescribed for the remaining 10 weeks of the pregnancy.

What did not improve was the weather. High, bitter winds had dropped the temperature to minus 50 – no exaggeration there – with the wind chill. We happened to be the only patients on the OB/GYN floor that day in the small hospital, and there were only two shift nurses on duty. For much of the late afternoon and early evening, I would go out to my car and start it, just to make sure it didn’t completely freeze up.

Since this was the first grandchild on both sides of the family, I had called my parents, who lived near Peoria, Illinois, and my wife’s parents, who lived in Iowa City, Iowa, and told everybody to stay put. The crisis was under control and there was no need for them to drive to the hospital in that kind of weather.

And then, around 10 p.m., life changed forever. Whatever drugs had stopped the labor were no longer doing the job and my wife went back into labor. Dr. Padilla was called back to the hospital, performed another examination on my wife, and asked me to step into the hallway outside the hospital room.

He wasn’t smiling.

“This baby is going to be born tonight. It’s going to be an emergency delivery and we don’t have the personnel or facility for an emergency of this nature,” he said.

He proceeded to explain to me that he was going to request a delivery team from St. Francis Medical Center in Peoria, and that they would be there within the hour via helicopter. The plan was that after delivery, the baby would be transported on that same helicopter back to the neonatal unit in Peoria. In that bitter cold, dangerously windy weather.

By 1 a.m. on Jan. 5, I found myself alone in the dads waiting room with the fate of my family in the hands of medical professionals just down the hall in the delivery room.

It was the most lonely and helpless moment of my life.

At 1:45 a.m., one of the local nurses came into the room and said, “You have a baby girl. I’m going to take you to see her, but they’re preparing her for transport, so you’ll only have a few moments.”

And then I saw her for the first time. I was told she weighed 2 pounds, 4 and one-half ounces. A neonatal nurse was holding the back of her head with one hand, in an upright position. With the other hand, the nurse had what looked like the head of a hammer – I found out later it was made of foam rubber – placed between her index and middle fingers, and was furiously tapping on the baby’s chest. Alarming at first sight, I was told later that the procedure helped prevent fluid from building up in the baby’s lungs. That first glimpse of my daughter lasted maybe two minutes.

Before long, my wife and I ended back in her hospital room. By 5 a.m. the medical team and baby were ready to get on the helicopter for Peoria. They wheeled the baby in an incubator back into our room so that we could see her before they left. We couldn’t reach into the incubator and touch her because she was wrapped in tinfoil and bubble wrap, her little face the only visible part we could see.

And then we waited. The helicopter had to battle those cold winds and the baby had to survive the trip. We would get a call when they arrived in Peoria.

At 6 a.m. the call came. The baby had survived the trip.

I had alerted my parents that the baby was being transported their direction. The plan was for them to meet the baby at the hospital, and that I would be there as soon as I could.

I got into my freezing cold car, and thankfully, it started. And once again, I found myself alone, with an hour to drive and with no idea whether my baby would still be alive by the time I got there.

All I had along with me for the ride was music. It was before the era of CDs, so I had cassettes, and one of my favorite records was “Endless Summer,” a compilation album by the Beach Boys that was released in 1974. That’s the tape that I popped in for the drive.

For some reason, I went right to the song “Surfer Girl.” I had heard it hundreds of times before, but this time it was different. The first two lines of the song took on a dramatically different meaning this time.

“Little surfer, little one. Made my heart come all undone.”

My baby girl was tiny. And I had immediately given her my heart.

When “Surfer Girl” would end, I would rewind the tape and play it again. Over and over, for the entire ride, I played “Surfer Girl.” I sang and I cried and I prayed that my baby girl would be alive when I got to Peoria.

I arrived at the hospital and my dad was waiting for me at the front door. We embraced. “Is she still alive?” I said. “She’s still alive,” he answered.

After being released from the hospital, my wife went to stay with my parents so she could be in the neonatal unit every day with our daughter.

But real life doesn’t halt for very long in these situations and I had a job. So twice a week for five weeks, on Wednesdays and Sundays, I would drive the hour from La Salle to Peoria to see my baby. And every time I got in the car, I’d put on that Beach Boys tape and play “Surfer Girl” over and over. And I’d sing and I’d cry and I’d pray. She needed to be alive every time I got there and I didn’t want to change that routine. It worked the first time.

That was 27 years ago. And when Brian Wilson sang the words, “Little surfer, little one. Made my heart come all undone” Monday evening, June 29, at the Mann Center for the Performing Arts in Philadelphia, it all came flooding back, touching me deep in my heart and soul as it always has.

And to my left, with her head on my shoulder, her arm locked in mine and her hand gently tapping on my forearm along with the beat of the song, was my daughter Kiley. She’s an adult now, but she’s still my little one. And she still makes my heart come all undone.

A lot of Brian Wilson’s songs are about love. What a wonderful gift he has given us.

Dad and daughter. Happily ever after.

Stories behind memorable albums of the 1970s as told by the artists

Category: The Vinyl Dialogues Book Page 11 of 16

‘Sixties Spectacular’ show: Something tells me I’m into something good

Hall & Oates christen new Philadelphia Fillmore in true Philly style

Memories of the ‘Def Leppard Method of Babysitting’

Shake, shake, shaking booty with KC and The Sunshine Band

Rock the Yacht 2015 review: All the hits . . . and hearty handshakes, too

The story behind ‘A Horse With No Name,” straight from the horse’s mouth

The highly emotional and personal magic of a special Brian Wilson song