By Lee Zimmerman
Growing up in Dallas during the mid ‘60s helped ingrain me in a certain musical culture.
Nevertheless, when my dad packed up the family and moved us from Long Island, the only
things that were on the minds o0f me and my brother were the typical Texas stereotypes little
boys generally conjured up at the time.
In other words, Texas meant cowboys and Indians, and we were sure we’d encounter them as
soon as we crossed the state line. I still have photos of four year-old self, dressed to the hilt in a
western shirt, cowboy hat and cowboy boots, sitting astride my tricycle looking like I’m ready to
race through the frontier.
Our sheer devotion to the Dallas Cowboys (ah, that early showdown with the Packers in the
Super Bowl was soooo close) and an amusement park I vaguely remember being called
“Cowboy Town” aside, our cowboys connections generally went unrealized. Dallas was
assuredly suburban and an excellent anchor for a middle class upbringing.
On the other hand, as I got older and came of age, it was mostly music that took on meaning for
me. I still recall the Sunday night when the Beatles made their first appearance on the Ed
Sullivan Show and my parents urged me to come watch this strange looking group with the long
hair that they were witnessing on their small black and white TV. I shrugged and went about my
business, telling them that in effect, I couldn’t care less. Nevertheless, a week later, when the Fab
Four made their second of three consecutive appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show, I was
hooked.
Still, I wasn’t wholly committed. I passed on their first American album, Meet the Beatles, and
settled instead for The Beatles Second Album which arrived shortly thereafter. I was a more or
less impartial observer when my chums at Arthur Kramer Elementary School debated who
would last the longest — The Beatles, Herman’s Hermits or the Dave Clark 5. My bets were on
the Hermits, and the fact that Peter Noone is active even now gives me more than a hint of
vindication.
As far as local icons were concerned, The Five Americans put Big D on the musical map. The
band scored two semi-national hits, “Western Union Man” and “Sound of Love,” both relentless
rockers that remain thoroughly compelling even now. Dallas’ two Top 40 radio stations, KLIF
and KBOX, played the heck out of them, giving the band rightful claim to be considered
hometown heroes. They were, in effect, our answer to the so-called “British Invasion,” and given
their patriotic handle, there was little doubt they were well suited to stand firm against the
onslaught of those English invaders.
My personal allegiance was confirmed when I happened to catch them at the opening of a car
dealership. In those days, it wasn’t uncommon to invite local celebrities to help publicize the
opening of a new business. I remember looking at them from the back before they went onstage
and marveling at the length of their locks. I had never seen hair that long! However looking back
in retrospect, their hair seemed so perfectly coiffed that I suspect they had donned Beatle wigs,
which were, in fact, very popular at the time. I owned one myself!
Personally, I was drawn more towards wearing Beatle boots.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before I started going to actual concerts. Dallas had plenty to choose
from. I saw both Peter, Paul and Mary and Sonny and Cher, the latter in their cleaned up, post-
bohemian days when the “Sonny and Cher” show was a TV blockbuster and they had graduated
from furs to formal wear. They were the first shows I saw in an actual auditorium — the Dallas
Civic Center, I believe it was. I’m not sure which came first, or even if they did come first. My
parents took me to see MOR crooner Julius LaRosa during one of our frequent road trips to
Miami Beach to visit my grandparents, and in all honesty, that may well have been my first
formal concert connection.
Later, when I was dating a girl named Carol Kirby, I took her to see a show headlined by the
Byrds along with Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels as one of the supporting bands. I recall
seeing Roger McGuinn and David Crosby actually going out on stage and checking their
equipment before making their actual appearance. (Where were the roadies??) I got to see Mitch
Ryder in full frenzy, but sadly, my date was under a strict curfew and we had to leave before the
Byrds went on. My parents were chauffeuring us so I had no way to delay our departure.
I still regret that I never saw the Byrds take flight. Sadly, the opportunity never came again.
Fortunately, I had better luck at other times. I saw the British pop band Freddie and the Dreamers
(“Do the Freddie,” “I’m Telling You Now”) along with The McCoys (featuring Rick Derringer
and the song “Hang On Sloopy”) as the opening act. It was then when I got my first taste of what
really transpires behind the scenes. The stage was little more than a big square box that was open
on both sides and only accessible to the artists by climbing up some makeshift stairs in the back.
When I happened to go around the side, I saw lead singer Freddie Garrity slowly climb the stairs
in preparation of taking the stage. Now mind you, Freddie was known mainly for his clownish,
foppish behavior and an upbeat stage persona. Yet while he climbed up those stairs, he looked
somewhat sullen. Just another show, I suppose. However the minute he made his entrance, his
demeanor changed completely. He bounded on the stage with his usual enthusiasm and
immediately adopted the frenzied Freddie image which he was known for.
“Wow,” I thought to myself. “He certainly knows how to transform himself — and be a pro in
the process!”
That wasn’t my final rock star encounter that evening. After walking out the rear of the building
to await my ride home, a car pulled up. Sitting inside were the four members of the Lovin’
Spoonful who had come by to check out the action after their opening slot for a show with the
Supremes across town. All four members were crammed in the back seat. A small crowd pressed
towards the limo, and through an open window, someone asked John Sebastian where he had
gotten his trademark wire-rimmed spectacles. “Cambridge,” he replied, making that the extent of
the conversation.
Another opportunity occurred some years later when I attended my first year of college at
SMU/Southern Methodist University. By then, we had moved to St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
after a business opportunity was given my parents by one of their old friends from New York.
Iron Butterfly were playing the McFarlin Auditorium, and I happened to catch them as they
walked towards the backstage door. Being a poor college student, I approached bassist Lee
Dorman and asked if he’d allow me to slip in with the band as I had no money for a ticket. He
demurred and continued walking. Oh well. Rock stardom has its privileges but clearly, they
didn’t extend to a fan in need of a helping hand.
The most memorable concert I actually did see during my time at SMU was the Jimi Hendrix
Experience. Chicago, then known as CTA (Chicago Transit Authority) was the opening act.
(Note: this was prior to the release of their first album.) The middle band on the bill was Fat
Mattress, a group helmed by Noel Redding, bassist for the Experience. That night, he performed
double duty.
Hendrix was, of course incredible. I remember distinctly when, during the song “Purple Haze,”
he pointed to someone in the audience and sang, “‘Scuse me while I kiss this guy…”
There was an excellent record store next to the campus where I bought a copy of the first Jimi
Hendrix Experience album. The psychedelic cover was enough to convince me to buy it without
even hearing a single note of what was inside.
My other vivid memory of the evening was the fact that he was respondent in purple garb. A
friend of mine managed to snap some photos — although this was long before the days of cell
phone cameras — and he gifted a couple to me. He must have smuggled a camera inside or
perhaps there were no rules against taking photos at that time. (It was, after all, also pre-internet.)
I hung them on my bedroom wall with tremendous pride. They were a fine keepsake. I wish I
still had them now.
I also recall it was a tough choice as to which show to attend that evening. Cream was also in
town which, I’m sure, would have been just as magical and memorable.
SMU’s campus itself provided several special memories. I watched as a very nervous Bob Hope
glared at all the long-hairs while making his way to a ceremony honoring him as a major
benefactor. I recall slipping past an array of security guards in order to catch Richard Nixon
during a campaign swing at the Moody Colosseum.
I also remember watching the Beatles’ “Get Back” rooftop video for the first time on a television
in the student union.
The union also hosted a concert by the Box Tops, the band that famously sang the song “The
Letter.” What struck me most was the fact that they eschewed any desire to dress like rock stars.
They were clad simply in teeshirts and jeans. It was, after all, the pre-punk era when that was the
standard garb.
Finally, I’m proud to say I can still sing the song “Big D,” a tune penned by Frank Loesser in
1956 for the musical “Most Happy Fella” and later Dallas’ unofficial anthem.
“Big D, little a double l-a
Big D, little a double l-a
Big D, little a double l-a-s
And that spells Dallas
Where ev’ry home’s a palace
Cause the settlers settle for no less…”
To paraphrase,
“It does indeed give me pleasure to confess
That I’m from Big D
My, oh Yes!”
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