It was her idea.
Your girlfriend was in charge – putting the Senior Class New Year’s Eve party together.
She never did one before. You didn’t have a clue.
She wanted festive – you weren’t a joiner. She pictured costumes. You pictured Guy Lombardo. She wanted a night to remember – you got a night you’d rather forget.
You were together since Summer – Station 8 – she had a championship Tan. She was attracted to you because she said you were “deep and serious”. You swore she had the wrong person. You fit like a glove – she was your seventeen-year old soul mate – you were sewn at the hip – you were weird together. You bought each other copies of Revolver for Christmas – you practically ate the same food. This was the relationship you would base all other relationships on.
Probably explains why you were married three times.
She thought it would be fun to do a costume New Years Eve – do it as a theme. Come as something. Not a cartoon character. Fables and Greek tragedies were okay. The Flintstones were out. Use your imagination – imagination was good
Her parents were shrinks – she wanted to be a shrink – she bordered on being brainy – she thought a lot. She decided the theme would be “come as something that describes your personality”. The steering committee had a lot to think about. You had no idea what your personality was, but you could guess.
She got the Elk’s Lodge down the street because the school gym was locked until school started.
She convinced the guys in your band to do the party – you got nervous – you never made it past the garage, you never actually played in public anyplace – not even a kids birthday party. They were excited – you felt your stomach drop to the ground. Your singer was tone deaf but he had all the right clothes. Maybe if you played loud enough . . .
She got a Freshman from the Radio Club to be disc-jockey – he had a connection to an amp, big speakers and “a lot of records”.
A week before Christmas Vacation the school was covered in flyers – New Years Eve 1966 would be the “Blowout of the year” – the only problem was spelling – you could look at it a hundred times, not realizing the flyer actually said “Blowjob Of The Year” – you just hoped none of the faculty caught it.
New Years Eve day the steering committee took over the Elks lodge, filling the cavernous hall with balloons and anything remotely festive. Your band, The Plague loaded in and set up in a corner – the party was taking shape.
Around seven o’clock people started showing up – and showing up – and showing up. Within minutes the cavernous hall was filled to overflow capacity – the partygoers made it look more like Halloween than New Years.
It never occurred to either you or your girlfriend to ask the DJ what kind of music he was planning on playing – he said his dad worked at a radio station so you naturally assumed he’d be loaded down with Beatles, Rolling Stones, Them, The Four Tops – upbeat, danceable party music.
Imagine your surprise when the thousand watt PA system blasted out Buck Owens’ I Got A Tiger By The Tail, followed by Johnny Paycheck, Sonny James, Loretta Lynne and Dottie West. It was all Country music – his dad worked for a Country station.
The crowd wasn’t thrilled – they came to rock, not punch cattle. So the steering committee pleaded with you to get on stage and play something – anything with a beat.
You had only managed to practice three songs to the point where you knew anything by heart. So the first song you played was Wipeout, and that got the party moving. It was quickly followed by Gloria and 7 and 7 Is – that was the extent of your repertoire. The singer, decked out in a Purple satin shirt and Lime green pants faked his way through Gloria and shouted his way through 7 And 7 Is. The singer announced they were taking a break – the crowd groaned. You went to the alley to figure out what to do next.
And what to do next was take the drummer up on his offer to smoke a joint which he produced from his jacket pocket. The air got thick and your brain got foggy as you came up with the idea to jam for about a half hour – play whatever came into your mind just as long as the drummer kept some kind of beat to keep things moving. It seemed like a good idea.
You took one last hit and went back in to tell everyone what was going on.
Back inside, the crowd was getting rowdy. Seems someone spiked the punch. And the rocket fuel, along with Merle Haggard was getting everyone a little emotional. Fights were breaking out as tongues got loose and fists got looser.
You were heading to the makeshift bandstand when you heard sirens wailing from the alley. You started for the backdoor just as a pile of cops were coming in through the front door. Your girlfriend and the steering committee freaked out and rushed to attempt to calm things down while you went to warn the band. You went out the backdoor just in time to see the drummer, bass player and lead singer stuffed into squad cars and trundled off to get booked.
Nowhere near midnight and the party was already over. Police were checking i.d.’s and pointing flashlights at dilated eyes.
The cavernous meeting hall was now an empty space, strewn with deflated balloons, ripped up party favors and smeared food.
It all looked good on paper – the cops finally left after giving a lecture about building violations and spiked punch.
You had to wait until the next morning to find out what happened to the rest of The Plague – parents were no doubt involved at some point and the demise of your band was a foregone conclusion.
The only thing left was sitting in your car, holding hands with your girlfriend, listening to Dick Biondi on the radio and hoping 1967 was a little better.
At least not as crazy.
Here is Dick Biondi at KRLA as he was heard on New Years Eve 1966, running down the top songs of the year.