From the Tiger Beat Archives, November 1965
In San Francisco the Beach Boys run to the waiting limousine after their Cow Palace stent. Carl Wilson reaches it first AND leaps inside as hands claw at his shirttail. He finds a guy inside. Carl and a cop try to evict the cat.
“I’m Ian,” the fellow yells, “I’m Ian.”
Carl takes a close look; sure, it’s Ian Whitcomb, their friend and fellow entertainer on the program. No time to apologize. Screaming females are battering the close windows, climbing on the hood and roof, shaking the car from side to side.
“Where are the others?” Carl asked nobody in particular. “We can’t wait or they’ll tear the car apart.”
Meanwhile a massive wave of females sweep over the running Dennis and knock him flat. His head hits the deck and he’s out cold. Girls in front, pushed from the rear, trample him with their heels and motorcycle boots. An agency man battles through the mob, rescues the stricken drummer boy and carries him to the limo. The door won’t open against the pressure of bodies. An officer forces them back and opens the door. Carl helps pull Denny in.
“Let’s get out of here!” Carl tells the driver. “Can’t wait for the others. Denny needs a doctor quick.”
The chauffeur forces his vehicle through the mob inch by inch.
Mike Love and Al Jardine, it was learned later, had wisely taken refuge in the dressing room and hadn’t tried to buck the mob.
Dennis came to an hour later and wouldn’t see a doctor. It wasn’t the first time he was KO’d by his loving fans. In Fort Lauderdale, Florida, they knocked him against the door as the group reached the stadium, leaving him nauseous, dizzy and faint. He went on with the show, popping aspirins to ease his splitting headache. When his drumbeats grew erratic and weaker, the other Beach Boys were miserable with worry but helpless to aid him.
Dennis kept calling for Ron Swallow the BB’s buddy and general aid to stand near him. Ron hid himself behind the drum stand. In the middle of a number, Dennis collapsed, fainting into Ronnie’s outstretched arms, ending the performance.
Every pop music group has scarifyin’ experiences. A clutch of chicks ran right over Pacemaker Gerry Mardsen’s body when he tripped and fell on the street during the chase. In Long Beach the Dave Clark 5 had their worst fright when so many girls climbed on their limo that the roof caved in, crushing Dave and his boys. Somebody sent for a can opener to get them out of the wrecked rig.
(Editor’s note: I was in the DC5’s limo with them as we left the gig in Long Beach, but even though girls were on top of the roof and hood, the driver eased our way through the crowd and a can opener wasn’t necessary. I can vouch for how terrifying it was! Earl’s embellishments are at play here, but NO embellishments on his Beach Boys coverage. He was their official photog and travelled with them for several years!)
I know from personal experience with the Beach Boys that a horrifying claustrophobia gets you when you sit in a closed car, besieged by hundreds of howling women, and can’t move because of the tight-packed crowd.
Star chasing fans, never intentionally vicious or cruel, can go berserk in mass. One hysterical girl can ignite the fuse that explodes a group of quietly worshipful teenagers into a hair-pulling, clothes-tearing, rioting mob.
Performers accept all this as an occupational hazard. The tumult and excitement in the breath of their lives. Without fans who buy disks and concert tickets they might be gas pumping jockeys, Fuller Brush men or candidates for the poor farm.
What bugs them most is the violence started by troublemaking hoods and punks–who rarely buy tickets to see shows and enjoy the performances. They hang around outside the hall, breaking windows and smashing doors, throwing bottles and stones at entering or exiting entertainers, and fighting among themselves for kicks. After a San Francisco show by the Animals, gangs of rowdies fought with knives, spikes and tire chains. Fourteen boys were stabbed, one kicked bloody and a cop was mauled before the riot squad broke up the battle. This is the blackest–and fortunately, the rarest–side of the picture.
The word groupie was coined a year or so ago to describe the female fan-atic who makes a career out of star chasing. Dedicated groupies are capable of fantastic feats of daring, cunning and patience to get autographs and snapshots, or to see, touch, meet and date their idols. They camp out days and nights, in all weather, at airports, studios and hotels for a sighting.
The True Blue groupie is an expert at eluding. Curfew is merely a challenge to their strategy, police barricades are meant to test their mettle. They climb roof tops and fire escapes to reach their heroes, lurk in hotel corridors and disguise themselves as maids and waitresses to get past security. Many flash press cards to get interviews; however, these cards have lost their value sent some cheap magazines issue them by the thousands. A personal letter from an editor will usually get recognition. Many groupies flaunt their beauty to reach their would-be lover-boys.
They run away from home and hitchhike or stowaway on planes and trains to follow their Pied Piper’s. A few have made it all the way to London and Liverpool to inhale the sacred air once breathe by a Beatle or Rolling Stone.
They’re really wigged out, these hippie chicks who talk so hippie, do all the hippie things and wear the hippie threads–or like, man, you are not with it. They wear long stringy unwashed hair in the Morticia mode, eye make-up put on with the shoe brush, lipstick applied with a grease gun and pancake powder so thick on their faces you wonder what would happen if they had to scratch. I’m not knocking them, I’m telling you how they are. Nobody’s perfect.
Editor’s note: All photos in this article were taken at Beach Boys concerts around the world by Earl Leaf.
Tomorrow Part 2
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