Surf music is a glorious anomaly. It originated as an offshoot of the instrumental group genre that emerged in the late 1950s but ended up establishing itself — due to the influence of the Beach Boys and their imitators — as music with exquisite vocals. It is intimately related to a sport but ultimately synthesizes all the best elements of a particularly fortunate youth sector's lifestyle. It has a regional origin (Southern California) but has fascinated people from all over: inclement England boasts a notable school of surf-inspired vocal groups. It ended abruptly in 1965, slashed by the British hair invasion and intoxicated by the first countercultural aromas, but has been resurrected by punks (the Ramones) and rockers (Loquillo). A case for Inspector Clouseau, obviously.
THE REALM OF THE FENDER
Let's investigate. The explosion of instrumental groups from 1958 onwards is a result of the decline of rock and roll. By then, the wilder forms of rockabilly and rhythm and blues had ceased to be a novelty and were in frank retreat, as the record industry had mastered the secret of launching teen idols: generally, handsome boys, with Italian blood, and willing to be molded by clever producers who insisted on recording melodic rock or brazen ballads. The youth music that replaced rock and roll was recorded in Philadelphia, New York, or Los Angeles. On the periphery were thousands of groups that had to face dancing audiences, who felt the need to innovate but did not want (or could not) put a pretty face at the forefront. So they decided to forgo a singer, to avoid compromising with the crude past or the soft present, and opted for the wordless rock formula. There was another reason. The instrumental music of previous years — generally by Black performers — was dominated by the piano, saxophone, or organ. These are not easy instruments or, in the case of keyboards, very portable. And the electric guitar is, uh, sexier and more modern. Moreover, over time, boys had learned its secrets and already knew how to make curious noises that excited the listeners' imagination. And so came Duanne Eddy, Link Wray, the Ventures, Johnny & The Hurricanes (not very guitar-centric, it's true), Lonnie Mack, the Tune Rockers...
And in California, a guitarist named Dick Dale led the Del-tones. He had released powerful vocal albums (without success). The guy lived by the beach, surfed, and had a crazy idea: to reproduce the sensations of riding the waves through instruments. He tried it with "Let's Go Trippin'," released in late summer 1961. There were already precedents for that sound ("Stampede" by the Scarlets in 1959) but he molded all the elements: rhythmic tension, sense of acceleration, reverb and tremolo on the guitar, echo on the saxophone. It worked!
AND THE SINGING ANGEL KIDS ARRIVE
Dick Dale & The Deltones were a hit. Among the surfing communities, word spread: "there's a guy making music for US." And imitators sprang up here and there, instrumental groups that learned (and improved) his tricks. Typically, a lineup of two guitars, sax, bass, and drums. The guitars, Fender Stratocaster or Fender Jaguar (the amplification and reverberation also bore the mark of Leo Fender, who collaborated with Dale).
The Marketts ("Surte, Stomp," "Balboa Blue"), the Surfaris ("Wipe Out," "Surfer Joe"), the Chantays ("Pipeline"), the Pyramids ("Penetration") invaded the national airwaves.
They were the crest of the wave: in those years, small Californian labels released hundreds of surf singles. And they were imitated by groups who had never set foot on Californian beaches: the Ventures successfully released a surf version of "Walk, Don't Run." The Wailers (like the Ventures, from Seattle), the Astronauts (Denver's pride), and the Trashmen (Minneapolis) also converted to the new religion.
Surfin' fever. Among the masses of surfers who came to levitate with Dick Dale at the Rendezvous Ballroom (Balboa) were some ambitious boys, the Wilson brothers. They didn't have great instrumental skills: they adored the vocal groups of the fifties and preferred to sing.
Brian Wilson and Mike Love composed "Surfin'," a song that didn't try to reproduce the thrill of surfing as it told everything in the lyrics: "woke up this morning, put the radio on / wanted to know how the waves were to see if I could go / and when the disc jockey tells me that the surfin' is perfect / I know my girl and I will have a good time / we'll go surfing."
The Beach Boys debuted on the Candis label but soon moved to the powerful Capitol, where they captivated audiences with "Surfin' Safari," "Surfin' USA," and "Surfer Girl." In addition, Brian worked with the prolific Gary Usher (producer-arranger) and Roger Christian (KFWB disc jockey). He also collaborated with Jan (Berry) and Dean (Torrance) on glories like "Surf City," followed by "Honolulu Lulu," "Ride the Wild Surf," and "Sidewalk Surfin'."
Both groups — Jan & Dean, Beach Boys — have a rich history, quickly abandoned the surf theme, suffered more than one tragedy, and deserve a space that cannot be granted to them at this time. Let their vocal brilliance, their ingenuity in capturing the aspirations of surf culture, and their profound influence be noted.
For example, in the duo Bruce Johnston and Terry Melcher. The former would eventually join the Beach Boys: the latter, Doris Day's son, would produce the Byrds and Paul Revere & The Raiders and would be saved — by chance — from being massacred by Charles Manson's gang.
Before all this, they energized the surfing tribes with abundant records released as Bruce and Terry, the Hot Doggers, the Rip Chords, or the Bruce Johnson Surfing Band. Many of their recordings are very professional covers, but they also make intoxicating odes to surfers' vehicles ("There's a Window Coupe," "Hey Little Cobra," "Hot Rod USA," "Custom Machine"). Later, we will discuss the appropriateness of considering these pieces — "hot rod music" — as surf music ("on this beach, we split hairs, doll").
BEACH, BEACH
Let's do some cheap sociology now. Who were those surfers? In the early sixties, California led the United States in per capita income and in research on "quality of life." More prosperous than Japan, the state was the true New Frontier and attracted torrents of immigrants (300,000 every year, according to official statistics) from other regions or from Mexico.
People seeking a relaxed, sunny, and sea-kissed lifestyle. Apart from the geographical and climatic conditions, California offered good job opportunities, formidable universities, and a tolerant social climate.
The Bruce Brown films, faithful to the spirit of the movement ("Endless Summer" is pure audiovisual poetry), gave way to B-movie beach films, insipid productions starring sham surfers like Frankie Avalon, Annette Funicello, Bobby Vinton, Fabian, Tab Hunter.
The Silver Surfer hadn't debuted in Marvel comics yet, but there were already television series ("Hawaiian Eye," "Surfside Six") exploiting the theme. John Severson, responsible for "Surfer Magazine," tried to bring order. For purists, surfing had already perished when the genre's stars stopped primarily celebrating the glories of the waves to sing about motorcycles, sports cars, vans, and buggies driving on the sand.
Vehicles are indispensable elements of the environment: gasoline is cheap and wheels provide the necessary mobility to get to parties and suitable beaches. But damn! songs about skateboards appear. Skateboards! And they insist on marking the boundaries between "surf" and "hot rod music." They prefer Troy Donahue ("Surfside Six") over the motorized Kookie (Ed Byrnes) of "77 Sunset Strip."
An even more intolerant group even denies surf music status to songs by Beach Boys and company: "they talk about surf but they DON'T have the surf sound." For them, surf is instrumental, evocative, impressionistic. "Everything has degenerated." Any artist makes surf music (see list of notables who wanted a slice of the pie) and the charts feature barbarians like the Trashmen — from Minnesota! — with "Surfin' Bird" or the Tradewinds, a New York duo — Vinni Poncia and Peter Andreoli — who explain in "New York is a Lonely Town" how badly surfers fare on the East Coast. They complain that the spirit of brotherhood, the sense of community, of shared secret, has disappeared. Summer is over and the sharks are circling the beach.
THE FINAL WAVE
What happens to the legions of surf when they grow old? They say many commit suicide when they discover it has an end.
No, exaggeration: most of them slip into the Real World of jobs, mortgages, divorces. Others join the rollercoaster of counterculture. And a small minority remains, living on the beaches, chewing on memories of the Good Old Days and wearing out the grooves of their most beloved LPs. They keep the flame alive.
Of course, surfing doesn't stop being practiced, but that atmosphere of exclusive cult is gone. The corresponding music languishes, although the Beach Boys and Jan & Dean have periods of reactivation and benefit from nostalgia for a more innocent and simpler time.
The waves started to rise again from the second half of the seventies. Like people like Papa Doo Run Run, a dream come true. Southern California encompasses the southwestern part of the state, from the Mexican border to Santa Barbara. A coast of insulting beauty, with mountains in the background. They say that any day, telluric forces will get angry, a righteous earthquake will come, and everything will sink into the Pacific. But that doesn't overly concern the surfers who dance with Dick Dale to the Beach Boys. A product of the "baby boom," the demographic explosion following World War II, they have known nothing but prosperity in their lives.
The Vietnam War is a fight between slant-eyed guys that doesn't affect them at all. They drink Coke and Pepsi, drive cars bought by their dads, can use the pools at their houses and look out the windows to see gardens of dazzling green. And those who don't have a pool or private car hope to have one "next year."
This healthy and lustrous generation, sun-kissed and fresh, well-fed and educated under the liberal ideas of Dr. Spock, entertains its leisure with parties, drive-in visits, exciting music radio stations, and multi-channel television. Inevitably, they gravitate towards the beaches. There, surfing, a sport imported from Hawaii, takes hold. Surfers are the kings of the beach: they have their own jargon, enjoy music made especially for them, live with the indolent hope that tomorrow's waves will be even better and that they will be able to perform new feats of balance and endurance that will be the talk of the next party.
A correction: surfing is MORE than a sport. Besides a physical experience, it has something spiritual, even... mystical. Living to hunt the Perfect Wave. Briefly dominating the foamy Forces of Nature. Hope of Eternal Youth, of joy without interference.
THE BROKEN MIRAGE
Surfers quickly entered the world of drugs. In fact, the first reference to acid on a rock record appeared on the B-side of a 1961 Gamblers single, a surf instrumental titled (no less than) "LSD-25."
A substance that was still legal and pushed many beach creatures into psychedelic culture, where playing with waves became child's play.
In 1964, riots erupted at Berkeley University, and young Californians — under Governor Reagan's irritated gaze — became radicalized. English sounds brought Carnaby Street fashions, and suddenly, jeans, t-shirts, and shorts seemed old-fashioned, ancient.
A mortal sin. The first symptoms of hippiedom began to flourish. Surf had become big business. After the documentaries accompanying Jan & Dean in their reappearance, they professionally commercialized surf. With Jon & The Nightriders or The Packards (the restless Chris Darrow's surf outlet).
With Dennis Dragon, member of The Dragons from 1964, Beach Boys assistant, and founder in 1977 of the fearsome Surf Punks. With the What? Records label, which started with punk, reissued The Pyramids' LP and recorded young surf bands. With the resurrection of Dick Dale and Corky Carroll (champion of beach competitions) proposing "A Surfer for President" in 1980 and... that's another story. Now, it's enough to close your eyes and review impossible dreams in the mental moviola. Surf's up!
Text by: Diego A. Manrique
