Surf music is a glorious anomaly. It was born as an offshoot of the genre of instrumental groups that sprouted in the late fifties, but it ended up establishing itself—through the influence of the Beach Boys and their epigones—as music of exquisite vocals. It is intimately related to a sport, yet it concludes by synthesizing all the best elements of the lifestyle of an especially fortunate youth sector. It has a regional origin (Southern California) but has fascinated people everywhere: the bleak England counts on a remarkable school of surf-inspired vocal groups. It ends abruptly in 1965, slashed by the invasion of British mop-tops and intoxicated by the first countercultural aromas, but it has been resurrected by punks (the Ramones) or rockers (Loquillo). A case for Inspector Clouseau, evidently. THE FENDER REALM Let us investigate. The explosion of instrumental groups starting in 1958 is a result of the decline of rock and roll. By then, the wildest forms of rockabilly or rhythm and blues had ceased to be a novelty and were in full retreat, as the record industry had mastered the secret of launching teenage idols: generally, pretty boys with Italian blood and willing to let themselves 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 remained thousands of groups that had to face dance-happy crowds, who felt the need to renew themselves but did not want (or were unable) to put a pretty face at the front. So they decided to forgo a lead singer, in order not to compromise with the rough past or the soft present, and opted for the formula of wordless rock. There is another reason. Instrumental music from previous years—generally by Black performers—was dominated by the piano, saxophone, or organ. Those are not easy instruments or, in the case of keyboards, very transportable. And the electric guitar is, uh, sexier and more modern. Furthermore, over time, the kids learned to know its secrets and already knew how to make curious little noises that excite the listeners' imaginations. And thus emerged Duane Eddy, Link Wray, the Ventures, Johnny & The Hurricanes (not very guitar-heavy, it is true), Lonnie Mack, the Tune Rockers... And in California, a guitarist named Dick Dale performed at the head of the Del-Tones. He had released powerful sung records (without success). The guy lived by the beach, practiced surfing, and had a crazy idea: to reproduce the sensations of being a rider of waves by means of instruments. He tried it with "Let's Go Tripping," released at the end of the summer of 1961. There had already been precedents for that sound ("Stampede" by the Scarlets in 1959), but he molded all the elements: rhythmic tension, a sensation of acceleration, reverb and tremolo on the guitar, echo on the saxophone. It worked! AND THE LITTLE SINGING ANGELS ARRIVE Dick Dale & The Del-Tones took over. Among the surfing communities, the word spread: "there's a guy who makes music for US." And imitators sprang up here and there, instrumental groups that learned (and improved) his tricks. Usually, a lineup of two guitars, sax, bass, and drums. The guitars: Fender Stratocaster or Fender Jaguar (the amplification and reverb also bore the brand of Leo Fender, who collaborated with Dale). The national airwaves were invaded by the Marketts ("Surfer's Stomp," "Balboa Blue"), the Surfaris ("Wipe Out," "Surfer Joe"), the Chantays ("Pipeline"), the Pyramids ("Penetration"). They were the crest of the wave: in those years, small Californian labels released hundreds of surf singles. And they were imitated by groups that had never stepped on Californian beaches: the Ventures released—with success—a surf version of "Walk Don't Run." A similar conversion to the new religion was manifested by the Wailers (like the Ventures, from Seattle), the Astronauts (pride of Denver), or the Trashmen (Minneapolis). Surfin' fever. Among the masses of surfers who went to levitate with Dick Dale at the Rendezvous Ballroom (Balboa) were some ambitious kids, the Wilson brothers. They didn't have great skills as instrumentalists: 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 trepidation of surfing since it tells everything in the lyrics: "I got up this morning, I turned on the radio/I 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 that my girl and I will have a good time/that we'll go surfing." The Beach Boys debuted on the Candix label but soon jumped to the powerful Capitol, where they wowed the staff with "Surfin' Safari," "Surfin' USA," and "Surfer Girl." Furthermore, 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—had a rich history, abandoned the surf theme early on, suffered more than one tragedy, and deserve a space that cannot be granted to them at this moment. Let there be a record of their vocal brilliance, their ingenuity in capturing the aspirations of surf culture, and their profound influence. For example, on the pair Bruce Johnston and Terry Melcher. The former would end up joining 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 animated the surfing tribes with abundant records released as Bruce and Terry, the Hot Doggers, the Rip Chords, or the Bruce Johnston Surfing Band. Many of their recordings were very professional covers, but they also made intoxicating odes to surfers' vehicles ("The Wind-down Coupe," "Hey Little Cobra," "Hot Rod USA," "Custom Machine"). Later we will discuss the propriety of considering those pieces—"hot rod music"—as surf music ("on this beach we split hairs, buddy"). BEACH, BEACH Let's do a little cheap sociology now. Who were those surfers? At the beginning of the sixties, California was at the head of 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 each year, according to official statistics) from other regions or from Mexico. People looking for a relaxed, sunny lifestyle bathed by the sea. Apart from the geographical and climatic conditions, the Californian could enjoy good job opportunities, formidable universities, and a tolerant social climate. Bruce Brown, faithful to the spirit of the movement ("Endless Summer" is pure audiovisual poetry), was followed by B-movie beach films, insipid productions starring "surf-wannabes" like Frankie Avalon, Annette Funicello, Bobby Vinton, Fabian, Tab Hunter. The Silver Surfer hadn't yet debuted in Marvel comics, but there were already television series ("Hawaiian Eye," "Surfside Six") exploiting the subject. John Severson, head of "Surfer Magazine," tried to restore order. For purists, surfing had already perished when the genre's stars stopped dealing basically with the glories of the waves to devote themselves to singing about motorcycles, sports cars, station wagons, and buggies circulating on the sand. The vehicles were indispensable elements of the environment: gas was cheap and wheels provided the necessary mobility to get to parties and favorable beaches. But damn it! Songs about skateboards came out. Skateboards! And they insisted on marking the limits between "surf" and "hot rod music." They preferred Troy Donahue ("Surfside Six") over the motorized Kookie (Ed Byrnes) of "77 Sunset Strip." An even more intolerant group denied even the "surf music" category to the songs of the Beach Boys and company: "they talk about surfing but they DO NOT have the surf sound." For them, surf is instrumental, evocative, impressionistic. "Everything has degenerated." Any artist did surf (see list of notables who wanted to grab a slice of the matter) and on the charts were some savages like the Trashmen—from Minnesota!—with "Surfin' Bird" or the Tradewinds, a pair of New Yorkers—Vinny Poncia and Peter Andreoli—who explained in "New York Is a Lonely Town" how hard the surfers have it on the East Coast. They complained that the spirit of brotherhood, the feeling of community, of shared secret, had disappeared. The summer was over and the sharks were 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, an exaggeration: most slide into the Real World of jobs, mortgages, divorces. Others pass to the rollercoaster of the 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, one never stops surfing, 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 the nostalgia for a more innocent and simple time. The waves start to rise again starting in the second half of the seventies. Like people like Papa Doo Run Run, who made the dream a reality. 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, the tectonic forces will get angry, a righteous earthquake will arrive, and all that will sink into the Pacific. But that doesn't overly worry the surfers who dance with Dick Dale or the Beach Boys. A product of the "baby boom," the demographic explosion that followed the Second World War, they hadn't known anything in their lives but prosperity. The Vietnam War was a fight between slant-eyed guys that didn't affect them at all. They drank Coke and Pepsi, drove cars bought by their dads, could use their home swimming pools, and peek out the windows to see gardens of resplendent green. And those who didn't enjoy a pool or private car hoped to have one "next year." This healthy and lustrous generation, tanned by sun and bottle, well-fed and educated under the liberal ideas of Dr. Spock, entertained their leisure time with parties, visits to the drive-in, radio stations that programmed exciting music, television with many channels. Inevitably, they gravitated toward the beaches. There, surf caught on, a sport imported from Hawaii. The surfers were the kings of the beach: they had their own slang, enjoyed music made especially for them, lived with the indolent hope that tomorrow's waves would turn out even better and that they could perform new feats of balance and endurance that would be the talk of the next party. A correction: surfing is MORE than a sport. Apart from a physical experience, it has something spiritual, something... mystical about it. Living to hunt the Perfect Wave. Briefly mastering the foamy Forces of Nature. Hope for Eternal Youth, for joy without interference. THE BROKEN MIRAGE The 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 single by the Gamblers, an instrumental with a surf sound titled (of all things) "LSD-25." A substance that was still legal and that pushed many creatures of the beach toward the psychedelic culture, in which games with the waves remained like child's play. In 1964, riots broke out at the University of Berkeley and young Californians—under the irritated gaze of Governor Reagan—became radicalized. English sounds brought the fashions of Carnaby Street and suddenly, jeans and T-shirts and shorts resulted in being outdated, ancient. A mortal sin. The first symptoms of hippiedom began to flourish. Surfing had become a big business. After the documentaries that accompanied Jan & Dean in their comeback, they did commercial surf with professionalism. With Jon & The Nightriders or The Packards (a surf outlet for the restless Chris Darrow). With Dennis Dragon, member of the Dragons in 1964, assistant to the Beach Boys, 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 (beach competition champion) proposing "A Surfer for President" in 1980 and... all that is another story. Now, it's enough to close your eyes and go over impossible dreams on the mental moviola. Surf's up! Text by: Diego A. Manrique
