Gonna Miss Her" on a Martin acoustic. I felt a surge of excitement well up inside me as we finally parked, got out and strolled into the already-crowded Wilson High School auditorium. The school was constructed in the late ’60s and still projected the familiar old “This is America and nothing can hurt you" kind of feeling. Jeff and I were on a mission to our roots, and the auditorium’s ambience confirmed our belief that we were headed in the right direction. As we entered the room a tuxedoed man on the stage was asking the crowd if anyone in the front row had a last name beginning with the letter “K.” “This must be the mentalist,” I told Jeff. “I’ll be right back." I searched for and found the men's room, an extremely hygenic-look- ing lavoratory. This really took me back, and as I came out a few minutes later my mind was a million miles away. Jeff grabbed my arm. "I saw Gary backstage, man!" he blurted. “I’ve gotta talk to him!" That’s what we were really there for, and it seemed natural to walk right through the stage door. We were met by the stage manager, and after we mumbled something about being with the press and wanting to talk to Gary, he yelled, “Hey Gary! Come on over here!" With virtually no fanfare we were face- to-face with the fair haired boy of '60s pop music — the man who sang the tunes that formed the backdrop for the summertime romances, drive-in movies and broken hearts of millions of young Americans, some of the most unforgettable songs of all time. This was the real Gary Lewis! And despite his years in the Army, his well-publicized bouts with drugs and all of the unfortunate marriages, he still looked exactly like Gary Lewis! As an acknowledgement of the '80s he was wearing designer jeans, but he sported a skinny tie and glasses that were two decades old. We introduced ourselves and shook hands. I felt myself slipping back into old memories of watching the Ed Sullivan Show and sitting through innumerable Russian bear acts in order to see the rock group of the week. Gary Lewis and the Playboys had once been the rock J e^r and (MM, oldfyuend, H.euM&. Lihe when 4fG44>ie nnde/L 3.1 Ond ou t (Mi a date a n d the waihveAA te/uteA, qcMi d /iin h i uMthcMit ev en aAhinoj, jfMv qtMM 9 — it utaA, that hind matjtcal instant. group of the week, and they had been well worth the wait. Even in black and white, it had been a really big show. Tonight, Gary Lewis was in living color. He didn’t know why he wasn't booked into Seattle, and he said that the group planned to leave for their next gig in Yal- cina that very night. I asked him about a recent interview he’d given which had concentrated on Lewis's decline period. “Very intense, man,” Gary answered me. “Very intense. Hey, you want me to sign those records?” “Sure!" I replied, thrusting a handful of records into his hands. “Yeah, Gary;” I continued, as he scribbled his name on the jackets, “I saw this old Jerry Lewis movie where he was an airline pilot and opens a luggage compartment and you guys come out singing ‘Little Miss Go- Go’ and he slams the door on you.” Gary nodded his head. “Yeah," he said. "That was heavy.” I told Gary how difficult it is to get a print of the classic 1964 film Out Of Sight, which starred him and the Playboys, along with The Knickerbockers, Dobie Gray, and The Turtles. That was nothing, Gary replied. At their nadir, Gary Lewis and the Playboys had provided music for the soundtracks of at least ten other youth/surf movies which were never released. While I speculated on what kind of a sick world would leave ten beach movies mouldering and forgotten in some sorry- looking abandoned Warehouse, Jeff volunteered his services as a keyboard player for the rest of Gary’s tour. "We re covered on that one, but thanks," Gary told him. “Hey, do you guys want some pictures or something?" This was it. Memories of large Cokes and deep-fried onion rings flooded my senses as we posed together. “Let’s do it right,” Gary said, and so we all put our arms around each other — Jeff, me, and our old friend, Gary Lewis. Just like when you’re under 21 and out on a date, and the waitress serves you drinks without even asking for your ID — it was that kind of magical instant. Pictures help preserve the memories but they’re never as good as what’s in your own head at the time. Jeff and I were high. This was mid- ’60s bonding at its finest. Gary thanked us and ran out on stage to the strains of “Everybody Loves A Clown.” “What a pro, man, what a pro,” we both exclaimed, and went to sit down right in front of the stage. Gary looked great, he had the right moves, and he sounded fantastic. The years hadn’t done a thing to him or us. I was drifting again. Meeting Gary Lewis had given me a lot to think about. Suddenly, Jeff was nudging me. “He wants one of your records, man,” he whispered. Apparently Gary had made reference to one of the platters that I was clutching in both hands, and I had been so lost in my post-adolescent reveries that I’d missed it. Now the spotlight was on me. I lurched to my feet and stumbled onto the stage, as Gary plucked the records he wanted fro'm my grasp. “Wow! I remember this one!" his amplified voice roared, as he held the record up for the audience to see. “Leon Russel and I wrote it in 1965! It went to the Top Ten in most cities ... I hope you like it." Gary handed the disk back to me and I returned to my spot on the floor, as the Playboys eased into the opening strains of “Sure Gonna Miss Her,” the band’s mid-’60s sugar-coated tear-jerker. Jeff nodded his head. “He’s crisp. He’s tough. He’s a pro,” he said. 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