Laughing Boy Read Free

be associated with it. “An’ listen, man,” he concluded, “if we don’t do it somebody else will, and we can always use the bread.”
    Tim was adamant, but eventually a compromise was reached. They’d release ‘Theo’s Tune’ as a single under the name of Blue Coyote, with a Bobby Vee number on the B-side . Everybody was pleased.
     
    The record was a slow burner, as they often are in America. There is very little national exposure but local stations play certain discs ad nauseam and listeners on the fringes of the reception areas then ask their own stations to play them. So popularity spreads across the country like an infectious disease , or a plague of crop-devouring insects. But once the momentum starts, there’s no stopping it, and soon Blue Coyote’s only record had sold more copies than The LHO had in its entire career. There were rumours about Blue Coyote, and one or two more perceptive rock journalistsnoted that Zeke’s new baby was called Theo and drew the obvious conclusions. But when they printed their theories the boys just grinned and said: “Not us, man. No way.”
    The summer season ended with sell-out gigs at the Greek and Balbao Park, and The LHO settled into a tour of the various indoor venues around LA, with names like It’s Boss, Le Parisien and Gazzari’s. They’d hammer out their own special brand of folk-rock and garage-band, Tim yelling his anti-war lyrics to an audience who lived in fear of finding a US Government letter in their mail. A letter that might say they were required to report for training, or, God forbid, that a brother wouldn’t be coming home.
    Towards the end of every concert some joker in the audience would shout a request for ‘Theo’s Tune’. “Not us, man,” Tim would respond, and go straight into his new hit song – ‘Breakfast at Da-Nang,’ or ‘Eye of the Storm’ if it was curtain time. Nobody argued, although Eddie firmly believed in giving the people what they wanted. Meanwhile, ‘Theo’s Tune’ kept clocking-up the air-time. They heard it in hotel foyers and on garage forecourts; bus drivers sitting in gridlocks tapped their steering wheels to it and hopefuls on second-rate TV talent shows hitched a ride on its popularity.
    The day before Thanksgiving they played the Graffiti Club on the edge of Compton, a largely black and Hispanic quarter of Los Angeles. Tim, for some reason, wanted to start with ‘Eye of the Storm’. The others pointed out that they usually finished with it, to bring the audience back to ground level, but Tim just said: “OK, so we reprise it. What’s the problem?”
    There wasn’t one, and it went well. The audience identified with the lyrics – those they could hear – and bounced along to Zeke’s driving rhythms. The aptly named Graffiti was a large converted cinema with the seats torn out, and every ticket was sold. Eddie let rip on the keyboards and Oscar laid down a bass line as solid as stepping-stones across a river. Tim turned as Eddie played the opening bars of‘Breakfast at Da-Nang’, and grinned at him, nodding to the beat. Eddie added a flourish and Tim launched himself into the song:
    It’s breakfast time on the Mekong Delta
    The PFC in the mess hall’s making a brew.
    How d’ya like your napalm? Over easy?
    That’s the way he’ll do it, just for you.
    The audience loved it, some swaying to the music, others jiving with or without partners. Eddie cast an expert eye over the girls and wondered whether the roadies would invite any black chicks to the party. It might not be wise.
    We’re cooking toast, here at Da-Nang.
    Do you have a preference? Brown or white?
    Or how about a crazy shade of yellow?
    So as not to give your mother such a fright.
    The irony of the song was lost on the audience. The mood now was “Let’s bash the Commie bastards.” Napalm was what they deserved. Eddie saw a black girl with eyes like moonrise in the desert and fell instantly in love with her. He smiled and she smiled