1978, Bon Scott and the Heathen Girls, Atlanta, GA. — Image by © 2011 Rennie Ellis Photographic Archive. “Up in his room, Bon orders one of those fancy American cocktails, then dials California for a 20 minute call with an old girlfriend. Lead guitarist Angus Young, the ‘enfant terrible’ of AC/DC, arrives closely followed by Rose Whisperr and the Heathen Girls– four stunningly beautiful, heavily made-up girls who’s singing act at the local gay bars could loosely be called ‘bizarre chic’. The girls and the band had met at the backstage party that manager Michael Browning had thrown an hour or so before at the end of a typical raging AC/DC concert.”

Bon Scott, AC/DC’s legendary frontman, and perhaps the best ever in Rock & Roll, was bluntly and succinctly described by the (now deceased) famed photographer Rennie Ellis:

“His raspy voice, his tattoos, his broken tooth– punk-au-natural I guess one could call it….”

This was back when the badass Bon Scott was still walking the earth. Now, more than 33 years after his passing, the annals of Rock history list him as one of the most epic showmen and vocalists of all time. Rennie Ellis took many of the most striking shots of Bon Scott, capturing the legendary singer’s essence. Rennie also left behind personal recollections of what it was like being with Bon and the boys from AC/DC on tour in their early days, along with quotes from the band in 1978 on how they saw themselves and their music’s impact on the world. It’s really amazing stuff for any hardcore AC/DC fan out there. The mystery around Bon’s passing still hangs over our heads, no thanks to the shady accounts of his drinking partner that night, Alistair Kinnear, re-examined by Classic Rock magazine again this year.

Bon Scott the badass frontman for AC/DC, Moorabbin Town Hall, Melbourne ca. 1974 — Image by © 2011 Rennie Ellis Photographic Archive. “‘I guess I had always had the idea of being rich and having a lifestyle to which I was suited,’ says Bon Scott as he eases himself into the huge chauffeur-driven limousine that will drive him…”

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Bon Scott’s adoring female fans, Moorabbin Town Hall, Melbourne ca. 1974 — Image by © 2011 Rennie Ellis Photographic Archive

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Bon Scott & Angus Young, Atlanta, Georgia 1978 — Image by © 2011 Rennie Ellis Photographic Archive. “‘In England,’ says Angus, ‘we were for a while like the ultimate cult band. We were the only band selling records, and I think we still are, on the sheer fact of live performances.’ Bon adds, ‘See there’s a road band, and there’s a radio band. And they’re two different worlds. A radio band very rarely becomes a road band.’”

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Bon Scott & Angus Young, Atlanta, Georgia 1978 — Image by © 2011 Rennie Ellis Photographic Archive. “We’re a road band. In Europe we never stopped workin’, and we were pullin’ crowds and fillin’ halls. And we built up a following and sold lots of albums. In Germany at one time we had three albums happening. In the charts, all in the top twenty. We had an album in the top twenty in England and our last single sat in the top twenty for six weeks. But not one bit of airplay in England. Our music is just too ‘UP’ for English radio.’”

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Left to right: Bon Scott, an unidentified “cop,” Malcolm Young, Phil Rudd, Angus Young, AC/DC’s then-manager George Browning, and Mark Evans have a laugh and a drink during a March 1976 photo shoot for “Jailbreak.” — Photo by Philip Morris via

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More AC/DC & Bon Scott photos:

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Below is an excerpt of Joe Bonomo’s review of the book on AC/DC & Bon Scott, “Highway to Hell”–

Six years after Highway to Hell was released, Richard Ramirez was apprehended in Los Angeles. Between June of 1984 and August of the following year, Ramirez had murdered and raped sixteen people in the L.A. area, often leaving behind a sick signature of scrawled demonic ciphers, including a pentagram. Los Angeles police stated that Ramirez was a self-described fan of AC/DC, wore AC/DC t-shirts, and at the grisly scene of one of his violent sprees left behind an AC/DC cap. Allegedly, Ramirez’s favorite song was “Night Prowler,” the final track on Highway to Hell.

A haunting slow-blues, the six-and-a-half minute “Night Prowler” is remarkable for a number of reasons, not least of which is the controlled, vivid band performance in which Angus reaches deep into his love of blues-styled playing and offers affecting, evocative playing. An eerie crawl in 6/8 with the guitars tuned a half-step down, the closer colors in an unsettling way what comes before it. The tune begins with a sharp intake of breath, three chords that outline the music’s dark terrain, and then a tumble into the band performance held aloft by a long, sustained note by Angus that nearly perishes on the strings. Before Bon begins singing, the mood has been established: foreboding, fearful, and dark. Ten years earlier to the month (and only a few miles away) the Rolling Stones had recorded “Midnight Rambler,” a slow-blues similar to “Night Prowler” in its menace and lurch. Some see the Stones’ classic as an influence on Bon and the Young brothers; both songs begin and end in the source material of the blues, Malcolm and Angus’ first love. “Anyone can play a blues tune,” Angus noted to Vic Garbarini, “but you have to be able to play it well to make it come alive. And the secret to that is the intensity and the feeling you put into it.” He adds, “For me, the blues has always been the foundation to build on.”

One of the few songs by other artists that AC/DC would cover was Big Joe Williams’ standard “Baby, Please Don’t Go,” issued as the first song on their debut album in 1975. The guys likely dug Big Joe’s biography: he was a belligerent, itinerant bluesman who spent his formative years in the Delta as a walking musician who played work camps, jukes, store fronts, and streets and alleys from the South through the Midwest. Williams was a hard-working, highly unique and ramshackle kind of player who favored a funky nine-string guitar and a jerry-rigged, homemade amp. The brash and confident punks in AC/DC certainly favored what historian Robert Santelli describes as Williams’ “fiercely independent blues spirit.” The chugging “Baby, Please Don’t Go” became a favorite for Sixties and Seventies rock & roll bands to cover, extend, make their own. Williams’ 1935 version is acoustic mania; critic Bill Janovitz notes that “the most likely link between the Williams recordings and all the rock covers that came in the 1960’s and 1970’s would be the Muddy Waters 1953 Chess side, which retains the same swinging phrasing as the Williams takes, but the session musicians beef it up with a steady driving rhythm section, electrified instruments, and Little Walter Jacobs wailing on blues harp.”

AC/DC loved it. Their take on Muddy’s take of Big Joe’s lament was immortalized in a version broadcast on ABC’s (Australian) Countdown in April of 1975. The band seems to be having a blast with the galloping number, Angus and Malcolm running up and down their frets with a delinquent’s glee, but the kicker — of course — is Bon: he comes onstage dressed like a demented Pippi Longstocking, complete with a short skirt, blonde pig-tails, dark lipstick, and blue eye-shadow. During the solo breakdown, he stands next to Angus and theatrically lights a cigarette, and Pippi’s knee-sock innocent turns into the whore dear to Bon’s heart. Watch Rudd in the video: he can’t keep from laughing at the spectacle.

The blues in “Night Prowler” is slower, sexier, much more sinister than Big Joe’s, and no less indebted to the tradition within which the band has always worked. (I would have loved to have heard John Lee Hooker moan and turn it inside-out.) The tale of a shadowy stalking, though packed with narrative details, wouldn’t have won Bon a Pulitzer. The images in the first verse are hoary, well worn: the full moon; the clock striking midnight; the dog barking in the distance; a rat running down the alley. But Bon’s howling delivery — fully committed, and trusting the time-honored appeal of a dark night’s eeriness — sends tremors throughout the song. Because he believes this stuff, now so do we. The imagery in the second verse is more intimate; we’re in the girl’s bedroom now where she’s preoccupied and scared to turn off the light, fearing noises outside the window and shadows on the blind. Anticipating the second chorus, the verse ends with the singer slipping into her room as she lies nude, as if on a tomb. What’s going on here? Autobiography, or a spec script for a slasher movie? A little of both, likely, given Bon’s personal history and juicy imagination. He sings in the end that he’ll make a mess of her, and I always disliked the line; it adds explicit violence to a scenario that at the fork of fantasy and reality could’ve gone either way. Bon felt that it added to the mise-en-scène, I guess, or he was honestly owning up to hostile tendencies inside himself. Most likely, he was giving his listeners vicarious thrills on the dark side, what they wanted all along.

I didn’t want it. I hardly listened to “Night Prowler” after I bought the album, though I liked the slow burn of the band’s playing and how Angus’ soloing added a voice to the song. The song scared me a little, and I resented having to like a song that I disliked because it’s on a great rock & roll album. Richard Ramirez admitted to loving “Night Prowler” to the point of heinous identification, in part prompting L.A. media to dub him the “Night Stalker,” a nickname that will last in perpetuity. My friends and I rolled our eyes when we heard Ramirez’s story: another nut job trying to use rock & roll as an excuse, as a defense. I remembered years earlier watching The Dukes of Hazzard on television and marveling at the fifty-foot jumps that Bo and Luke would make in the General Lee in some hilly Georgian county. The moment that I belted myself into a Chevy Chevette in the high school parking lot for my first driver’s-ed lesson, I intuited Damn, this thing weighs a ton, and the disconnect between fantasy and actual life was made pretty clear. Ramirez didn’t or couldn’t make such a distinction, and because of that, the closing song on Highway to Hell will be forever linked to a homicidal maniac who tragically took sixteen innocent lives in brutal ways.

When news of Ramirez’s comments made its way into the insular AC/DC camp, the band recoiled, claiming that Ramirez wildly misunderstood the song: it’s just about a horny guy sneaking into his girlfriend’s bedroom at night, innocent, hormonal, high school stuff. Yet Bon Scott’s more treacherous imagery pushes the song into regrettably mean places. I’m not sure that the band can have it both ways.

A typically winsome gift from Bon himself ultimately rescues “Night Prowler.” In the closing moments, as the chords wane, Bon utters under his breath a weird, nasal phrase that I couldn’t figure out at the time. (What is that, some bizarre Aussie mantra?) Eventually I learned that he’d said, “Shazbot, Na-Nu, Na-Nu.” As AC/DC were recording in the Spring of 1979, Mork and Mindy was ranked third in American television Nielson ratings; Robin Williams’ interstellar character from the planet Ork was invading living rooms and rec rooms at a happy rate, and Bon was watching. “Na-Nu, “Na-Nu” was an Orkan greeting; “Shazbot” an Orkan curse. Maybe that’s what appealed to Bon: at the end of the band’s best album he gets to say hello and swear at the same time, channeling his inner alien. It’s testament to the band’s sense of humor that they kept the aside on the album. It’s a perfect way to send up the danger and fear lingering after “Night Prowler.”

The album ends with a joke, the final words from by Bon Scott on an AC/DC album. Shit! Hello! Perfectly weird.’

Bon Scott: The Mysterious Death of AC/DC’s Legendary Frontman by Classic Rock

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CHECK OUT: The Rennie Ellis Photographic Archive

So there’s this little festival called Chopped put on each year in Country Victoria – Australia. The guys were kind enough to send TSY a note as they thought we would appreciate the madness that they create down under… Enjoy!

Drag racing where it started– in the dirt!

A throwback in time to a 1950s – ’60s Hop Up Carnival! Hundreds of cars and bikes rattled by the sounds of 25+ bands belting the roots of rock music to thousands of Rockers, Petrol Heads, Hipsters & Greasers! This is Chopped the only festival of its type it in the world!

Now in it’s 6th year, Chopped has a massive following of loyal fans from across the globe and all over Australia. They roll in to be part of the aesthetic, the action of Chopped, the cool, the style, they are living the moment, they come to feel life pumping through the blood in their veins. From the dabblers to the core of the Custom Community, Motor Heads, Music Lovers, Style Hipsters, and the just plain curious. They all want to be a part of the custom lifestyle boom surrounding the cars, bikes, music, and madness.

Head to head two-lane Dirt Drags with Pre-1965 style Hot Rods, Customs, Bobbers, & Choppers. Full throttle Vintage Speedway sliding and colliding around the circuit. 25+ bands from Rockabilly, Garage, & Rock through to Blues, Country, Swamp, & Surf all in the setting of the ‘Tiki Palace’ bar– a 1960s American-infused island lifestyle of tiki, palms and bamboo, fueled by music, cocktails and an Easter Island Head blowing ifs flame into the darkness of the sky!

One and a half hours north of Melbourne in Central Victoria… It’s 3 days of sensory overload!

https://vimeo.com/76753435

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Chopped website

Chopped 2013 images by crcooperphotography

Circa 1953– James Dean, in his days as a young, struggling stage and TV actor, here in his modest fifth-floor walk-up at 19 West 68th Street, NYC. The bull horns and matador cape were of special meaning to James Dean. He had read the novel ‘Matador’ by Barnaby Conrad, and for a while was obsessed with dramatizing it as an internal monologue without words, using just a few props. Dean also loved to play his bongo drum along to jazz records late into the night. He hung with a small, close-knit circle of actor/artist friends– among them was a young Martin Landau. Photograph by Dennis Stock for LIFE magazine.

From the archives of Architectural Digest, ca. 1996: The East of Eden Star’s New York Apartment

At first New York overwhelmed me,” said James Dean. “I was so confused that I strayed only a couple of blocks from my hotel off Times Square, to go to the movies.”

He was twenty in October 1951, and he had spent all but five years of his life in rural Indiana. The only child of a shotgun wedding, the myopic, shy farm boy had come East to pursue his fortunes as an actor. Idolizing the disaffected sensuality of Marlon Brando and struck by the moody ambiguity of Montgomery Clift, Dean longed to transform his worship of those stars into an inheritance of their fame. But all his agent could obtain for him was a temporary job as a rehearsal assistant for the television game show Beat the Clock, for which he tested the zany stunts planned for prospective contestants.

Until 1953 Dean was often difficult to locate: He rented a dozen hotel rooms in midtown, none of them for more than a few weeks at a time. There was, he thought, good reason to be elusive, for his private life was often unconventional and messy. At last he settled into a cheap fifth-floor walk-up at 19 West 68th Street, a tiny chamber with space only for a daybed, a built-in desk and a hot plate; there was no kitchen, and the common bath was down the hallway. Guests invariably found his room cluttered with empty beer bottles, half-eaten cans of food, unsleeved records and dog-eared books.

Eventually Dean landed roles in live television dramas. Mostly he had only brief, insignificant walk-ons, but among the few exceptions was a poignant performance as a misunderstood, love-struck youngster in The Thief, with Mary Astor, Paul Lukas and Diana Lynn. Patient directors found him a serious professional eager to succeed, but those who had no time for his improvisations on the set were exasperated at his selfishness. Still, he was nothing like a star, and survival was a struggle.

During the steamy days of summer and the bitter evenings of winter, he liked to sketch and sculpt (for which he had genuine talent), or he simply roamed the streets of Manhattan, scouring bookstores, observing passersby. Sometimes he took a dance class with choreographer Katherine Dunham; often he pounded his bongo drums at smoke-filled jazz clubs. He became a member of the Actors Studio, but after Lee Strasberg offered a critique of his first effort, Dean stormed out and—returning only a few more times—eventually quit.

With buddies like the young composer Leonard Rosenman, Dean could often be found hunched over a cup of coffee at Cromwell’s Pharmacy in Rockefeller Center, more often he sat alone, downing beers at Louie’s Tavern in Sheridan Square. Frequently he met other hopeful apprentices for a cheap plate of spaghetti at Jerry’s Bar and Restaurant on Fifty-fourth Street or a bowl of chicken soup at Riker’s on Fifty-seventh. Money came from the occasional TV job or from his aunt and uncle in Indiana, who had been surrogate parents since Dean was nine, when his mother died and his father virtually abandoned him.

Dean’s Broadway debut occurred in December 1952, in N. Richard Nash’s turgid drama See the Jaguar. His performance as a backward seventeen-year-old country boy won the attention of New York’s critics but no immediate job after the play’s five performances. In February 1954 he brought an insidious charm to the role of the seductive Arab houseboy in an adaptation of André Gide’s The Immoralist—an appearance that earned him a place among the most promising personalities named by the editors of Theatre World.

In the audience one evening was Paul Osborn, who had just finished the screenplay of John Steinbeck’s sprawling novel East of Eden and, with director Elia Kazan, was looking to cast the picture.

Hastily, screen tests were arranged, and James Dean was signed by Warner Bros. and whisked to Los Angeles. His subsequent performance as the lonely Cal Trask, alienated from his mother and rejected by his father, struck resonant chords with unsettled youngsters the world over. There was no more foraging for food money, but he was still a lonely wanderer in Hollywood. “New York is where I really am,” he said, even though he now worked in Los Angeles.

From May 1954 through September 1955, Dean made three pictures for Warner Bros. Outside the studio he nurtured a passion for the latest racing cars and earned a few trophies. When he died at the wheel of his Porsche on a lonely stretch of California highway on September 30, 1955, he was only twenty-four. Rebel Without a Cause (1955) and Giant (1956) were not yet released, but East of Eden had been a huge success, and Dean was considered the most exciting new star in Hollywood.

Dean displayed an inchoate, unrefined talent, but within the borders of his limitations there was something of both the perplexed sensitivity of Clift and the cool contempt of Brando, to whom he was inevitably but favorably compared. Humphrey Bogart, with his usual sardonic imperturbability, said that if Dean had lived longer, “he’d never have been able to measure up to his publicity.”

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Young Dick Dale, Surf Guitar God, looking pretty badass on his 1941 Harley-Davidson Flathead– he even machined the handlebar risers himself.

“According to Dick Dale, he and his cousin were riding motorcycles to the beach on the Balboa Peninsula in southern California, where Dale befriended the local surfers. There he also began playing with a band at a club called the Rinky Dink. Another guitar player showed him how to make certain adjustments to the pickup settings on his Stratocaster guitar to create different sounds, and that sound, aided by other sonic developments and featuring Dale’s staccato attack, became his trademark. Although he was still playing country music, he moved closer to the beach and began surfing during the day and playing music at night, adding rock ‘n’ roll to his repertoire.” via

“I do not play to musicians. I play to the people. I’ve never taken a lesson in my life, and I can play every instrument there is. I play by ear, but I can fool anybody into thinking I went to some conservatory of music. I create a nonchemical river of sound, and I never know what I’m playing next or how I’m going to play it. I just start ripping and take what I feel from the audience–and it comes. There’s no bullshit. If you’re not sweating, you’re stealing people’s money. That’s why people feel what I do. In all these years, I’ve never had one person walk out of a show and say, ‘Dick Dale’s a fake,’ or, ‘He sucks.’ One and one is two with Dick Dale. It’s not three, like these politicians say. The kids who’ve been following me around on this tour call my music `Dick Rock,’ and they call themselves `Dickheads.’ And the reason they do that is because music is an attitude–and man, my whole life has been an attitude, too.” –Dick Dale via

Dick Dale talks about the birth and evolution of his iconic, signature guitar sound below:

DICK DALE: KING OF SURF ROCK GUITAR, EVOLVER OF VOLUME, SAYER OF MANY WORDS | vice.com

“I loved country music, and I always wanted to be a cowboy singer. So I followed people like Hank Williams and things like that. And in fact I even tutored Chet Williams’ daughter on how to be on stage. I’ve gotten to perform in the same building at the same time as people like Johnny Cash, Tex Ritter, Gene Autry, and Lefty Frizzell. I just did a memorandum song for Joe Maphis, who’s the father of the double-neck guitar. And at the same time it was Larry Collins and his sister Laurie, and I was sweet on Laurie at the time. And Larry, he was just a little kid, but could he play the double-neck guitar, because he was tutored by Joe Maphis. Larry was the one who taught me my first guitar lick. So anyway I did a dedication song they asked me to do on a thing called ‘Joe Maphis: Joe Maphis’ [?], it was a dedication to him, on his album that they did, they took all his old songs, he’s been passed on now. So I did that. And I just did one for Glen Campbell, because he used to play the backup guitars for me when I recorded with Capitol Records. He was one of the most incredible guitarists that could play anything on a guitar, and stuff like that.

I came to California in 1954. Drums were my first instrument. I used to listen to the big band albums that my Dad would bring home, and that’s what got me to play the trumpet, like Harry James, Louis Armstrong, and stuff like that. And I’ve always been self taught. I used to bang on my mother’s flour pans as a drum listening to Gene Krupa, cans of sugar and stuff like that in the Depression days. My father would say, ‘Stop scratching your mother’s cans!’ That’s where I got all my rhythm, and being left-handed. So when I first got my first instrument, I was reading in a Superman comic magazine. It said sell X number of jars of our Noxzema Skin Cream and we’ll send you this ukulele. Well I’d be out there in the snow banging on doors at night, ‘Buy my Noxzema Skin Cream.’ I finally got the ukulele and it was made out of pressed cardboard or something, I was so disillusioned I smashed it in a trash can. Then I went in and took the Pepsi-Cola bottles and the Coke bottles in my little red wagon, went down and got six dollars. And I went to the music store and I bought my first six-dollar ukulele. It was plastic and it had screws going into the tuning pegs so they would stay in it. But the book didn’t tell me – ‘turn it the other way stupid, you’re left handed.’ I was holding it to strum with my left hand ’cause all the rhythm was there.

I used to try to figure it out and tape my fingers to the strings and stuff like that when I’d go to sleep at night, hoping that they’d stay there. So I’d play upside-down backwards. And that’s not, like Jimi Hendrix, I found Jimi when he was playing bass for Little Richard in a bar in Pasadena to 30 people. He wasn’t Jimi Hendrix then. But then he’d come and ask me, how I did what I was doing. He said, ‘How do you get that slide?’ I showed him all the slides and everything like that. In fact, Buddy Miles (Hendrix’s drummer) when he would open for me, used to stand on stage and say, ‘You know, there wasn’t a day didn’t go by that Jimi didn’t say he got his best shit from Dale.’ The thing is, Jimi played—because he was a left-hander, and he couldn’t play like I was playing because I was playing upside down backwards, so we set him up, got him a left-handed neck, where the neck of the guitar was strung so that a left-handed player could play it, the way you’d string your strings. He was a true left-handed player playing on a left-handed neck. I wasn’t, I was a left-handed person playing upside-down backwards on a right-handed neck.

Leo Fender, who become like a father figure to me, died laughing when he gave me a Stratocaster. He said, “Here play this,” because I went to him and said, ‘My name is Dick Dale, I’m a surfer, I got no money, can you help me learn the guitar?’ He handed me the guitar and I held it upside-down backwards and he almost fell off the chair laughing. And he never laughed, he was like Einstein.

I wanted to make my guitar sound like Gene Krupa’s drums. I wanted a big fat sound, in fact I always tell my drummers that I want them to build to build on double-floor toms, because of that jungle sound. That’s where Gene Krupa got all his rhythms from, from Natives. He always played on the one, what we call the one. Musicians play on the one-and.

So it goes like this; tika-tika-taka-tika-taka-tika-taka-tika-ta, and you learn this—I’ve been in the martial arts all my life, and the routine, and in the Shaolin temples I’ve been with monks. So in the Shaolin temple they never allow you to touch the skin of a drum with your hands until you can mouth what you’re going to play. And if you go back in time at the first orchestral symphonic performance of symphonies, you will hear/see the maestro standing on his podium with the baton in his fingers, and wave the wand, and he’ll be keeping time going 1234-1234-1234-123, it goes all the way back to there.

Gene Krupa, he watched the natives when they would go either into their war dances or their celebration dances or anything, and they’d be holding their shafts, the spears, and they would always dance to the rhythm, going chickachicka-chackachicka-chickachickaBOOM, chickachicka-chackachicka-chickachickaBOOM, like that, and that was always on the one. So when I play my music, I play it that way, I play it to the grassroots people that don’t count on the one hand. That’s why all ages from 5 years old up to 105 can understand what I’m playing and they can feel what I’m playing when they’ve got in their head keeping time to my music.

I wanted my guitar to sound big and fat and thick. Well in those days, in the 50s, they didn’t have an electronic piece of equipment that makes the sound sound that way, and it’s called a transformer. And transformers only favored highs mids, or lows, never all three. And I wanted Leo to try to accomplish that. And every time he’d bring in a wall of speakers in the little office where we used sit together, they would sound nice and loud. But when I’d get them on stage, then I’d fry them, they’d catch on fire. The reason why is because when you’re pushing amperage to something that can’t handle them, it heats up the coil, it heats up the wires in the speaker, and they start frying the cloth on the speaker, the paper. I was in the Royal Albert Hall in London, where the queen goes, and performing, and my bass player was going, ‘Dick, you’re smoking the speakers,’ and I said, ‘Shut up, just keep playing, it’s their PA system.’

Leo Fender saw me blow over 50 of his amplifiers and he kept having to remake them. Then he stood in front of me in the middle of 4,000 people and he said to his number-two man, Freddie—Tavares from Hawaii, who played Hawaiian steel guitar for Harry Owens, who did all the beautiful Hawaiian songs, he was the number two man, he was the man who perfected the Telecaster. I’m the guy who perfected the Stratocaster and made changes with Leo and stuff like that. We’d sit down together in his living room and listen to Marty Robbins on the little old Jansen 10-inch speaker, but I blew every one of those speakers. So what happened was he said, now I know what Dick’s trying to tell me, and went back to the drawing board. And going from a 15-watt output transformer that didn’t give you that, it gave you loud enough for a living room but not in an auditorium, because in the auditorium the people’s bodies would suck up the sound, the fatness of the sound.

From there Leo created the first 85-watt output transformer, which peaked 100 watts. Now going from a 10-watt, 15-watt output transformer to an 85-watt output transformer that peaked at 100 watts, that’s like going from a little VW bug to a Testarossa. That was the first breakthrough, splitting the atom, of music and evolving volume that you’re talking about. Now in order to get that volume, we needed that transformer; I also used instead of 6-7-8-9-10-gauge strings, my strings were 16-18-20 unwound, and 39-49-60-gauge wound. Critics called them telephone wires. I even experimented with piano strings on my guitar, on my Stratocaster.

But we needed a speaker that could handle it. So we went to JBL. We told them we wanted a 15-inch D130. We wanted a speaker that was 15 inches and had around an 11-pound magnet on the back. I wanted an aluminum dust cover in the middle of the column so I could hear the click of the pick. They started laughing and they were saying, ‘What are you trying to do, put it on a tugboat?’ Leo said, ‘If you want my business, make it.’ And they did, and it was called the 15-inch JBL D130. Now we took that and built a three-foot high cabinet, two feet wide, 12 inches deep, with no portholes at all, just the speaker hole, and we packed it full of fiberglass. And then we went and plugged it in to the Showman—he called it a Showman amplifier, because he called me a showman because I was always jumping up on top of my speakers, and rocking back and forth while I played, and rocking the speaker back and forth, and I’d do all kinds of crazy things, I’d leap off the stage and slide on my knees on the floor as I was ending a song, and he said, “Man, you’re a showman.” I wanted it to be the cream because one night we ran out of amplifiers and he had to make one fast, and he found some cream tolex ones in the back room and he covered it, and he said, ‘Don’t let anybody see it because they’re going to want it because you’re playing on it. But it’s very impractical, they’ll stain it with coffee and they’ll stain it with cigarette butts and everything else.’ And I said ‘Oh but I love it I love it.’ And the next day he calls me in and he shows me his crew is making them with the cream tolex. So there, that was another breakthrough.

The next breakthrough was, I wanted it to be fatter. And also, not only the thicker the gauge string was a fatter sound, but the thicker the wood of the Stratocaster, that’s why I was considered the best rock-and-roll guitar player. Because the wood is thick, and if you could put strings on a telephone pole with a pickup, you’d have the fattest sound in the world, but you can’t hold a telephone pole. So we trimmed off the back sides of the Stratocaster and made the wood really thick, which gave it a real chunky fat sound. So the strings, the output transformer, and the solidity of the wood, and the speaker, that made the sound that Dick Dale is famous for.

Then I wanted to put another speaker in it. So he flipped out, went back to the drawing board, and he had to change the ohms down to 4 ohms. Originally, the speaker on the back said 16 ohms, but it’s not, it’s 8 ohms. So he made the first next-step up 4-ohm output transformer to match the twin speakers. This was a 100-watt output transformer peaking 180 watts, using tubes, for a fat sound. And that was called a Dick Dale transformer.

I still gave trouble to the speakers, the single-speaker cabinet, because it was twisting, and the reason why it was twisting was because when I was picking on my string like Gene Krupa plays sticks on his drum, I was doing that on my string, I’m playing drums. And it was confusing the speaker and it was twisting and jamming. When you would rub the speaker back and forth with your finger, you’re supposed to hear nothing. But when it jams you’d hear ekk-ekk-ekk [laughs]. So we went back to Lansing and told them to rubberize the outside ridge, so that it would flex easier, and it did the trick. We used the same trick for the high cabinet, and I just put a divider in the middle.” –Dick Dale via

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Mid-way through the film, the tenth Formula One race of the season takes place at Nurburgring with Niki Lauda leading James Hunt substantially in the point standings. The scene opens with a large black spider crawling along a concrete support in the paddock area. The spider disappears as the camera lens expands to pre-race activities of the leading championship contenders, Niki Lauda and James Hunt.

I doubt that many in the audience even saw that spider or if they did, gave it little or no thought. I wanted to yell out a warning about that black spider to actor Daniel Brühl (Niki Lauda) and Chris Hemsworth (James Hunt.) But it was thirty-seven years too late!

I knew about black spider premonitions. My mind did an immediate back-flip to an interview that I once had with the late John Weitz, a renowned men’s fashion designer and former SCCA sports car driver from the 1950’s, who told me about his own ‘racing superstitions.’ There was one that he would never forget.

Sebring 1957 team members L to R: John Peterson, Bob Ballenger, ‘Wacky’ Arnolt, Phil Stewart, Bob Goldich, Bob Gary, John Weitz. — John Weitz/1957 Sebring photos: Lee Raskin Archives 

“We were at Sebring in 1957. I was a first year member of the Arnolt-Bristol Racing Team. On the morning of the twelve hour race, I noticed a huge black spider on the pit apron. Spiders to a German mean bad luck and even death.” John confided to fellow Arnolt-Bristol team driver Bob Ballenger that he is superstitious and that he and the team will have to be very careful during the race.

Weitz recalled that the twelve hour race begins with the Le Mans start and goes exceedingly well for the Arnolt-Bristol team as Sebring veteran Ballinger gets off first, followed by Weitz and then ‘Wacky’ Arnolt.

The team finds itself slugging it out for class honors against the two-litre AC Aces, Morgans, and Triumph TR3’s. The race strategy was simply to maintain a consistent pace with all three cars finishing the event. Everything goes well leading into the first scheduled drivers’ change just after the fourth hour.

Bob Goldich in #39 Arnolt-Bristol losing control in the Esses, 1957 Sebring 12 Hour race – John Weitz/1957 Sebring photos: Lee Raskin Archives

At 40 laps, the three team starters, Ballenger, Weitz, and ‘Wacky’ bring their Arnolt-Bristols into the pits for fuel and the scheduled driver change. ‘Wacky’ turns his number 39 Arnolt over to the team captain, Bob Goldich, who goes out quickly on his four hour ‘stint.’

On his first lap around the 5.2 mile road course, Goldich misjudges his entering speed at the ‘esses,’ slides off the track and loses control as the Arnolt does a one and a half revolution roll…landing upside down with Goldich pinned underneath. Rescuers rush to his aid, the car is righted, and Goldich is pulled from the wreck.

Bob Goldich in #39 Arnolt-Bristol rolling over in the Esses, 1957 Sebring 12 Hour race – John Weitz/1957 Sebring photos: Lee Raskin Archives

Bob Goldich is killed instantly.

Minutes later, word of the fatal accident becomes official. ‘Wacky’ Arnolt withdraws his remaining two cars from the race and they are directed to the pits. John Weitz told me, “No one said a word. All the team drivers and crew were absolutely stunned at the death of Bob Goldich. ‘Wacky’ was in complete shock.“

Bob Goldich pinned under #39 Arnolt-Bristol as rescue volunteers arrive to assist – John Weitz/1957 Sebring photos: Lee Raskin Archives

It was the first racing fatality ever at Sebring.

John went on to say, “I wish I had paid even more attention to my superstitions with that black spider. Maybe things could have been a little different for Bob Goldich.”

A stunned “Wacky” Arnolt learning of Bob Goldich’s fatal accident at Sebring – John Weitz/1957 Sebring photos: Lee Raskin Archives

Since watching Rush, I haven’t been able to let that Nurburgring black spider scene go. The spider wasn’t coincidental–it was intentionally written into the script by Director, Ron Howard and writer, Peter Morgan. But why? Did Howard know something about John Weitz’ black spider experience at Sebring 56 years earlier? Could there have been more to this perpetual spider superstition going on at the 1976 German GP at Nurburgring prior to Niki Lauda’s horrific accident? Why wasn’t the Rush audience let onto this racing superstition as well?

Ron Howard, please tell us what the heck you were thinking?

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Written by Lee Raskin, copyright 2013– Lee Raskin is a motorsports historian, author, and a long-time Arnolt-Bristol and 356 Porsche vintage racer. He has written extensively about James Dean and his racing endeavors with his Porsche Speedster. and ultimate death behind the wheel of his Porsche 550 Spyder. See: Porsche Speedster TYP 540: Quintessential Sports Car (2004); James Dean At Speed (2005)

Sources:

‘Rush’, the movie/ IMDB

‘Wacky’… a true story. Lee Raskin, Copyright 2009

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Director and photographer Adam Weiss spent some time with Walt Siegl in his New Hampshire shop, chronicling the last stages of the his top-secret build for Puma. The resulting footage was used to create this tight promotional piece with Walt’s own words on his deep personal passion for motorcycles. The video that Weiss put together is a testament to the artistry that Siegl puts into everything he does. –From the crew at Iron & Air

The Walt Siegl / Puma collaboration bike is an early 2-Valve Ducati 900 which is now a blue printed BCM 944 big bore unit. Full carbon kevlar body and chromoly frame weighing a combined 30 lbs.

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FULL CIRCLE | Racing days behind him, Siegl turns to building; creative bike designs appeal to select clientele

Tucked away in the basement of a historic brick mill complex in a former machine shop is a place akin to Frankenstein’s laboratory, filled with tools, machinery and body parts. Walter Siegl is the scientist of sorts, and his creations are custom-built motorcycles. At first glance, his 1,700-square-foot space looks more like a playroom, with its shiny chrome and eye-catching paint colors at every turn. In a way, it is.
Siegl, who has operated Walt Siegl Custom Motorcycles for five years in Harrisville, started out racing motorcycles.
His first race was in his native Austria when he was 18.
Motorcycles are in his blood. His father and two grandfathers rode them. But he wanted to ride them more than just as a weekend hobby.
“Street riding wasn’t interesting enough for me,” Siegl said.
He participated in endurance racing all over Europe as part of a sponsored factory team.
“It consisted of racing on closed roads through villages to the tops of mountains,” he said.
It all came to a grinding halt when he had a serious accident during a race at Le Mans race track when he was 21. His injuries landed him in the hospital for four months.
Although his career as a sponsored racer stopped then, he financed his own racing (he rode a Ducati V-twin) off and on in the years that followed. At his wife’s request, he decided last year would be the end.
“I’ve gotten too banged up,” he said.
Siegl, a former sculptor, came to the United States in the mid-’80s to work as a diplomat for the Austrian Foreign Service. At the same time, he opened a studio space in Long Island City, N.Y., where he built motorcycles for himself and for friends. The first bike he built was a Harley-Davidson Sportster.
“I existed under the radar,” he said. “I never planned to build clientele — I did it to make my hands dirty and explore the possibility of building bikes.”
But the motorcycle lifestyle took over and sculpting took a back seat.
Not much has changed since Siegl moved to New Hampshire (he lives in Nelson) in 2007 — only now he’s not just building motorcycles for friends.
Last month, The Motorcycle Industry Council forecast modest declines in new motorcycle sales through 2012, although the organization reported the dozen leading brands were up 0.3 percent last year compared to 2010.
Siegl isn’t worried about how the economy is affecting the motorcycle business. His customers are a select group who come to him from all over the world, mostly through word-of-mouth. He doesn’t pay a crew of employees (he has one assistant) and he doesn’t have the overhead of a showroom.
Siegl keeps hours in his shop by appointment only, and he needs to do only roughly five jobs a year to stay in business.
That’s because a Walt Siegl motorcycle costs between $30,000 and $100,000 and takes up to five months to build.
Among fans of his work are artist and friend Arthur Sordello, who raced one of Siegl’s creations at the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah, and actress Angelina Jolie, who bought one as a Christmas present three years ago for her partner, actor Brad Pitt.
“People have gone back to the fun factor of riding motorcycles,” Siegl said. “There’s a completely new culture out there who are not just about looking good going down the road.”
The culture is known as the “cafe racer,” a term that refers to the motorcycle and rider and with roots in Europe in the ’60s. Then, riders would race from one coffee bar to another. The cafe racer is a motorcycle modified for speed and handling rather than comfort.
Not that his motorcycles don’t look good. His starting platform is a Ducati engine; the frame for each bike, meanwhile, is built from scratch.
The result is a classic design reminiscent of a ’60s-’70s Harley-Davidson, but with an emphasis on contemporary performance with modern components.
He aims to employ local businesses — at least within New England — for outside jobs. His painter is based in New Hampshire, for instance, and the carbon fiber he uses for some of his motorcycle components comes from Rhode Island.
His interest in mechanics in general helps with technical aspects of motorcycle building.
“I’m interested in how a watchband is assembled,” he said.
His work as a sculptor, he said, helps him tap into the creative elements of building a bike.
“It’s a creative process — I just apply function to my creative endeavors,” he said. “That happens to be motorcycles.”
His design sense led to an order from Puma International, for which he is creating a motorcycle to serve as a launching pad for footwear he is also designing for the company.
Siegl’s mechanical knowledge goes beyond bike building. He worked in France as a shunter in a train yard and as a toolmaker and welder in Germany, Austria and Italy. Later, he worked for a steel company in Moscow.
Anyone who wants to start out in the custom motorcycle building business needs to know machining inside and out, he said.
“You need to know the properties of metal and how to work with metal,” he said.
Although tools manufactured in the U.S. are hard to find today, Siegl advised being patient before opening a workshop.
“Tools are the most expensive part of what I do,” he said. “It took me 20 years to acquire the ones I have — I’m still acquiring them. You need to shop (for tools) carefully.”
Having experience as a racer is another key to success in his business, he said.
“I know what not to do,” he said.
Having a lot of technical know-how is also helpful, he said, but knowing how to edit is more important. “Try not to use everything that pops into your head in one package,” he said. “Be as clean as you possibly can. Hands-off is usually the better choice.”
No matter what kind of custom paint job, wheels or exhaust the customer wants, Siegl said it is critical to be sure-footed in your work.
“If you come across aspects you’re uncertain about, you cannot wing it,” he said. “Give the job to someone who can do it properly. Someone’s life is in your hands.”

Written by NICOLE S. COLSON for Sentinel Source

See more at waltsiegl.com

Tired of the girls on the gnarly Harley’s getting all the attention on Instagram and the internets? (Not. Me.) We’ll this happened at the ‘Hooligan Hoedown’, and proves once and for all that– Anything girls can do, guys can do better! Scott Toepfer took this humorous & friendly poke / tribute to Lana MacNaughton and her epic ‘Babes in Borrego’ shot. #brosonbikes #hooliganhoedownhunks

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If you’re not keeping up with Scott Toepfer and his constantly updated photography site: “It’s Better in the Wind”, well I feel sorry for you! Missing out epic shit, my friends. Likewise, Lana Macnughton’s photography site The Women’s Motorcycle Exhibition is a constant source of radness.

One thing that Triumph figured out a long time ago in their quest for power and speed– if one engine is good, then 2 engines is even better. In the ’50s & ’60s Triumph motorcycles dominated the Salt Flats, even naming their 1959 T120 ‘Bonneville’ after the famed proving grounds. Now Triumph is back in a bid to reclaim Bonneville with the fierce as f**k twin-engined ‘Castrol Rocket’ developed by Castrol, Hot Rod Conspiracy, Carpenter Racing, and Triumph North America. The result is hands-down the world’s most technologically-advanced streamlined motorcycle.

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The ‘Dubble Trubble’, built in 1953 by legendary racer Bud Hare, was a beastly Triumph twin-engined motorcycle that dominated the drag strips during the 1950s with a top speed of 142.38 mph. The dual 40 cu. in. displacement engines were fed through a Harley-Davidson hand-shift gearbox with foot clutch. Only two gears are used– second and high. None other than Von Dutch himself painted the lettering on the legendary Triumph’s tank. See more…

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The Legendary Parasite– T110 twin engine dragster built by John Melnizuk Sr. and raced by Tommy Grazias, and later John himself, who coaxed a top speed of 150 MPH out of the beast. In 1959, The Parasite won Daytona running a 10:42 ET at over 142 mph in the quarter mile, and making the front page of the local newspaper. See more…

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Stormy Mangham was an airline pilot and aero engineer with a speed addiction, and Jack Wilson was a young motorcycle tuner of Triumph engines. Together they set out to build a motorcycle to topple the Germans’ stranglehold on the motorcycle land speed record. The project began to take shape at Mangham’s small Fort Worth airfield where he constructed a unique, projectile-shaped streamliner named The Devil’s Arrow. Housed inside Stormy’s lightweight frame was the Wilson-tuned Thunderbird 650 engine. In September 1956, 27-year-old flat-tracker Johnny Allen climbed inside Stormy’s streamlined chassis with Wilson’s methanol-burning vertical twin engine and special race-rated Dunlop tires and prepared to embark on a historic record run. The Devil’s Arrow shot across the Bonneville Salt Flats, setting the new absolute speed record of 193.7 mph. The FIM’s refusal to ratify an AMA-sanctioned record didn’t seem to matter. As far as anyone in America knew, a Triumph-powered streamliner was the world’s fastest motorcycle. See more…

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Triumph’s 15-year world speed domination reached its peak when legendary automotive designer Alex Tremulis teamed with Triumph Detroit Dealer Bob Leppan, and they unveiled their futuristic Gyronaut X-1 in 1965. Cutting-edge features included a chrome-moly frame, active landing struts, a roll-bar, anti-fire freon bottles, specially-designed Goodyear 250 mph+ tires, a racing harness for pilot Bob Leppan and a parachute. Power was provided by two highly-modified 641cc TR6 engines creating 70 hp each and redlining at 8200 rpm. The bike, which included a three-piece fiberglass shell, cost $100,000. The Gyronaut broke the (gasoline-powered) record at 217.624 before crashing. After extensive repairs and a few modifications, the biked returned to Bonneville in 1966 with better handling and slightly more horsepower to become the “World’s Fastest Motorcycle” at 245.667 mph, a record Triumph held until 1970. See more…

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The Castrol Rocket –Photo courtesy of Triumph North America.

The Castrol Rocket is unique in that it’s a 1,000-horsepower motorcycle built like a fighter jet. The goal is an eventual 400-mph-plus record-breaking run. The current American Motorcyclist Association (AMA) and Fédération Internationale de Motocyclisme (FIM) motorcycle land speed record is 376.156 mph, set in 2010, by Rocky Robinson with the Ack Attack streamliner.

“Castrol has been actively involved with land speed racing on multiple platforms across the globe and since competitors started running at the Bonneville Salt Flats in 1914,” said Rob Corini, Brand Manager, Castrol Motorcycle and Powersports Products. “The Castrol Rocket personifies our heritage as a performance brand, with an incredible balance of power and aerodynamics, and is capable of amazing speeds. It’s the ultimate symbol of performance.”

A shared passion for land speed racing brought aerodynamic engineer Matt Markstaller, engine builder Bob Carpenter and Daytona 200 winner Jason DiSalvo together. The cross-country team – from Oregon, New Jersey and Alabama respectively – quickly discovered a shared interest to create and race the world’s fastest motorcycle. The Castrol Rocket is their labor of love – an homage to the high-performance heritage of Castrol and Triumph.

“Land speed racing is the purest form of motorsport. It’s about bringing all of your ingenuity, resources and determination together for a constant battle against the elements,” said pilot Jason DiSalvo. “The salt surface has little traction. The wind pushes against you from every side. But what’s really special about Bonneville Land Speed Racing is the people. The conditions are so challenging that for the past 100 years, racers with little else in common, have banded together to support and encourage each other to become the world’s fastest.”

The Triumph name has been synonymous with speed since its four record-breaking motorcycle records with Devil’s Arrow, Texas Cee-gar, Dudek/Johnson and Gyronaut X1. From 1955 to 1970, with the exception of a brief 33-day period, Triumph was “The World’s Fastest Motorcycle.” The Castrol Rocket aims to restore that title.

CASTROL ROCKET SPECS:

• Chassis: Carbon Kevlar monocoque
• Dimensions: 25’ x 2’ x 3’
• Engines: Two Triumph Rocket III engines
• Horsepower: 1,000-plus-horsepower at 9,000 rpm
• Torque: 500-plus lbs. combined
• Suspension: Custom made by Hot Rod Conspiracy
• Fuel: Methanol
• Tires: Goodyear Land Speed Special
• Engine Lubricant: Castrol Power RS™ 4T 10W-40 full synthetic oil

castrolrocket.com

Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982) remains one of my favorite teen / high school films of all time. It brilliantly captures the cultural touchstones of a generation, and the glory days of youth long gone by– before we were slaves to technology and all this social media bullshit.

A young Cameron Crowe, then a freelance writer for Rolling Stone magazine, went undercover as a student at Clairemont High School in San Diego, CA to write a book (of the same name), which he also adapted for the film. In Fast Times we get to witness a bevy of young Hollywood stars already in the making– Sean Penn (who totally stole the film, and birthed an army of Spicoli wannabes in high schools across the country), Judge Reinhold, Phoebe Cates and Jennifer Jason Leigh. There are also early appearances by relative unknowns at the time who would go on to major stardom– Nicolas Cage, (then Nicolas Coppola), Forest Whitaker, Eric Stoltz, and Anthony (Goose) Edwards. Fast Times’ soundtrack was also groundbreaking, featuring a quintessential blend ’70s & ’80s rock & roll artists, that to me, will forever be connected with the film. I mean, who can hear “Moving in Stereo” by The Cars without instantly thinking of that hot, hormone-raging pool scene? Epic.

Haters gonna hate, but eat this– In 2005, Fast Times at Ridgemont High was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant”. If you’re of this era it’s definitely a film that still resonates and makes you want to roll a fat one, throw on your Vans, hit the arcade, grab some tasty waves, and meet some babes.

First-time director Amy Heckerling said that for ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ she was seeking to make a comedy that was less structured than conventional ones, and more like ‘American Graffiti’ so that “if you woke up and found yourself living in the movie, you’d be happy. I wanted that kind of feel.” IMDB

Fast Times at Ridgemont High’s mall scenes were filmed at the Sherman Oaks Galleria, after it closed at 9:30pm. The two kids who Damone scalps the tickets to were under 18, and due to labor laws couldn’t film past certain hours, so they only had a 10-minute window to shoot those scenes. The original mall was later damaged by an earthquake in 1994, and in 1998 it was renovated and extensively re-designed by the architectural firm of Gensler for developer Douglas Emmett. Other than the parking structure, nothing recognizable from the 1980s era mall remains, the building having been converted from an enclosed, multi-story space to an open, mostly single-story mall. IMDB

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“What do you mean, better in bed? Either you do it or you don’t.” Stacy works at Perry’s Pizza. Jennifer Jason Leigh actually worked at Perry’s Pizza for a month after she got the role of Stacy Hamilton before filming began. Jodie Foster was considered to play Stacy, but was not interested  due to her commitment at Yale. Also, Brooke Shields, Diane Lane, and Ellen Barkin reportedly also turned down offers to play the role of Stacy. IMDB

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“Brad: ‘Hey, you guys had shirts on when you came in here.’ Spicoli: ‘Well, something must have happened to them.’ Brad: ‘You see that sign Spicoli?’ Spicoli and buds: ‘No Shirt, No Shoes, No Dice!’ Brad: Right. Learn it. Know it. Live it.’ Spicoli: ‘He’s the full hot orator.’” Eric Stoltz, Sean Penn, and Anthony Edwards in ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’. During shooting, Sean Penn got so into character that he extinguished a cigarette in the palm of his hand in order to better understand Jeff Spicoli, which was all he answered to. In fact, the door on his dressing room was even labeled ‘Spicoli’ instead of Sean Penn. IMDB

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“Stacy: ‘When a guy has an orgasm, how much comes out?’ Linda: ‘A quart or so.’” Stacy (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and Linda (Phoebe Cates) in their famous cafeteria carrot scene for ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ filmed largely at Van Nuys High School in Van Nuys, California. The mascot of Ridgemont High is the Wolf, which is the same mascot as the real VNHS. Total filming lasted just five weeks. IMDB

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“Since when do you go bowling?” Nicolas Cage was originally considered for the role of Brad Hamilton, but after his audition the studio thought his performance was too dark and the role went instead to Judge Reinhold. Sean Penn was also originally asked to read for the part of Brad Hamilton, as well as Jeff Spicoli. In the scene where Brad is washing the Cruising Vessel, you can see he has a ‘Springsteen’ bumper sticker. Pamela Springsteen (Bruce’s sister), plays Dina (Brad’s girlfriend) in the film. Also in the Mi-T-Mart scene, Brad is wearing a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. IMDB

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“‘Hello everybody! I’m Stu Nahan, and I’d like you to meet this young man. His name, Jeff Spicoli. And Jeff, congratulations to you. Things looked kind of rough out there today’. Spicoli: ‘Well, I’ll tell you Stu, I did battle some humongous waves! But you know, just like I told the guy on ABC, Danger is my business!’ Stu Nahan: ‘You know, a lot of people expected maybe Mark “Cutback” Davis or Bob “Jungle Death” Gerrard would take the honors this year’. Spicoli: ‘Those guys are fags!’” Sean Penn asked out Pamela Springsteen (yep, Bruce’s sister), who played Dina Brad’s girlfriend), on the set of ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ and she accepted. Sean Penn improvised constantly during his takes and tried to find ways to aggravate actor Ray Walston, who played Mr. Hand, even off camera. He also did everything in his power to get genuinely shocked reactions from the extras who played  classmates in ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’. Eric Stoltz also auditioned for the role of surfer dude, Jeff Spicoli. IMDB

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Andy Rathbone was the student in ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ that Cameron Crowe based the character Mark “Rat” Ratner on. He became famous in his own right for writing many of the “…for Dummies” help books series. IMDB

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“Damone: Hey, Charles, how you doin’, buddy? Car looks great. I mean really terrific. You’re really keeping it up wonderfully.’ Jefferson: “Don’t fuck with it.’” I would KILL for a ‘KILL LINCOLN’ t-shirt from ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’. Forrest Whitaker made his feature film debut in ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’, alongside Nicolas Cage and Sean Penn.

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Justine Bateman was originally offered the role of Linda in ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ and turned it down. Instead, she chose to star in a TV pilot for the TV series ‘Family Ties’ which ran for 7 years. Lucky for Phoebe Cates. IMDB

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“Hi Brad, you know how cute I always thought you were.” Thanks to ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’, there is an entire generation of men who can’t hear ‘Moving In Stereo’ by the Cars without thinking about Phoebe Cates’ tits. via

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“Jeez. Doesn’t anyone fucking knock any more?” For the famous ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ bathroom scene, Judge Reinhold brought a large dildo to work with, unbeknown to the rest of the cast. Phoebe Cates look of horror and disgust is very real. IMDB

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Nancy Wilson, guitarist for the rock band ‘Heart’ and  future wife of writer Cameron Crowe, has a cameo appearance as the hot woman in the car beside Brad’s, laughing at his pirate costume. IMDB

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There are numerous references to rock & roll bands throughout ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ (shirts worn by characters, posters on walls, Damone is a ticket scalper, etc.). Screenwriter Cameron Crowe was a writer for Rolling Stone magazine, and that is in his blood, and how he came to fame. IMDB

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“That was my skull! I’m so wasted!” In the tradition of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial and Reese’s Pieces, ‘Fast Times’ product-placed an obscure brand that went on to become famous: The checkerboard canvas decks Spicoli hammered himself with, Vans, became a popular national brand soon after ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ was released.

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I love the old lobby cards that the studios used to make from movie stills, here are a bunch from Fast Times, and a few bonus images:

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Fast Times at Ridgemont High on IMDB

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ULTIMATE ROCK ‘N’ ROLL ON WHEELS | THE 1970′S VAN CUSTOMIZATION CRAZE

Scott Toepfer, a guy I’m humbled to call my friend, came to the Jersey Shore to shoot the second annual The Race of the Gentlemen organized by Mel Stultz (OCC) and put on by the legendary Oiler’s Car Club. It’s an event that can only be adequately described by someone who was actually there in the thick of it– and Toepfer was kind enough to share his personal thoughts with TSY on the sights, sounds, and experiences had by a California boy in Wildwood, Jersey. Great stuff, Scott!

“Like anyone raised in California, my knowledge of New Jersey is unfortunately limited to a few songs from The Boss, Danny Clinch photos, and Clerks. And imagine my surprise, upon arriving at the shore, that it was all true. New Jersey is home to the most charming display of familial dysfunction coupled with earnest value. The food is delicious, your hosts offer you the most comfortable spot that isn’t their own bed, and the hand shakes are served firmly with a look in your eyes. It’s real, it’s handmade, it’s not a cake walk.”

“The Oiler’s Car Club, revived over the past few years by Mel Stultz, Michael Kliman, Tom Larusso and about 6 others, is carrying on a tradition started in Southern California over 65 years ago. One of racing prowess, a desire for speed and common ground amongst friends. They inherited the club from Jim Nelson, founding member and of later Dragmaster fame, with the promise of carrying on a legacy. And in true stride, they’ve devised some way to break out of the usual car show to car show mentality of many modern hot rod clubs…by racing one another. Taking pre-WW2 cars and pitting them against one another on the beaches of South Jersey. Putting their hand built cars on the line through hell, all for a bit of fun, and a chance to test their machines against the best of their peers.”

“In the second year of The Race of Gentlemen cars came from Seattle, Denver, and everywhere else between there and the boardwalk. It’s the perfect time of year: the crowds are gone, the classically-tacky motels are almost completely empty, and the beaches are wide open. The Oiler’s did all but own the roads for the weekend, with free reign over the quiet streets of Wildwood, NJ.”

“Friday morning saw the early arrivals, with folks driving in for registration and a bottle of High Life. From then it became a car show of race cars and historic museum pieces one might not really expect to start up, let alone ‘race’ on wet, salty sand. I swear a 1911 Indian probably doesn’t need to be getting sand in, around, or near its motor, but damn if the owner doesn’t have some serious balls for bringing it out to run. A car/motorcycle show in multiple parking lots and a party on both sides of the block, I couldn’t hope to be anywhere but here on a warm October afternoon.”

“The Saturday morning start was delayed by the slow-falling tide, giving the backhoe time to create a road almost a quarter mile long in deep sand so that the cars could make it through to the course. Drivers were told not to stop, not to get stuck, or follow too closely, for there would be plenty of time to punish each other’s cars at race time.”

“Two lanes, a flag girl in the center, and 1/8th mile of sand to prove you did something right to this car. 1/8th mile to race an Indian Chief against a Harley Knucklehead. 1/8th mile to see if that car you built in just enough time to put it on a cross country trailer from Seattle was going to run. Well, the Indian won more often than not, in bare feet I might add. The youngest kid to race, in a custom built 4-banger that traveled the furthest, he won too. Sand spit in the air, tires slid, bikes crashed, smiles were worn by all. They were there to do what the old timers used to do. In fact, most of those old timers were there too, racing side by side with guys that could be there grandchildren. No stories of “The way we used to do it,” but rather good old fashioned handshakes and”‘let the winner return first” respect. Tips and tricks were traded, compliments were given and rivalries born. The Race of Gentlemen ended its second year with anticipation for a third, and by now there are plenty of guys ready to close their garages for the winter and get cracking on a build.”

“All of this set to a landscape of boardwalks and wooden roller coasters. T-shirt shops and sub spots. I’ll be damned if New Jersey isn’t a sort of home away from home, and The Oiler’s CC the slightly twisted East Coast family of all of our dreams.”

Words & Images by © 2013 Scott G Toepfer

The Race of the Gentlemen

Oiler’s Car Club History

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Jade, Hot Rod Night, Ace Cafe London, 2013 – Image by © Horst A. Friedrichs

I’m a big fan of Horst A. Friedrichs. (I have literally worn the cover off of my copy of Or Glory, 21st Century Rockers.) His style is about as far away as you can get from the balls-out vibe in a lot of today’s lifestyle photography (which I also obviously love). In Horst, there’s a strong sense of controlled curation in every stunning portrait. No minute detail escapes his critical eye. Every subject is perfectly directed (dressed, coiffed, posed) to evoke the desired mood. Horst is much more than a great photographer– he’s an artist imposing his masterful will upon the subject and setting to create lasting images that move you through their overall flawless composition. In Horst’s latest book Drive Style he dives into Britain’s rich & eclectic car culture, capturing amazing rare, historical, and custom automobiles alone or with their owners, drivers, and spectators. Keep reading to find out how you can win a free copy signed by Horst A. Friedrichs.

1959 Poggi, HSCC, Historic Formula Junior, Donington Park, 2013 — Image by © Horst A. Friedrichs

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Paul, 1960s MG, Brooklands Museum, 2013 – Image by © Horst A. Friedrichs

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Scarlett, 1930 Ford Model A, GOW!, Speed Hill Climb, 2013 — Image by © Horst A. Friedrichs

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Pandora and Andrew, The Percy Lambert Centenary , Brooklands Museum, 2013

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Hemsby Rock ‘n’ Roll Weekender, 2009

Drive Style is a must-have for any serious car and photography lover. You can win your own FREE copy signed by Horst, by going to The Selvedge Yard facebook page. “LIKE” any of the Horst A. Friedrich photos that we will post post on the TSY facebook page (if you’re moved, even leave a comment), and the winner will be randomly selected among those who “LIKE” Horst’s images. Good luck! The winner will be announced on Sunday 10/10.

The Selvedge Yard facebook page

Drive Style by Horst A. Friedrichs

Dave Ekins, 1954 class win at Catalina Grand National Race, on a 250cc NSU Renn Sport Max. Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection. ”Blister goop, castor oil, and blood were soaked into what had been a new pair of gloves. I never rode that motorcycle again. They sent it back to Neckersolm, Germany.” 

The anniversary of Steve McQueen’s passing is on my mind, as well as the Ekins brothers and the incredible motorcycling history that they forged separately and together. May their tales and achievements be retold and marveled-over by many generations to come. It’s that rich. Stories like this one (via budanddaveekins.com) from the lips of Dave Ekins himself, unpacking in firsthand detail what it was like to be on the first American ISDT racing team with Steve McQueen, Cliff Coleman, John Steen, and his brother Bud Ekins as they traveled, prepped, and raced together are utterly priceless.

“When the Erfurt trials was over and the British had finished second to the all conquering East Germans because some ‘Yanks’ had outdone the Limeys in a few of the special tests, an English journalist aired his views of the U.S. Vase team: ‘Those Yanks just came to have fun and were not a bit serious about winning. They were a bloody nuisance to our boys.’ But from Sid Chilton, public relations manager of Triumph of Coventry, came the reply: ‘I think the Yanks had the right idea. After all, nobody paid them to ride the International so why not make a holiday out of it? Even so, two of them won Gold Medals and one a Silver. The only objection I have is that they are all so bloody handsome!’ –Dave Ekins

THE HOUSE ON CANAL ROAD by Dave Ekins — October 2011

There was the Six Day Team, Steve McQueen, Cliff Coleman, John Steen, Bud and I and three more persons who were Steve’s personal travel buddies. One was Elmer Valentine who owned the popular “Whiskey a Go Go” nightclub on the Sunset Strip. Also traveling with us was Steve’s stand-in double and a third person who lurked in the shadows. (Forty seven years later I can’t remember their names.)

Our airplane landed at London’s Heathrow Airport that summer day in 1964. Five of us Team members stepped out of customs onto the street and found a crowd of people, cameras, and many questions. There were two limos and an elegant 1930s-era Rolls Royce waiting. We took the Rolls and our luggage followed in the limos. All three cars left in different directions in an effort to shake the gang of cameras and news people. Steve McQueen was a very popular actor and public figure in Great Britain and all of Europe in the mid 1960s.

PICCADILLY CIRCUS- LONDON 1964
Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

The Studio’s London office had made arrangements for the four of us to stay in a three story home owned by the Ogilvy family on Canal Road. Mrs. Ogilvy was vacationing in Spain at the time and arranged for her housekeeper to stay with us. She would take our grocery requests pass them on to the postman who would then pass the list on to the grocery store. A few hours later someone from the store would appear with bags of food. After a day or two the housekeeper smiled at me and commented that “This is a happy house” referring to the constant partying and the sound of noisy diesel London taxis cabs coming and going at all hours. Steve once said to me “You only go around once in life and I’m going to grab a handful of it”.

Steve took the master suite, Bud took another bedroom, and Cliff, John and I stayed upstairs in one of the children’s rooms. We discovered the place had a basement; four flights of stairs, no elevator. Bud liked it because we could start in the basement and run to the top before breakfast and get in a little workout.

HEATHROW AIRPORT
Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

Steve managed to borrow a late model Ford wagon from the studio then Bud drove us to the Matchless Factory near Wolverhampton. Despite the length of the drive Bud didn’t miss a turn; remarkable considering he hadn’t made that trip in the last ten years. At the Matchless factory, we were given the royal tour. We peeked into the future, and then left the windowless old factory; a veteran of World War II that unfortunately went out of business during the next twenty years.

That same day we had an appointment with Triumph Motorcycles in Coventry. Triumph took great pride in showing us their “next generation” three cylinder 750s. Next we were escorted in to Mister Edward Turner’s office. The introductions, handshaking and a round of Britain’s famous Scotch Whiskey followed. The conversation got around to the Japanese motorcycle industry and how the British were going to defeat them “the way they did in Burma”. Steve said “Don’t change a thing. Keep it simple”. We, the Six Day Team, agreed we liked things the way they were. Triumph thought otherwise.

HOUSE ON CANAL ROAD
Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

From Coventry we drove to BSA (Birmingham Small Arms) in Birmingham and were briefed on international relationships and our care of the British Pound while in East Germany. Then we were walked onto a manicured lawn to inspect our Six Day Triumphs, two 650 TR6s and two TR5s. These were East Coast bikes with QD (quick detachable) rear wheels and wide ratio gearboxes; extras the West Coast never knew about.

Upon closer examination I reasoned the high mounted exhaust pipe and muffler would bend the rear shock when the bike was laid on its left side. Closer examination would reveal the latest front fork they were excited about had only 4.5 inches of travel. One year earlier Triumphs had 6.5 inches of travel, they went backwards! Also that eight inch, forty pound cast iron front brake hub would only make matters worse.

DAVE – QUIET TIME IN THE HOUSE
Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

I was in shock. Any old desert sled would be better than that thing. Bud made arrangements to have the bikes shipped to a shop in London called Comerfords. The good people there made room for us to do the final preparations prior to taking them to East Germany. There were no number plates, just some brackets to fit them with. They did manage to drill holes in the proper places for official seals required in the rulebook. But no number plates! Got to have number plates, how do you get number plates? Make them?

We were very lucky to have Bud’s friend Ted Wassell on our team acting as the official U.S Team Juryman. Now Ted had a manufacturing plant near Birmingham, and Bud asked him to find some number plates. Simple, it only took three days. Our individual numbers would be painted on by the East Germans who were sponsoring the Six Days. (They had hired several local sign painters to do the job.) All entrants will accompany their bikes through the “scrutinizers” who will mark important individual pieces with a special paint and each race number. The cylinder head was sealed to the cylinder and cylinder to the crankcase. Pretty damn thorough, I thought.

BLUE VAN TRAVELING IN FRANCE
Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

Five of us stood around looking at the area Comerfords allowed us to work in: Generous for British standards, not much for us Americans. But you take what you can get; then get to work. Bud and Steve had a different plan. They went to Eric Cheney’s house/shop, outlined what needed to be done; and stayed in the area; about an hour’s travel from London. Eric did the final preparations including rerouting the exhaust pipes placing the muffler just ahead of the rear axle. Whereas Eric Cheney made up some beautiful carburetor/air filter covers; we did the best we could using “‘elephant snot” rubber glue to glue custom cut inner tubes on the frame in order to avoid water damage to the air filter and carburetor. They looked funky, but proved to be effective. Cliff, John, and I rode our Triumphs to the house from Comerfords and back again for three days, without hearing a word from Bud or Steve.

Bud called the house one night and asked if we were ready. They would meet us at Comerfords, load the bikes, get our stuff and be on our way. Ted Wassell would also meet us there with his Mark10 Jaguar sedan. Two fuel tanks and British Racing Green, of course. Seated next to Ted was another Six Day official and a French journalist who worked for Paris Match magazine was alone in the back seat.

CLIFF SUPERVISING THE GAS FILL-UP IN FRANCE
Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

“Paris Match” was huge like Life Magazine was in the ’60s. Steve’s “Wanted Series” was the most viewed TV series in France. Paris Match was to take care of us while in Paris for the premiere of “Love With The Proper Stranger” starring Steve and Natalie Wood. It just happened the cast of the movie “The Great Race” starring Natalie Wood, Tony Curtis, and Keenan Wynn would pull into the same hotel we were in prior to the premiere (So that was the timing; London, prepare the bikes, drive to Erfurt, East Germany, ride the ISDT, drive to Paris, then do the premiere and body guard thing with Steve. Then take a flight home for me. The other guys went back to London, except for Steve and friends; they went to Majorca for a week or two.)

For now our six Triumph motorcycles were arranged in a blue box van with a large American Flag painted on both sides, the five team motorcycles plus Lynn Wineland’s TR6. Lynn was a photo journalist who joined the party and was to report about the team. So we had six guys in a box van with two seats and enough room to make “nests” from our luggage and riding gear for the others. I climbed into the Jag’s left side back seat and sat down next to a French legend.

RACE HEADQUARTERS
Photo credit – Roger Ganner

Marcel Descamps was about my age, he had a wife and two small girls; and employed by Paris Match Magazine. He had just returned from a long assignment in Viet Nam and was given this prize of writing and photographing Steve and his adventures in East Germany. His next assignment was back in ‘Nam from which he didn’t return. I grieved as did many others. His words to me were “Don’t let your country get into this fight”. A moment please while I think about this.

We disembarked on the coast of France then drove to Erfurt, East Germany during the height of the Cold War. Darkness set in before we crossed the border between France and Germany and my thoughts turned back to the drive from Birmingham to London. We were in the Ford Wagon and Steve was in the back seat alone. All of a sudden he hung over the second seat and told Bud to “Stop! Pull over!” A slick little car pulled in behind us and Steve jumped out of our car and into the one following us. They pulled out ahead of us and our jaws dropped as this gorgeous young woman motored by. How did he pull that one off? I reasoned she had to be someone Steve knew when he was in England making the film “War Lover” with Robert Wagner.

UNIVERSITY DORMITORY
Photo credit – Roger Ganner

I woke from my slumber as the Jag rumbled over what seemed to be an all-metal bridge; we were crossing the Rhine River still in darkness and I could see orange colored flames rising into the early morning mist. “Must be Frankfurt” I muttered. Our Jag swerved to a side road and parked; the four of us jumped out, sprinted to some growth and stood there in the flash of car lights as we relieved ourselves from too long a time since our last rest stop. By now the blue box van we were following had gained a few miles on us.

It was still early morning, we were in a line of non-moving cars and vans and the blue one with the American flags was at the front of the line. We must be near the border between East and West Germany. Bud walked back to us and said, “The border guards were getting permission from Berlin to allow Steve McQueen to enter East Germany”. It seemed a reasonable statement, but I found out later that there was more to the story. The East Germans did make that call to Berlin, but it was more about some suspicious cargo not just a famous movie star in their midst.

HOW TO TRANSPORT 14 MOTORCYCLES
Photo credit – Roger Ganner

While we were all waiting at the border Bud made his way back a few more cars and heard two young men speaking French. Still teenagers, Roger DeCoster and Joel Robert were wondering about the delay. Bud, who spoke some French, jumped into the conversation. Joel Robert had just won his first World Championship, the youngest ever to do that. He and Roger were going to ride this Six Days and wondered about the holdup. Bud invited them to stay with him if they came to race in the U.S. Three years later they did just that! This was the beginning of professional motocross in the U.S. Edison Dye was promoting the first motocross races held in the United States.

The line of cars and trucks started moving. We continued on our way to Erfurt, East Germany; a university town where we were to stay in the dormitory.

We were told a “special feature” of riding roads and trails in East Germany are the many scattered horse shoe nails that find their way into your tires. Everyone knew this was a problem, and a flat can put you out of the running. Our Triumphs carried compressed air bottles, tire irons, and each rider carried new tubes on his person. Experienced Six Day riders can replace an inner tube in less than four minutes. Cliff Coleman did this at least twice during the six days and did not lose a mark.

STEVE AND OTHER TEAM MEMBERS CHANGING TIRES
Photo credit – Roger Ganner

Sunday we pushed our bikes through Tech inspection according to their schedule. Lower numbers first while larger displacement bikes carried bigger numbers. Bud was 250; I was 261, John Steen was 266, Cliff 276 and Steve 278. We would start several hours after the 50cc bikes carrying single digit numbers and usually ahead of them before the end of a long day because the speed schedules were set according to motor displacement. About two-thirds of the entries were less than 350cc because of the popularity stemming from mopeds and lightweight motorcycles found all over Europe at that time.

John Steen took a wrong turn on the first day, didn’t see any course markers, stopped, turned around then hurried back to find the trail and clocked in late. He was now on a Silver Medal if he did everything else right with five days to go. The U.S. Vase team was still all on Gold at the end of the second day. They say if you get through the third day clean then you have a good chance of winning Gold. Why? Well, they make a much tougher course early in the game and your body is nearly exhausted. This day the 50cc bikes woke us up when they came by in the dark of morning. We got up, had breakfast, and got started at our scheduled departure time in the daylight.

SAMMY MILLER WATCHING DAVE
Photo credit – Roger Ganner

First thing a few miles out on the wet cobblestones Bud fell off! The ensuing slide down the road spun his air bottle open and lost its emergency air supply. Bud waved down a car and asked for a pump; he knew cars in Europe carried working tire pumps. Bud pulled the rear wheel, found the nail and removed it, then slipped in a new tube, inflated the tire and going again sliding into the first time control without losing a point. Riding a normal pace you can get into the Control four minutes early; then wait for your time before clocking through. Bud’s two Gold Medals and one Silver Medal had given him the confidence to make good.

Coleman, John Giles, and McQueen were the next to last riders to start; Englishman Ken Heanes was on the last minute, riding alone. This is conjecture; I think Heanes caught Steve in one of the tough sections late in the day and Steve crashed trying to keep up. (The British Works bikes were light years better than what we were riding even though they were all Triumphs.) Now Steve was last on the trail and falling back. Spectators were everywhere in sections near a village or road. There became a time gap between the last riders and Steve who fell behind. So, according to Bud, Steve swerved into some trees avoiding the spectators who were walking the trail. This crash bent the forks and closed up the exhaust pipe. Steve was done. Bud meanwhile swerved wide on the cobblestones and caught his ankle against a stone wall. This mishap broke Bud’s ankle. Bud made the final control without losing a point and was still on Gold. We all had to push our bikes a few yards on gravel to our marked parking spot, about twenty yards. Bud did this and was going to ride the rest of the Six Days. That evening, after a few more Scotches, Steve escorted Bud to the local hospital, an X-ray and plaster cast finished the American Champion’s ride.

STARTING LINE
Photo credit – Roger Ganner

The DDR (Deutsche Demokratische Republik) officials still had a trick or two left. The special test on Day 4 was two miles of paved mountain road in dense fog. They had made large campfires at each turn. Riders would start at 20 second intervals, so I was 20 seconds behind Sammy Miller. Usually I could not catch Sammy on special tests, just follow. But this time I got to the end of the Special Test about ten yards behind the ‘Millerman”. I was used to going fast without seeing much in the dust filled desert, a talent I picked up racing cross-country in the Mojave Desert.

Each morning the daily special test results were posted near the “Parc Ferme”. I stopped and looked at my score for the previous day. Sammy walked over, pointed to my score, then his, and smiled. I had beaten the ”Millerman’ by a few seconds on Day Four.

Morning of Day 5 I was chasing Sammy’s Ariel up a short hill with about a meter vertical step at the top. The Ariel went into a wheelie; Sammy caught the skid plate on the lip and body “Englished” the bike over, and then disappeared. My TR5 didn’t wheelie, hit the cliff and bounced back to the bottom. That didn’t work so I headed towards the wall’s corner and threw the bike over the top, then scrambled after it and rode away. I later asked Paul Hunt how the other guys made that step. He said “They went around it, you dummy”. Nobody ever told me!

RACE COURSE THROUGH TOWN OF ERFURT
Photo credit – Roger Ganner

Day 6 was a short ride to an airfield and last Special Test; a road race on a flat chunk of concrete. They would bunch bikes together. In my race we had 350s, 500s, and open class, over twenty riders bunched up on the start line. The flag dropped and I sped into the left-hander first, down the long straight then rear-braked it into the next left-hand turn. They had a ‘kink’ at the entrance and exit of the long front straight so tight I had to use second gear. Going into the back straight Cliff Coleman passed by me all tucked in while East German ace Fred Williamowski and his MZ went around both me and Cliff at the same time. Cliff put on a show sliding his TR6 in an effort to hang onto Fred and his 100mph MZ. I ended up fifth or sixth or something, the fight went out of me when the rear brake got hot. But it was a great day, Cliff and I won Gold Medals and John Steen had his Silver Medal. Steve and Bud, with his right ankle wearing a white cast, watched the race seated near the slow turn. I felt sorry for them; as Brando said; “We coulda’ been somethin”. Fred and his flying 352cc MZ won the overall Trials. From here it was “off to Paris” as Steve’s body guards for the premiere.

CHECK POINT
Photo credit – Roger Ganner

Paris Match Magazine had our visit all planned, reserved, and locked in. The film crew for “The Great Race” got into the Hotel several hours behind us. Later I found Keenan Wynn in the bar with John Steen and Bud. Keenan seemed to be happy hanging out with his old friends from Bud’s shop back in Sherman Oaks, California.

Our hotel, Hotel de Crillon, was close to everything including the U.S. Counsel next door, and the U.S. flagged blue van was parked there. (With two uniformed U.S. Marines standing at the gate, we didn’t need to worry about the van or its contents.)

We were invited to have dinner at the Ritz; in a private banquet room. Our host was Paris Match Magazine. I am sure they thought this out; they had name cards placed at each chair. I was sitting next to the Foreign Affairs Editor; Steve was sitting on the other side. A couple of French speaking countesses, and the French actress, Capucine, were also invited to rub shoulders with ‘these Americans’. We spoke about the American film she had done with John Wayne and Red Buttons on location in Africa. She was a charming lady who circulated around the elegant hall. At one point she wanted to dance. Her eyes went to Bud first and then she noticed the cast on his ankle. I was her second choice but happy for the opportunity to join this classy woman on the dance floor. The live band played 60′s music. It was all familiar and I felt pretty special in her company until I headed back to the table to join the others.

BUD CHECKING IN
Photo credit – Roger Ganner

Just then the French Foreign Affairs Editor asked me my thoughts about the J.F.K. assassination. He thought it was a conspiracy. Steve, sitting close by said it was not and he was convinced from conversations he had with people closely connected with the Kennedy family. It almost became an argument and I excused myself and went back to my room.

Steve had arranged for all of the U.S. Team members to be dressed in grey flannel slacks and navy blue blazers. I was fortunate that Steve and I wore the same 32″ inch waist size and could use a pair of his slacks from Paramount Studios. The pants were lengthened and I was good to go. The name “Steve McQueen Love With The Proper Stranger” was sewn in at the waist band. I wore them to the party and the premiere. It wasn’t until we were ready to leave the hotel that I noticed the pants had disappeared. Most likely a hotel staffer saw an opportunity for a great souvenir; maybe on “eBay” one day!

The following morning Marcel invited Bud and me to his Paris Match office to look at some photos. He gave us a few B&W 8x10s included in our stories. That was the last time I would see him.

That evening Bud, Cliff and I escorted Steve and his beautiful wife, Neile, through the crowd and into the theater, just like Hollywood only without the red carpet. The following day Steve and his flock flew to Majorca. I flew home to California while Cliff, John, and Bud drove back to Birmingham in the blue van with the American flags painted on it.

I rode four more Six Days and sadly there was never one that came even close to 1964.

From the pen of Daring Dave Ekins comes the true tale of the biggest, the toughest and the bone-breakingest motorcycle race in the world–the International Six Day’s Trial. A first hand account of riding and cheating next to Europe’s best…with due note of team and movie hero, Steve McQueen!

ISDT by Dave Ekins

Here we have observed trials which demand taut precision in manipulating a series of obstacles expressly designed to drop you into the muddy and here we have enduros that last for a day or two or twenty-four hours straight; enduros that lead through sand and mud, swamps and streams swift enough to tow you under, enduros that require calculation, concentration to stay where you should be at a given time and at a given speed. But imagine riding at a given very high speed for six days over twelve hundred miles, each mile superbly calculated to break both your motorcycle and every bone in your body. Add to that a grueling series of observed-trial type speed tests at the end of each day. If that sounds like your kind of game, then you’re up for the International Six Days Trials.

The ISDT has been held annually since 1913 (except for the war years) and has become a real international competition with most of the bike people in Europe making an all-out effort to win the trophy–a trophy that really does bring them and their country some fame and fortune but does a heck of a lot more to promote sales. (Even the Russians go for an ISDT wearing their long brown rubberized rain suits, riding those clumsy green and yellow ISHes.) Add to the honor, the fact that the winning team has the chance to organize the next year’s event–an advantage quite worth the effort (as we shall see).

Dave Ekins, John Steen, Steve Mc Queen, Cliff Coleman and Bud Ekins
Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

The actual riding of the International is a hurry up and wait game. You spurt along from one time control to the next and then wait for your time to catch up; you clock through the check and hurry on to the next time control. The speed tests each day award bonus points to the individual in accordance with his performance. It takes five hundred bonus points and no penalty points to earn a Gold Medal. Penalty points are given for being late into a time control. A Silver Medal is the accumulation of three hundred bonus points and not more than fifty penalty points. The Bronze is given to anyone who just finishes without being excluded. Any outside assistance means immediate disqualification and if your bike breaks and you cannot fix it with what you have in your pockets in less than an hour’s time, you’re out.

We were on the Autobahn driving through what is known as the five-kilometer section–the bare, no-man’s land between East and West Germany. The forests had been cut away as far as the eye could see and guard towers stood tall, spaced out in a staggered pattern where trees should have been. We were leaving the land of the free. Our three-car motorcade had passed into East Germany and before long we were in the picturesque countryside of Erfurt. The American vase team: Steve McQueen, John Steen, Cliff Coleman, my brother Bud Ekins, and me. The noted English manufacturer Ted Wassell acted as our manager. It was more than helpful that he was on the Jury too. (But this was the year of Steve McQueen and there were a group of French journalists with us to report every move the actor made–the TV series “Wanted” was a favorite in France).

Colorful banners and flags of the participating countries were hung on both sides of the road for a mile before we got to the town hall, headquarters of the Trials. Although Bud had ridden the Trials before (three times before) the rest of us were virgins and this was the first official Vase team to represent the U.S. in an International. We came with our necessary receipts and licenses and were told we still owed two hundred and eighty dollars. It took a lot of convincing to assure our hosts that not all Americans are millionaires and that we really had paid all the fees. At last, all was stamped “in order” and we left for our assigned quarters.

Dave and John waiting for the flag to drop
Photo courtesy of
Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

All of the competitors were housed in a newly completed college dormitory a couple of miles south of the staging area. The drive from one place to the other took us through town and Germans marked the way so we wouldn’t get lost. Nice of them I thought, until I found they didn’t want us driving through their slums.

That evening before Day One, nearly 300 contestants were seated in a giant dining hall looking down at the plate of food just served; whole eel with cold cuts! I will not eat something that is still looking at me! There were about ten Americans assigned to our table. Steve McQueen had the insight to ask our waiter where the jury members ate. The American Team, the British Team and the Swedish Team left the dining hall and proceeded to the Erfurt Hof for a more palatable dinner. The East German sponsors were at least sportsmanlike enough to change the menu for the remainder of the Trials.

Early the next day, I found Coleman and McQueen in an all-out power slide contest on the gravel road in the Park Ferme. Some of the ISDTers joined in with enthusiasm and before long the bailiwick turned into a dust bowl–this new Yankee game was fun! And when the champ emerged, it was no one other than motocross ace Joel Robert.

THE AMERICAN ISDT TEAM Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

The trials got under way on schedule and right away John Steen got pointed in the wrong direction by some shady character in a uniform. By the time he found his way back to the right trial and into the next time control he was running thirty minutes late and already on a Silver Medal. Later, still trying to make up for lost time, Steen crashed on a very tricky paved turn that also claimed among its victims Bud Ekins and Cliff Coleman, both of whom survived with little precious time lost. To hear Bud tell it, he had his Triumph down dragging the handlebar in the pavement trying to avoid the inevitable but he still slid of the road just missing two concrete abutments. Looking back, I think it might have been nice if the organizers had slowed us down a bit for this turn; but then the East German team knew the road and might have lost some advantage.

Third morning out, a Czech rider walked into the Park Ferme with a peculiar bulge in his coat, pushed his broken Jawa into the working area, and began to install a curious brace that (it appeared) had been made the night before. The front down-tube on his Jawa had parted and this new piece was to do the job of the broken part. Well, the two officials said nothing as they watched the sneaky one make his repair. They waited until he had sweated and cursed the thing on and even let him push the bike to the starting gate before strong-arming him out of the Trials.

There is a saying among the ISDT set that if you can complete the third day clean then your chances of finishing the contest are better than ever. I didn’t realize what they meant until I rolled my tired body out of the sack that third morning and began moving stiff and tired muscles in an effort to get dressed. I had managed to make it through the first two days clean but the pace was beginning to show. I had begun the Six Days mostly concerned about blistering my hands, now I had a new worry: battle fatigue.

Dave and Steve – Broken Dreams
Photo courtesy of
Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

Well I made it to the day’s end, but my favorite actor didn’t and neither did my big brother. McQueen, whose reflexes were showing signs of fatigue parted company with his Triumph in a pile of rocks. He scrambled back on his bike in an attempt to continue, but found he was down about twenty horsepower. The bash through the rocks had closed his exhaust pipe. Now luckily there were some woodcutters nearby and Steve, being a resourceful chap, borrowed an ax and vented his exhaust pipe.

But this untimely detour put the Matinee Idol well behind the last rider, and while he was making an honest effort to continue, the bystanders and the kids who had been quite good about staying off the trials naturally joined the game when all seemed clear. So here was Steve traveling South at a high speed on a narrow twisting trail in the woods and there was an unsuspecting lad riding North on the same path. The meeting was inevitable, but rather than crunch a kid and his moped, Steve pointed his bike off the path. A firmly planted tree did not give way to the forces of the high speed Coventry projectile that tried to uproot it. It was a straight-on crash that put the front wheel squarely between the exhaust pipes and left not a few scratches on Mr. McQueen’s valuable face.

Now Bud had won three medals in previous ISDTs and pretty well knew what to expect. The morning sun was high as I rounded a bend and saw my brother feverishly working over his rear wheel with tire irons. I knew his air bottle was empty from the first day crash and I stopped to give assistance. But he told me to get the hell going for this was a fast section and the time control wasn’t far ahead.

Bud borrowed one of those big double cylinder pumps from a nearby car and had the new tube inflated in less than ten strokes. I had made the time control and waited until bud came sliding in, directing him into the check and putting him to the head of the line. He punched through with only seconds to spare. Now you are supposed to get gas and oil before you clock through, and although the senior Ekins was in on time he had no gas for the next sixty mile leg. Our ever alert Ted Wassell saved the day, slipping down the road a piece with a full petrol can in hand. The refueling job was done undetected by the enemy and though Bud and his Triumph entered the course from a thicket, no one was the wiser.

1964 Final Classment/Results ISDT
Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

The afternoon’s course took us along a rocky path and then turned ninety degrees under a railroad trestle and out again on the other side of the tracks. The dampness in the tunnel and on the round slippery rocks made the navigating a bit squirrely. Bud turned into the tunnel a little hot and though his mind told him to change gears, his body reacted a bit too late and he glanced sharply off the wall. A sickening crack was heard; the small bone above his ankle had broken-but Bud wasn’t telling anybody. He rode the last fifty miles feet up as only he can, and then following the rules, pushed that Triumph a hundred feet in the gravel and put it on the centerstand to rest. With no points lost!

John Steen, Cliff Coleman and I were the remaining Americans, and with the pressure of doing well for the Team removed, we settled down to enjoy the last three days of riding. Coleman and I were still in the running for our first Gold Medals.

According to plan I slipped on a new rear chain just before we started the fourth day, but in doing so I lost the masterlink in the dirt. Ted Wassell noticed me scratching around for it and happened to drop a new one right beside me. It’s nice to have a pit juryman on your side.

But being the host country is having a real advantage. According to legend, the MZed and Simpson banners that were hung along most of the course were put there in code. A Simpson banner meant a right turn and an MZed one meant a fast turn. Pretty sneaky those Germans. But the real kicker is when they quietly let the news out and then reversed the code for the rest of the Trials. This sent more than one guy who thought he had the secret into some very hairy turns at some very wrong and hairy speeds.

Along with the MZed and Simpson banners along the course were numerous East German bikes complete with a mechanic. It’s nice to have a parts house every half mile or so just in case.

Photo courtesy of Bud and Dave Ekins Collection

At the end of it all is held a speed test–usually on a road race course. It is so designed that if a motorcycle is ailing at all after five and a half days, it will surely blow when the rider tries to do those fiendish laps at an average of forty six miles an hour for forty five minutes.

Steen, Coleman, and I were in the same race with all the three fifty and larger displacement machines. At the drop of the banner we shot down the short straight and I grabbed the inside of the turn and polished the knobs on the rear tire and got into the next straight out front. Then Coleman came by me on his six fifty and just as that happened an East German zonked by both of us on a three sixty two-stroke! My five hundred would turn an honest eighty five, but that five-speed MZed was capable of the century mark—and he was doing it too! Equipment means a lot.

When the Erfurt trials was over and the British had finished second to the all conquering East Germans because some “Yanks” had outdone the Limeys in a few of the special tests, an English journalist aired his views of the U.S. Vase team: “Those Yanks just came to have fun and were not a bit serious about winning. They were a bloody nuisance to our boys”. But from Sid Chilton, public relations manager of Triumph of Coventry, came the reply: “I think the Yanks had the right idea. After all, nobody paid them to ride the International so why not make a holiday out of it? Even so, two of them won Gold Medals and one a Silver. The only objection I have is that they are all so bloody handsome!”

–Dave Ekins

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Whenever I hear ‘Crazy Train’ I’m immediately transported back to 8th grade Guitar class. One dude will forever be etched in my mind. Dave was 1/2 Japanese, all of about 5 ft tall, and probably weighed 80 lbs soaking wet, if that. His hair, alone worthy of open adoration, making up the bulk of his weight and height. This ‘Metal Mane’ was streaked, sprayed, and stood a good 6 inches above his head, cascading down to the middle of his back in perfectly teased strands. My 13 yr old brain could not fathom the ridiculous routine and expense this must have required. But damn if he didn’t more the rockstar part than 90% of the bands on the cover Cream and Hit Parader magazine. His bare arms were like sinewy, wire pipe cleaners. And I’d never seen jeans that tight in my life. Not even on a girl. No sir. I don’t know where the hell he found them, or how he breathed. The entire situation was delicately perched upon tiny black (or white) Capezio, soft-as-hell-leather lace-up dance shoes. Boom. Mind blown. Only a handful of dudes had the nuts to wear these. Dave’s look was definitely balls-out for West Phoenix. But nobody questioned him, because Dave was the reigning guitar badass. While the rest of us fumbled through the opening of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, Dave was staring at the ceiling tiles, biting his lip, soloing like the Segovia of Heavy Metal.

Dave even brought his own guitar to class. Lugged it around in a case thicker than him, covered in cool stickers. Rather that than play the nylon-strung acoustic beaters they had in class. I don’t remember what kind of acoustic it was, but the strings (always Dean Markley) were so light that you could hardly see them, let alone feel them. You had to lean in to hear a damn thing, but it was worth it. And the action was set so low that you could run scales faster than a hot knife through butter. But if you strummed it would buzz like crazy. No worries. No one was strumming shit. Everyone was shredding– with varying degrees of success. Dave was a Rock God in the making, and everyone at Maryvale High School seemed to sense it. Dave was into the hot, new Japanese Metal bands that no one else even heard of. And he spoke of Yngvie, Eddie, and Randy in hushed whispers like they were comrades. Knew all their solos and tricks, and could perform them on cue. Eruption, Spanish Fly, Dee, and of course, Crazy Train were all in his finely honed repertoire. We moved from Phoenix to Tempe that year, and I changed schools, so I don’t really know whatever became of Dave. But my fascination with the marvel and mystery of Randy Rhoads was firmly cemented. No head-banging hooligan. A sensitive, immensely talented man taken too soon.

Ozzy Osbourne & Randy Rhoads playing that epic polka dot Flying V! – photo by © Paul Natkin

“I never really got into Black Sabbath when I was in England. Right? And then Ozzy came out with this great first album, you know, it really was good. And we got to see them play after that, like almost every night. And so, Randy Rhoads, although being a wonderful guitar player, could not play Asteroids for shit. I beat him right across this country. From East coast, to West and back.

Randy Rhoads was like just, brilliant. You know, I mean of course he got better after he died. You know, because everybody does. Right? But uh, I loved Randy, yeah. He took risks. He wasn’t scared, you know. I mean, he knew his instrument, you know? So he’d just go for it. That’s what I used to like about him. And you could…like, Ozzy used to just throw him around, throw him up on his shoulders while he was playing. And he never missed a note.”

–Lemmy from Motorhead

Randy Rhoads pre-concert soundcheck –photo by John Livzey

“The very first time Randy Rhoads saw Van Halen, he took his girlfriend Jan with him. Jan told us that Randy was ‘devastated’ after the show. Here he was, the king of Burbank. Everyone was always telling him how great he was. Then he saw Eddie and it opened his eyes and he got a major reality check. It was healthy for him. He was inspired. He thought Eddie was great. He wanted to be great also. I know they met at least four times.

Quiet Riot and Van Halen played on the same bill at Glendale College in April 1977. Quiet Riot opened, Van Halen was the headliner. Randy once approached Eddie and asked him how he was able to keep his guitar in tune without a locking nut for his tremolo. Eddie refused to tell him and said it was his own secret. Randy couldn’t comprehend because he was a teacher at his core. He loved to help others and he was always willing to share anything he knew. He would teach anyone anything they wanted to learn. So, he was quite disappointed in Eddie’s treatment of him.”

–Randy Rhoads’ biographer, Andrew Klein

“Randy and his good friend Lori Hollen were in the parking lot behind the Whisky loading his gear into this car. Eddie and Dave (DLR) pulled up alongside of them in a white Mercedes diesel and began harassing him. Lori quickly put a stop to it and actually slapped Dave across his face. Quiet Riot’s drummer, Drew Forsyth, has said that the Eddie/Randy rivalry has been made up to be so much more than it was. He also said that Eddie used to come watch Randy play way more than Randy used to go see Eddie play. They were both great, and I’m sure there was an immense amount of mutual respect. Randy told journalist John Stix that he does a lot of Eddie’s licks live, and it kills him that he does that. But he added that it’s just flash, and that’s what the kids want to see. That’s what impresses them. He also said that it kills him because he believes in the importance of finding your own voice and style. He thought the worst thing a guitar player could do was copy someone else.

Finally, when Randy was home on break from the Ozzy tour, he decided to drive to his local music store to buy some classical albums. Randy said that when he walked into the record store, Eddie Van Halen was standing on line at the register purchasing the Diary of a Madman album. Imagine that scene. Can you imagine walking into a record store on any given day and seeing both Eddie and Randy in there at the same time?”

–Randy Rhoads’ biographer, Andrew Klein

“Randy was one in a billion. He didn’t try to be different. He was born different. I don’t think he dressed that way because his goal was to be different. He wore what he wanted to wear. He used to take his first girlfriend, Jan, with him when he shopped for shoes. He preferred the girl’s shoes, and he would have her try them on for him. Clearly, he was embarrassed to buy them for himself, and he knew he would get grief for wearing them. It didn’t matter to him. He was very committed to doing what he wanted to do. Sometimes it did get him into a lot of trouble, especially at school. He constantly had jocks wanting to beat him up. They called him names. It didn’t affect him. Randy may have been frail, but he was emotionally strong. It took more than names to rattle him. He just laughed at them.”

–Randy Rhoads’ biographer, Andrew Klein

“One of the things Ozzy loved about Randy Rhoads was that he was a teacher at his core. He used to sit with Ozzy and help him. Randy would find the right key for songs so that Ozzy would feel more comfortable and within his singing range. They worked out melodies together. Ozzy would hum ideas to Randy, and he would, in turn, convert those melodies into songs. ‘Goodbye to Romance’ was created this way. When Randy would noodle or test sounds, Ozzy would say, ‘What was that?’ And Randy would say, ‘What?’ Ozzy would say, ‘Play that again’ – and sure enough, songs were born that way as well. ‘Suicide Solution’ and ‘Diary of a Madman’ were born that way.”

–Randy Rhoads’ biographer, Andrew Klein

“I know Randy was a salvation for Ozzy. Ozzy was really down on his luck. He had just been thrown out of Sabbath. He was broke, constantly drunk, and basically living in squalor. Then, Randy Rhoads walked into his life. I am not so sure Ozzy was a salvation for Randy. I think Randy could take it or leave it. His arm had to be twisted to go to the audition, and when he was given the job, he didn’t want it. He didn’t want to hurt Quiet Riot and his friend Kevin DuBrow. Although they were frustrated and going nowhere, he was prepared to stick it out. He was not one to seek auditions, and I don’t think he would have quit had he never met Ozzy. So, I would have to conclude that Ozzy needed Randy way more than Randy needed Ozzy. This is evident at the end of Randy’s life. He informed the Osbournes he was quitting the band. Ozzy went crazy over this and begged Randy to stay. Randy had made up his mind and nothing was going to change it. Ozzy knew what he had. When they first got together in 1979, Ozzy would introduce Randy to people by saying, ‘This is Randy, my secret weapon.’ When they met producer Max Norman for the first time, Ozzy said to him, ‘Keep everything Randy records – don’t erase anything!’ Ozzy Osbourne is no dummy. He knew what he had.”

–Randy Rhoads’ biographer, Andrew Klein

“The band had a great relationship with Ozzy. From the beginning, they were managed by Sharon’s brother, David Arden. He managed the band well. He was very attentive to their needs. It was ultimately David’s decision to bring Randy to England. David tried to convince Ozzy to find a guitarist in London who was local in order to make things easier. Ozzy begged and pleaded and said Randy was the only one he wanted. David acquiesced and sent Randy a ticket. When the band began working, they were all very close. Ozzy used to say to them, ‘Here’s my hand, here’s my heart, this band will never part.’ They recorded the ‘Blizzard of Ozz’ album, and then they began a U.K. tour.”

–Randy Rhoads’ biographer, Andrew Klein

Randy Rhoads receiving the “Best New Talent” award from Guitar Player magazine with Ozzy and Sharon Arden (now Osbourne) proudly looking on, 1981.

“It was at this time that David had to resign because his daughter had been born prematurely and he was needed at home. This is when Sharon stepped in to replace him. She immediately got cozy with Ozzy and everything changed. When they revisited Ridge Farm to record the Diary of a Madman album, she became notorious for emptying everyone’s suitcases and throwing their personal belongings into the pond outside. Everyone who was there said the vibe changed when she arrived. Ozzy began divorce proceedings with his wife, Thelma, and succumbed to severe depression. He stopped attending writing and rehearsal sessions and drowned his sorrows in drugs and alcohol. The Diary album was nearly complete before the real problems began. It was during these recording sessions that the decision was made to fire Bob [Daisley] and Lee [Kerslake] in favor of younger, greener musicians who wouldn’t challenge authority. When Rudy [Sarzo] and Tommy [Aldridge] were brought in, the band was no longer called the ‘Blizzard of Ozz’ – it had now become an Ozzy Osbourne solo project, which is not what Randy signed up for. Randy expressed his displeasure with anyone who was willing to listen. Randy was no longer happy as a sideman. Add to that, Sharon placed Randy in a very uncomfortable position between herself and Ozzy, which she chronicles in her own book. This was about all he could take. He really just wanted to leave the band and that situation and move on with his life.”

–Randy Rhoads’ biographer, Andrew Klein

Rudy Sarzo, Kevin DuBrow & Randy Rhoads in the Quiet Riot glory days. “We had one of the best guitar players EVER in our band and we couldn’t get arrested!” –Quiet Riot singer, Kevin DuBrow

“Randy Rhoads and Kevin DuBrow were the best of friends. Very close. Like brothers. Both became stars separately from each other. But the dream was they were going to do it together. They remained good friends even while Randy was with Ozzy. Kevin attended all the local Ozzy concerts and was invite to after-parties at the Osbournes’ house.”

–Randy Rhoads’ biographer, Andrew Klein

“Kevin was domineering and Randy hated that. Randy tolerated it because he knew that that component of Kevin’s personalithy was the reason why they were so successful, locally. Those who knew Randy said that if not for Kevin, no one outside of Randy’s garage would have ever heard him play. Kevin was the driving force. Randy was not a go-getter. He just wanted to play and leave the details to others. He was also non-confrontational, which is why he put up with Kevin. It was easier for Randy to say nothing than to argue. Toward the end of 1979, Randy saw the writing on the wall. Music was changing. Disco, Punk, and New Wave had taken over. Randy and Kevin never really saw eye to eye musically. When he finally got settled in with Ozzy, he was happier because he felt he had more musical freedom. Ozzy was constantly telling him to, ‘go out there and be the best Randy Rhoads you can be.’ Ozzy wanted Randy to be a guitar hero. He wanted that explosive playing all over his records. Kevin stifled Randy and preferred poppy, catchy songs because he thought that’s what would ultimately get them a record deal.”

–Randy Rhoads’ biographer, Andrew Klein

“One of the biggest myths around Jackson/Charvel guitars is that many think Grover Jackson or Wayne Charvel made the Randy Rhoads polka dot Flying V. Grover Jackson and Tim Wilson made the white Jackson V. Grover Jackson, Tim Wilson and Mike Shannon made the black Jackson V. And it was Karl Sandoval that actually made the famous Randy Rhoads Polka Dot Flying V. However Karl did work with Grover Jackson and Wayne Charvel for about a year or so. The guitar was ordered on 7/3/79 and completed on 9/22/79. It appeared to be a solid body neck-thru or set-neck construction, but was actually a Danelectro neck that had been glued to a Flying V body! The bow-tie fret inlays were simply routed on either side of the existing dot inlays. The pick-ups were DiMarzio PAF’s, Schaller tuners were installed, and white Gibson Les Paul control knobs were used.

Soon after Randy Rhoads brought the Flying V home the headstock was broken accidently when the strap was not secured to the guitar. Kevin DuBrow was there when it fell and Randy was devastated. He had worked very hard to save the money to buy the V. Karl Sandoval re-painted the neck after the repairs were done for free. Rumors have circulated that Randy had a lot of tuning problems  because the Danelectro neck didn’t have a truss rod, but there sure are a lot of pictures that have been published with Randy playing this guitar. Randy did change the bridge, nut, knobs, and pick-up rings from chrome to black.” –via jacksoncharvelworld.net

Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones enjoying the pool at the Manger Motor Lodge in Savannah, GA

Just imagine your luck stumbling across this little gem… 23 original, never-before-seen photos of the Rolling Stones resting unmolested in an unmarked box? Yes, please. That’s exactly what Lauren White found herself staring at when a friendly, unassuming flea market dealer put them before her kindly with a wink and a nudge. Turns out they were taken (photographer unknown…) during the Rolling Stones American tour through Savannah, Georgia and Clearwater, Florida in 1965.

“He obviously didn’t know what he had. To tell the truth, I didn’t either. I obviously knew it was the Stones, but it took about a week of looking them over to realize that this was really a very unique circumstance. After extensive research, I came to find that these are unpublished, never-before-seen photos of one of the most legendary bands in rock ‘n’ roll history. Not only that, they are beautifully composed, candid, raw and perfect in every way. They really convey a band innocent to their destiny.

In a lot of the images, the guys are looking directly into the lens. It’s hard to get boys to be that vulnerable, especially in front of a camera. They are also sort of showing off. I think a girl is the only thing that could convince them to allow those kinds of shots. It’s hard to imagine a dude is evoking these intimate moments, but you never know.” –Lauren White

1965– Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones poolside in shades, Clearwater, Florida

1965– Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones enjoying a budweiser poolside, Clearwater, Florida

1965– Mick Jagger & Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stones poolside in Clearwater, Florida

1965– Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stones poolside in shades, Clearwater, Florida

1965– Brian Jones somewhere between Savannah, Georgia and Clearwater, Florida

1965– Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones poolside in shades

1965– Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones somewhere between Savannah, GA and Clearwater, FL

1965– Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones somewhere between Savannah, GA and Clearwater, FL

1965– Bill Wyman of the Rolling Stones somewhere between Savannah, GA and Clearwater, FL

FOUND: Rolling Stones site

FOUND: Rolling Stones | Cool Hunting interview

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TSY recenty received a scan of this great old Wall of death rider, along with the below note from the sender, Brian in Kansas City, MO. Anyone with knowledge of the rider, and/or this particular Wall of Death motordrome is kindly asked to chime in:

“…I am a collector of postcards and a while back I purchased a postcard of a man on a motorcycle riding in some kind of spectator show. Your article helped clarify a lot about the photo. I have attached the photo and thought maybe you have seen it before or could provide some more info.  The back of the card is particularly interesting. It reads: ‘About 1912– Later he was killed– Someone threw a peanut at him– caused him to dodge and lose balance, falling with cycle to bottom of pit killing him.’ Sounds likes sport spectators were not much different then as they are today.  I thought maybe the motorcycle may have been a Cyclone, however I don’t think it is. The lettering on his shirt may bring some clue as well…”

Back In Dec. ’09 TSY posted what remains today one of our more popular stories– Wall of Death riders with a lion, no less. I mean, really…old photos of a lion riding the Wall of Death is damn hard to beat…unless you have a video of said lion riding the Wall of Death! At that time there wasn’t a moving image to be found, but British Pathe, an amazing archive of historic film clips, uncovered a little gem of ‘Fearless Egbert’ giving his lion named Monarch a spin back in 1934. They also uncovered incredible film footage of ‘Tornado Smith’ with his Lion, ‘Briton’. It’s definitely worth a look…

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Circa 1929, Wall of Death, Revere Beach, MA

“Fearless” Egbert of Collins Famous Death Riders & his racing lion named Monarch. via

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“Fearless” Egbert taking his five year-old lion Monarch for a ride on the Wall of Death at Mitcham fair. via

Yorkshire Evening Post on September 24, 1931, Egbert & Monarch the Lion’s special relationship: 

“It is remarkable how even lions can become civilised. Three years ago, Monarch, the lion that will ride on a baby car around a wall at Woodhouse Feast, had never seen a motor-car. His grandfather roamed the jungle and his father was captured and trained to ride a horse in an American circus. Then, just over three years ago, Monarch came along, and, on seeing a baby car which is driven by ‘Fearless Egbert’ round the Wall of Death, clambered into it. When he was given a ride he enjoyed it so much he refused to get out.”

“Obviously he was destined for a motoring career, and going one better than a mere rider of horses, Monarch was gradually introduced to the thrills in a car around a vertical wall. A ledge was fixed to the side of the car, and there was never any need to coax him to sit on it. He hopped aboard as soon as he was released from his cage, and snarled and growled if the driver had any difficulty in starting.”

“Nowadays, Monarch is driven round the miniature track at speeds that would make his more sedate father gasp. If Fearless Egbert stops the car too soon, the young lion remains on the car. There are times however, when he gets a little bored, and the driver knows it is time to stop when he realises that Monarch’s head is very close to his face.”

The report adds: “The owner of Monarch (said the) lion has never been strapped on the car. He jumped on it when he was three weeks old and now has thousands of miles of motoring to his credit.”

“Like all good people who occupy the limelight, he is rather sensitive about the way the show should be run. Fearless Egbert is the only driver who is allowed to take the wheel when Monarch is about; attempts by others arouse only growls, and Monarch’s tail whisks like a whip.”

“What is more, he is troubled like other stars, about his weight. Monarch could sit in comfort on the ledge when he joined the show, but since then his cage has twice had to be enlarged. Now he weighs about 350lb and he has to park part of himself on the bonnet of the car. Still, an attempt is being made to keep his weight down. On Sundays he dispenses with beef for dinner, and has milk and eggs.”

via the Yorkshire Evening Post

Tornado Smith, the Wall of Death rider from Southend, and his wife, Marjorie Dare, having tea with their pet lion and lamb. George “Tornado” Smith brought the Wall of Death from America to England in 1929, and featured such spectacles as”Briton the Wall-riding lion” and “Gymkhana Girls and Girl Protégées” in his billing. Check out the skull-and-crossbones badge on his beret, he’s nowhere near as mild-mannered as he looks.  –Derek Berwin/Hulton Archive via

Curious tale of the Wall-of-Death hero who buried his lion sidekick outside a rustic villa:

“YOU DO KNOW that there’s a lion buried outside, in that courtyard, don’t you?” asked one of the regulars, just as I was leaving a quiet country pub.

I didn’t. It was early on a December afternoon in Boxford, Suffolk, that I accidentally stumbled upon the story of an almost-forgotten Great British eccentric, Tornado Smith, a Thirties Wall-of-Death stunt motorcyclist.

The village of Boxford is chiefly known for having hosted some good jazz concerts in recent years at the Fleece, one of its two pubs. It was, however, from its other hostelry, the White Hart, that the tale of the stunt rider and his pet lion emerged. The lion, actually a 12-stone lioness named Briton, had been part of George “Tornado” Smith’s Wall-of-Death act during the Thirties. As a cub, she had initially ridden on the handlebars of his Indian Scout motorbike. Once she was fully grown, she rode in a sidecar, while he performed daring stunts for his audiences.

Nowadays, we just don’t produce eccentrics of such calibre. George Smith was born in June 1908 in the Suffolk hamlet of Newton Green, near Boxford itself. His parents, already in the pub trade, took over the White Hart in 1921, which they ran until the early Fifties. George was a nervous child, so afraid of his teachers that his concerned mother once sought help for him. Despite this, the boy reportedly got himself into trouble, performing daredevil high-speed stunts with a soapbox cart, for which he was caned. He left school at 14, having been apprenticed to a local wheelwright.”

“He didn’t settle, however. By the age of 17, he was driving a lorry for a coal merchant. Shortly afterwards he became, variously, an AA patrolman and a taxi driver. It was during the latter job that Smith, dropping off a fare in Southend, happened upon his first Wall-of-Death. It seems to have been love at first sight. The fairground amusement had been recently imported from America. It comprised a giant drum, 20-feet high, lined with short, wooden boards around which stunt motorcyclists rode at speed, almost at 90-degree angles to the floor, their exhausts roaring and popping as they did so.

Spectators who paid to stand on a parapet surrounding the top of the drum would feel the whole structure move as they looked down upon the motorcyclists racing around below them. There were occasional injuries and tumbles although, strangely, it’s now claimed that no deaths were ever attributed to the Wall-of-Death. An equal opportunities concept from the very beginning, the stars of the Wall were just as likely to be women as men.

Having become obsessed with the idea of being a stunt rider, the young Suffolk lad began applying for jobs. He was unsuccessful, until the boss of a new Wall-of-Death, at an amusement park in Whitley Bay, near Newcastle gave him a job as a mechanic. Here he gained a chance to perfect his own act. In September 1930, aged 22, George was taken on by a touring company and made his debut as “Tornado” Smith in Malmo, Sweden.”

Circa 1936, Southend-on-Sea, England — Mr. “Tornado” Smith, a stunt motorcyclist on the Wall of Death, clips the toenails of his pet lion, Briton, at home. — Image by © Hulton-Deutsch Collection

“Upon his return to Britain, during a short run of work for Bertram Mills Circus, Tornado met the woman he would eventually marry. A pretty teenager, then working as a cosmetics sales assistant, Doris Craven fell head-over-heels for the charismatic stuntman. Slim of build, with a David Niven-style pencil moustache, he wore tortoiseshell spectacles and sported a jaunty beret. Doris, his new inamorata, a feisty young woman, wasted no time and soon learned to ride the Wall herself, settling upon the stage name Marjorie Dare. Tornado, a consummate showman, was always looking for new ways to bring customers into his shows. So it was that in 1933, he purchased Briton, the lion cub, intending to train her for his act.

Just in itself this part of the story illustrates how much circumstances have changed during recent decades. It seems impossible to believe now that anyone might have been able to easily acquire something as exotic as a lion cub. Up until as late as 1976, however, when the Dangerous Wild Animals Act was passed, almost anyone with the money to do so might have placed order via the Harrod’s department store an order via the Harrod’s department store in Knightsbridge.

A short British Pathe newsreel clip from the Thirties helps illustrate the whole incredible story. The clip opens with shots of Marjorie Dare walking a large lamb (actually almost a fully grown sheep) on a lead through a busy Southend street. Subsequent footage shows her swimming in the sea with the creature.”

“There follows footage of her husband parading his lioness around on a lead. The film ends with husband and wife alongside their lioness and lamb, all sat cheerily outdoors together, at a table sharing tea and cakes. Dubbed over the film is an unintentionally hilarious commentary, in the Cholmondley-Warner style of comedian Harry Enfield. The clip allows a window into the recent past, a world so different from our own that it seems almost Monty Pythonesque.

From a modern health and safety viewpoint, Tornado Smith’s lifestyle represents almost a perfect storm. Consider it: two motorcycle stunt-riders with little or no safety procedures, conducting performances in an unstable wooden structure into which unprotected members of the public are invited in order to view the spectacle from a parapet.

Now throw in a lioness being walked around on a lead and a sheep swimming at a public beach. There’s even more. With regard to his lioness, who was reportedly, somewhat fierce as a cub, Smith did actually have a contingency plan. In case she should ever turn on him during a performance, he always carried a loaded pistol. During their early married life, Tornado and Marjorie lived in Feltham, Middlesex, where the stunt man was frequently to be seen in the streets walking the lioness around. In the winter, the couple returned home to rural Suffolk. Here, they had set up the Wall-of-Death in the yard of his parents’ pub and performed for the locals’ amusement. Smith would take the lioness out on her morning constitutionals around the village streets.”

Circa 1949, UK — Tornado Smith helps Maureen Swift ride a motorcycle around the “Wall of Death” to promote BSA motorcycles. — Image by © Hulton-Deutsch Collection

“Sadly, Briton’s short life ended at the outset of the Second World War. A 12-stone lioness requires a fair amount of meat. With a prevailing meat shortage and what little there was now rationed by price, feeding her would have become economically unsustainable. Smith, probably short of money at this point, was left with little option but to shoot her. He buried her in the courtyard of the White Hart, where her remains have lain for more than seven decades. Smith’s glory days too, began to tail off towards the end of the Thirties.

During the war, he applied to become a fighter pilot but, rejected because of his poor eyesight, served instead in the Navy. It was during this time that his marriage to Marjorie Dare broke up.

Having heard their story, I wondered if there was anyone alive who might remember seeing Tornado perform and was fortunate enough to meet Ken Lazell, 81, himself a former motorbike enthusiast from Benfleet, Essex. ‘Tornado Smith? Of course I remember him,’ he said. ‘I’d go and watch him in Southend. The riders came so close to the top of the parapet, that you could have leaned down and touched their heads.’

Remarkably, Smith continued to entertain spectators at Southend right up until the mid-Sixties. He retired from the Wall in 1965, having spent his last years struggling somewhat. In a new era of ever more spectacular stunts conducted by formation motorcycle teams, the heyday of the Wall-of-Death artistes had passed. Tornado retired, firstly to Spain and finally to South Africa, where he died in 1971 aged 63. He’s not entirely forgotten, however. A Suffolk micro-brewery, Mill Green, not far from Boxford, recently brewed a beer commemorating the motorcycling legend.

Tornado Smith, appropriately enough, is described as ‘an eccentric pale ale’.”

via the Express