PLEASE BE MIND
A Desert Boy, a Drumbeat, and the Birth of a Music Life
The desert has a way of holding sound. Out there in the Antelope Valley, the wind carried everything — the howl of a coyote, the rumble of a passing train, and, if you stood still long enough, the faint echo of dreams waiting to be discovered.
During the years my older brother Billy served in the Marine Corps, I was just stepping into junior high school. I still had my drumsticks — always tapping, always searching — but I was hungry for something bigger, something I couldn’t quite name yet. Then came the Antelope Valley Fair, the biggest spectacle for miles, a beacon in the wide-open sand that promised lights, noise, and a little taste of the world beyond Rosamond.
That year I stumbled into my very first Battle of the Bands. And that day changed me.
Merrell and the Exiles: The Desert’s First Rock Stars
Most of the groups were kids trying to find a rhythm. But one band didn’t need to try. Merrell and the Exiles walked onto that stage like they already knew they belonged on record sleeves and radio waves. Sharp jackets. New guitars. Amplifiers that growled like desert thunder. When the lead singer thanked the crowd for buying their single “Please Be Mind,” the place erupted.
Then they hit the first chord.
I knew the song instantly — I’d heard it on the radio without knowing it belonged to boys from our own towns. The girls in the audience rushed the stage like a wave, and the sheriff’s deputies had to push them back. Not that the band cared. They never missed a beat.
Their sound was a fresh blend — a little country, a little R&B, a little rock ’n’ roll, and something desert-born and brand new. There were sparks of Chuck Berry, the fire of Little Richard, the ache of Patsy Cline, the polish of Ricky Nelson. And this was before the Beatles conquered America. These boys were ahead of the curve.
By the end of summer, “Please Be Mind” was climbing charts throughout the Southwest, spinning on KRLA out of Pasadena and KOMA in Tulsa — both 50,000-watt giants that reached states away. For a kid from Rosamond, the idea that our desert could touch the whole country felt impossible… and yet there it was, humming through the night on AM radio.
That seed stayed with me.
Finding My Beat
Back then Rosamond didn’t have its own high school, so I traveled to Antelope Valley High in Lancaster. Freshman year hit me like a cold gust. I didn’t really fit in — not with the white kids, not even with the handful of Black kids. I was caught somewhere in between.
The one bright spot was Katie Johnson.
Katie played clarinet. Two years older, graceful, talented, and sharp as a tack. I’d known her since elementary school, back when she and her friend Rose loved teasing me — and when she once beat me in a scuffle so cleanly it took the embarrassment right out of me. Years later, we both landed in the AV High marching band, older, wiser, laughing about the past.
Katie had blossomed into a young woman whose smile could soften the worst day. We stayed after school talking about music, life, and her dreams. One day she told me she’d be getting married after graduation and moving to Los Angeles.
My heart sank before I understood why. I’d fallen for her quietly, in the small spaces between our conversations.
She became the first girl ever to kiss me. It was soft, unexpected, and it stayed with me for decades like a melody that refuses to fade.
Her death — sudden, senseless, and so soon after moving to Los Angeles — hit me like a blow I wasn’t ready for. The kind you feel in your ribs years later. It took me twenty years before I could write a song for her. The refrain still plays in my head:
“Oh, Katie… there’s a beat in my heart for you.”
And there always will be.
Learning the Craft
Music kept me going. It held me steady when the rest of life felt off-tempo.
Through the school’s music department, I met John Parr, an older drummer who became the closest thing to a mentor I’d ever known. John taught me rudiments, stick control, coordination — the ABCs of every great drummer. He gave me technique, but more than that, he gave me confidence. His sudden death by suicide shook everyone who knew him, but the lessons he gave me stayed in my hands, in my wrists, in my heart.
Sophomore year brought a wild discovery: one of my classmates was the sister of Merrell Fankhauser — yes, that Merrell. She told me her brother had recorded an early surf-rock album called “Wipe Out” with his band The Impacts — before the Surfaris’ famous version ever hit the charts.
I didn’t believe her. Not until I found a dusty LP in the bargain bin at Woolworth’s. There it was: The Impacts. Del-Fi Records. Surf guitars blazing. And Merrell’s name on the label.
That little vinyl treasure was like a spark in dry sagebrush. It lit a fire in me that refused to go out.
Glenn Records: My Real Classroom
Soon after, I hitchhiked to Palmdale to meet Glenn MacArthur, founder of Glenn Records, whose garage doubled as a full-blown recording studio. Glenn welcomed me in and walked me through everything:
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a homemade mixing board,
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a 3M two-track reel-to-reel,
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and an isolation booth made from the cockpit of an F-105 jet.
You read that right — an actual jet cockpit.
Glenn had worked with giants:
James Burton, Elvis’s legendary guitarist.
Dolly Parton, before the world crowned her queen.
George Weston, a Bakersfield pioneer.
He spoke of the Bakersfield Sound — Buck Owens, Merle Haggard — a bold style that blended honky-tonk grit with the electricity of rock. To Glenn, music wasn’t just notes and microphones. It was a living thing, part of a lineage stretching from dusty bars to bright Hollywood stages.
That afternoon in his studio — touching the gear, smelling the reels, hearing the stories — that was my true education. School didn’t teach me half as much.
From Desert Sand to Radio Waves
Soon I found myself assisting in one of Merrell’s sessions — a track called “Send Me Your Love.” Everything was cut live. No overdubs, no second chances. The kind of recording where the room breathes with the musicians.
Glenn taught us a trick I still use today:
tune the kick drum to a low B-flat so it punches through the mix just right.
Merrell and the Exiles were taking off — signing deals with Golden Crown Records, landing spots on American Bandstand, getting airplay beyond anything our little desert towns had ever dreamed of. When their single “Tomorrow’s Girl” premiered on Dick Clark’s show, you could hear people talking about it from Rosamond to Mojave.
By 1965, Rosamond finally had its own high school, and I returned for my junior year. No car, no license — but I had purpose. My pocket held drumsticks. My mind held Glenn’s lessons. My heart held memories of Katie and John.
And with that mix of loss, love, and ambition stirring inside me, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I started my own band.
Right there, in the desert that raised me.
Right there, with borrowed instruments and big dreams.
Right there, where music had already shown me its power.
That moment became the doorway to everything that followed —
a life of rhythm, recording, and the belief that even a kid from a dusty town can climb onto the airwaves and send a sound into the world.
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