THE CLOUDS (WHEN THAT WAY)
The 1965 Hollywood Teen Fair was electric — the year Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss of A&M Records discovered Captain Beefheart and signed him on the spot. I was there, tagging along as a roadie with the Magic Band. Their first single, Diddy Wah Diddy, was the same version I’d first heard blaring from Rohr’s Music Box.
Among the new wave of local talent was a family that seemed straight out of a wholesome TV show — the Martinkovics. Paul, the eldest, played lead guitar with fierce precision; his younger brother John held down the bass. Together, they practiced two to four hours a day, every day, forming their new group, The Telstars.
Paul was a perfectionist. I’d watch him play Foxy Lady by Jimi Hendrix over and over — fifty times if it took that long — until every bend and squeal matched the record. The grooves on the vinyl turned white from the repetition. He wouldn’t move on until it was flawless.
Their father, Air Force Warrant Officer Martinkovic, was stationed at Edwards Air Force Base, working as assistant director on the secretive YF-12 project. Their home life reflected both discipline and warmth — Mrs. Martinkovic, the heart of the family, loved to host backyard BBQs for engineers and officers, always urging the boys to play a few songs for the guests.
At one of those gatherings, an engineer from nearby Rosamond invited the boys to play a dance for the eighth-grade class. They were only fourteen, but ready for their first real gig. They just needed a drummer and rhythm guitarist.
At Antelope Valley High, Paul and I met as freshmen. John was still in junior high. We bonded instantly — two kids obsessed with music. We’d been fans of Merrell and the Exiles, who were playing a lunchtime concert that day. As the cafeteria filled and girls screamed like it was Beatlemania, I could feel the spark.
Later, sitting at lunch, Paul and I dove deep into shop talk while everyone else drifted away. He told me about his Fender — one of two his father had bought for him and John — and how he’d tried out Merrell’s custom Les Paul but found it didn’t fit his style. He joked that to pay his father back, he needed to start booking gigs. I mentioned that I sang and wanted to record someday. Paul looked at me and said, “You’ve got to be really good to cut a record. Even a little one.”
That night, he invited me to band practice. I showed up at 3:30, met his mom, his brother, their drummer Joe Guzman, and a second guitarist whose name has faded from memory. The Telstars logo was painted proudly on Joe’s bass drum, and their Standell sound system gleamed. The motto said it all: “Sound so clear, you can hear through it.”
Their setlist was a mix of hits and heart — The Loco-Motion, Summertime Blues, Harlem Shuffle, Farmer John, Hound Dog, and more. It was fall 1963, just before the Beatles appeared on the Jack Paar Show and turned the world upside down.
I’d never seen such disciplined rehearsal. Every song was run three times, no shortcuts. Their playlist topped fifty tunes. After a few weeks, Paul asked if I wanted to sing a couple at the Rosamond dance. I nearly jumped out of my seat.
That night — my first time performing with a live band — I arrived early to help set up. Donna Balentine, a junior I quietly adored, was waiting by the door. I carried mic stands and cables, trying to act calm while my heart raced.
By 7:45, the room was full. My mother, one of the chaperones, would be hearing me sing live for the first time. The Telstars kept the crowd moving, and when Paul announced a “special guest singer,” my knees almost buckled.
Then came the count-off: 1-2-3-4. The band tore into Money (That’s What I Want). My first notes were shaky, but the energy in that room carried me. Kids danced, shouted, and sang along. I was hooked.
From then on, I sang a few songs with the Telstars — later renamed The Clouds — at nearly every performance for the next five years. My final numbers with them were Slow Down by the Beatles and She’s Looking Good by Roger Collins.
By early 1969, I wanted us to play the Hollywood Teen Fair. The Martinkovics weren’t interested; they felt the band wasn’t ready. So I asked for one last favor — to help me record a demo: Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing by Buffalo Springfield.
It would be our last session together. Paul was heading for the Air Force, John was hanging up his bass, and I was starting college at Antelope Valley.
When I brought the tape to A&M Records in Hollywood, disaster struck — the recording had bleed-through, unplayable except on the original machine. As the warped sound filled the room, I sat there wishing I could disappear.
Still, the dream didn’t die. A few weeks later, Paul called — he had tickets to see the Yardbirds with Jeff Beck and B.B. King at the Shrine Auditorium, backstage passes included.
We went, wide-eyed and smiling, standing just a few feet from legends. For a couple of kids from the desert, it felt like the clouds had opened, and the music we loved had carried us there.
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