NOW THERE WAS a
"we" and we were getting loud and about to get louder. In short
order, a second guitarist (Davey Gonzales) who played a mid-60's Fender Stratocaster
with his teeth and used a beer bottle to play slide on "Sleepwalk"
was added, and the acoustic guitars were traded in for borrowed electric guitars.
The top was coming down for our trip down Whittier
Boulevard, as nobody copped Thee Midnighters better than Davey.
Next, a bass was
suggested by our soon to be bass player (Bruce Lopez) as![](images_history/chapter_1/bruce_thum.jpg)
he sauntered past a rehearsal session -- "Hey don't you guys need a bass?"
Hmm, I suppose we do, have you got one? Can you play it? Well then you're
in". Bruce was an integral student (an accelerated program of serious
Classical study) given to serious thought and the chase of hippie chicks,
who paradoxically featured himself a regular U.S. Male -- a prodigious babe
magnet. Mr. Lucky in motorcycle boots. Bruce promptly joined, shared his magic
and played bass at every Glass Pack show from Day One until we broke up as
a regular touring road show in 1976.
On our way to Day
One, we encountered a small problem, logical when you think back on it --
How do you amplify ten voices to be heard over the racket of drums and electric
guitars and bass? We have no money, we own nothing -- no amps, no cables,
no cords, no microphones, no mic stands, no P.A. system, no monitors (never
even heard of monitors), no mixing board; not even a fuse to our name. Certain
things are just meant to be, however, and disaster was averted when a sound man
appeared -- classmate Jim Dougherty, a chip off the old genetic block of his
father, a NASA engineer then working on the wiring of a communications system
for a top-secret space mission. Jim came to the rescue with a roll of electric
tape, a pair of wire cutters, a variety of stereo speakers, multiple hi-fi
components, and a 2001 Space Odyssey (or was it Clockwork Orange?) Hal-like
machine that magically opened the sound gates of Hell and wired the soon to
be Glass Packs for an outdoor amphitheatre stage. It is difficult to say who
had the more troublesome job, Jim or his father.
The
troupe was growing and the excitement building, as Day One kept getting postponed
due to rain, a true act of God that forced us to keep rehearsing. We added
more singers (notably Dennis Krueger, rumored to have a metal plate in his
head that would overheat when exposed to electrical surges causing him to
forget lyrics and feed back the sound system) and dancers to form the pieces
of a clock for "Rock Around the Clock", our opening number. To inject
the aura of Blackboard
Jungle realism, we engaged the services of a "security" escort
of a dozen City boy Catholic School thugs known as "The Family"
to hassle the crowd - in a good way. "Just be yourselves", was all
we asked of them. Meanwhile, Julio (remember Julio? - he caught the first
pitch) was finally able to convince three freshman coeds clearly cut out for
this kind of work, later to be known as the Whackettes (Teri Godfrey, Teri
Aguilar and Kerry O'Hara), to rat their hair, paint their lips, shake, shimmy
and
join the fun.
The last aboard
the yet unnamed ship of fools for this maiden voyage was that cool breeze
from Pacific Palisades, Mr. Southern California with the surfboard racks ironically
stuck atop his Dad's white '68 Chevy II Nova (nice Woodie),
the Gillis Beach Boy in pro personia, Walter Christian Quinn, Jr. -- the Mighty
Quinn. Mighty because Wally didn't just sing, he belted; a frightening sight
to behold as he roared "Sea Cruise" like a male Ethel Merman, and
twisted and tortured the lyrics to "Guided
Missiles" (an undeservedly obscure Doo Wop B side nod to Sputnik,
ICBM and the Cold War) into chards of broken heart while the background singers
chimed "Zoooom" behind him. Uncle Walty, gone now from the current
group, but not forgotten, flew every Glass Pack mission over the coming five
years.
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