What It Was Like Being a "Garage Band" in 1964

In my graduate year at Cal State Fullerton a friend of mine (a student at Long Beach State) and I kicked around the idea of starting a band.

We were not accomplished musicians but I did know a few guitar chords and he liked playing bass. Moreover, given that the "British Invasion" mostly consisted of five-member bands we figured we were 20 percent a band already; besides, what did we have to lose?

We recruited two more guys from Long Beach State (a lead guitarist and keyboardist-lead singer) and a drummer answered our ad in the local newspaper. So, beyond our wildest expectations, within just a few months, almost magically, in the twinkling of an eye, we had become an actual band.

We called ourselves "The Syndicate" I think because we wanted to be perceived as a mafia-like family of bad guys. Nothing was further from the truth, but it sounded like a great chick magnet, so we stuck with it.

Our Assorted Cast

Bill Rash ("Animal" at his request) did the lead vocals as well as keyboards and harmonica, and by far, was the most talented (but unstable) one. Rick Cronin, lead guitarist, was a smooth Dean Martin look-a-like whose charming good looks made him our most hopeless womanizer. Bill Patapoff, bass player and vocals, was totally in it for the fun and purposed to see the experience as a means and not an end. Bob Bourbon, drummer, our youngest and most starry-eyed member, was so unreliable that he once showed up at a gig without his drumsticks. I was bandleader and rhythm guitarist with enough talent to write a song but never allowed to get close to a microphone.

Our Time in the Garage

Because there were hundreds of songs popularized by British bands containing only three chords, with minimal practice we quickly had a plethora of songs that made my dad's garage sound like (British) heaven. No, it wasn't that good (not a first), but in a closed garage with Fender amps cranked up to ten, to a bunch of wide-eyed guys looking for satisfaction it was phenomenal.

Our Early Gigs

Finding somewhere to play was easy. We had college fraternities, college, junior college and high school campuses, wedding receptions, local hangouts; you name it. Hey, in 1964-65, given our culture's mania with the Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Who and Zombies, if you had a breath and sounded half-recognizable, you got hired in one of a thousand places in Los Angeles or Orange County.

Our Trip to Hollywood

It was because of a friend of a friend that we first recorded in Hollywood. We were only hired to record a song she had written in what was, a small and modest studio on Melrose. But to us, going into a real Hollywood recording studio was like partying with Mick Jagger. Of course, we had no way of knowing that it wouldn't be the last time.

Our Fifteen Minutes

The recording engineer that day was a Hollywood local named Darwin Lamm who elected to produce us. He got our first two songs "Love Will Not Take Away" and "My Baby's Barefoot" released by Dore Records and later "She Haunts You" and "The Egyptian Thing" released by Dot Records. Consequently, he got us some airtime on local radio, several television appearances, and a few gigs on Sunset Boulevard (we actually met the "Byrds"). What can I say? We loved it and were ready to suck it up eight days a week.

Our Two-Year Ride

It's strange that many trivial memories created inside a two-year period can endure; but they do. The vintage microphone borrowed from my uncle to get us started; my brother's van with "The Syndicate" painted on its side we sometimes used for "dramatic" appearances; the self-appointed "equipment manager" who longed only to take part in the event; the time we performed unplugged to avoid getting cited for disturbing the peace; the outdoor concert at a car dealership where the night air kept us perpetually out of tune; the time we played on a stage the size of Texas and were unable to hear each other well enough to keep beat.

We never became stars other than to those who know us. Our records never sold more than maybe two hundred copies. But we did sign autographs for neighborhood children, were asked regularly by girls for our guitar picks, did mingle with some genuine celebrities, often got pointed out on campus, and never lacked for a date. It was wonderful.

Nonetheless, it all ended; almost without notice. Perhaps it was because celebrity eluded us, or that our niche became less requested, or that we were individually diverse, with separate goals and ambitions, and simply ready to move on with life. Whatever the reason, we went out in a whimper; in 1966 The Syndicate truly did, just fade away.

There has been little to no contact between the guys since, and I honestly don't know, with the exception of one, where they are today. I can only hope they are well.

Would I do it again? Yes, but I wouldn't wind the clock back to 1964 and purposely relive those days. It was what it was. A star, albeit small and insignificant and with little redeeming value, that for one brief moment in time was a thrill to ride.