Following Breadcrumbs: Tales of a Rock and Roll Girl Child

By Jamie Johnston

As an LA tween in the mid-1960s, Jamie Johnston—free-spirited, fiercely independent Hollywood brat and daughter of ’40s/’50s actor-singer Johnny Johnston (“Rock Around the Clock”)—had two significant events forever frozen in her mind.

The first of these memories she would share with millions—the era-defining appearance of the Beatles on Ed Sullivan in 1964. The second memory, however, was much more intimate. It was a bright summer’s day in 1966 when she stood rapt, watching one of the undisputed kings of the Sunset Strip, the Byrds’ Gene Clark, coolly entering the legendary Whisky a Go Go.

Little did Jamie know that a mere nine years after having her life changed by the Fab Four, her female duo, the Skiffles, would be signed to a record deal with Beatles producer, George Martin, or that twenty years hence, she would embark upon a passionate affair with the ill-fated ex-Byrd Clark, who died at the age of forty-six in 1991.

What begins as an up-close-and-personal commentary of an era that changed the world, with many of its famous players traversing through the pages, evolves into a tragic love story.

Praise for Following Breadcrumbs

“Following Breadcrumbs is a tell-all rock-and-roll memoir with a conscience” (Tom Sandford, the Clarkophile Blog, Toronto, Canada).

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532029271

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 Jamie Johnston.

Cover Credit: Laura N. Hoover

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2926-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2927-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017911820

iUniverse rev. date: 04/03/2019

Contents

INTRO

Chapter 1 there’s a world where I can go and tell my secrets to….

Chapter 2 so you want to be a rock ’n’ roll star….

Chapter 3 stop—hey, what’s that sound?….

Chapter 4 rebel, rebel—how could they know?

Chapter 5 time it was, and what a time it was, it was…

Chapter 6 lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy

Chapter 7 how does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

Chapter 8 and now it’s only fair that I should let you know….

Chapter 9 if you’re going to San Francisco….

Chapter 10 this is the end—my only friend, the end

Chapter 11 hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me

Chapter 12 they’ve given you a number, but taken away your name

Chapter 13 bend me, shape me, any way you want me….

Chapter 14 meanwhile, your fire is burning here

Chapter 15 power to the people, right on

Chapter 16 you know something’s happening but you don’t know what it is….

Chapter 17 let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s learnin’ how….

Chapter 18 do you believe in magic…?

Chapter 19 so happy together….

Chapter 20 I am the god of hell fire, and I bring you…..

Chapter 21 I‘m gonna leave this city, got to get away

Chapter 22 remember, life is never as it seems—dream

Chapter 23 to everything, turn, turn turn—there is a season….

FADE OUT (2011)

CODA (2016)

FINALE (two tickets to Paradise…)

LINER NOTES

NOTATIONS

RECORDS *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

‘Following Breadcrumbs’ refers to the process by which any of us who have followed a dream, will look to those who have traveled that path before. Then, if we are fortunate enough to have achieved that dream, and then experience a great fall from grace—we may spend the rest of our lives following our own breadcrumbs, trying to re-create in some form, the circumstances that brought us to that first triumph.

Most of us never find it again.

For Gene and Don

INTRO

I don’t know what happened. This started out as a coming of age story and here it ends up practically a goddamn love story for the ages. I didn’t want to write this kind of stuff. There are so many writers who do it better. My forte is pop culture—pop music, anything that goes pop, except maybe the Boston Pops.

I mean, I was a Hollywood movie star brat and a rock and roll girl child growing up in Los Angeles, the film and music industry’s ground zero. Surely there would be enough crazy stories of 6 degrees of separation to fill a tome on that. I didn’t need to get all hearts and flowers on everybody, did I? Just because I happened to fall in love with a few people—all of whom left indelible marks etched forever onto my heart and soul, two of whom happened to die on me, leaving me here to stew in my own haunted puddle of regrets and shoulda couldas.

But alas, at the risk of sounding sexist, that’s what happens when you mix rock music and females, it can get emotional. I am a prime example. Even at my most jaded and cynical, I would cry at Lassie movies. E.T., phone home? Oh, I’m a goner every time. And play me the Bookends Theme from Simon and Garfunkel and I’m ready for the straitjacket. Seriously.

There are those in my life that will find some of what lies herein as quite a shock. Sorry about that. But I’ve always been a truth junkie, this isn’t new. I’ve never suffered phonies or bull shitters well, least of all when I bullshitted myself, so I just had to back up and stop. It was time to face whatever demons lay in wait for me, the ones barely visible out of the corner of my eye, slithering silently, just under the surface of my awareness. Indeed, I have the Scorpio affliction of compartmentalizing parts of myself so that one part doesn’t recognize the other. I can harbor a secret obviously—or at least hide it long enough till it wears out its welcome on my psyche and bores a hole into me so deep, I pour out onto the floor like a Salvador Dali painting. That is apparently what happened to me in the summer of 2011. I had a bit of a meltdown you could say. A bit.

So now I’m taking myself to a cheap alternative to psychotherapy. It’s called writing one’s proverbial memoirs. Nobody but me can get myself out of the hole I’m in, except maybe my dog and that’s only because he digs faster than I can. There is also the age old question of: who is the Cosmic Ranger and what does he want from me? You can call him by many names—God; the Great Spirit; the Chairman, perhaps; or even the Karmic Jester (that’s what Dylan would call him). But he will follow your ass to the ends of time until you learn your lesson, that much I know. I just haven’t found out what the lesson is.

1

there’s a world where I can go and tell my secrets to….

It is surely significant that the first date I can conjure in my childhood’s mind is 1960. That would make me around seven, just about the Age of Reasoning. Even my first LP record, Around the World with the Chipmunks and David Seville came out in 1960. Though I was born in the ‘50s, I was spared any vivid recollection of them—with the exception of Dick Clark and American Bandstand. A telltale staple of my childhood viewing much to my grandmother’s dismay, it said a lot about me as a pre-school age child, sitting on the floor in my sleepers rocking back and forth to that primal rhythm. A premonition if you will, of things to come.

I will say that it is obvious to anyone who has ever gotten to know me in the slightest, that music is my frame of reference for everything. I tend to talk in song lyrics and pop music parables. It’s a habit I don’t remember beginning and there seems to be no end. Music has always been both my salvation and my hell on earth. I have afforded it that much power over me. One of the first things my 6-year-old ears remembers hearing in the ethers, was older school-age children singing whistle while you work, Nixon is a jerk. I learned that Kennedy, he of the youth and ‘vigah’ was good, and that Nixon, he of the shifty eyebrows and five o’clock shadow, was bad. Those snippets of early indoctrination weren’t lost on me. Perhaps lifelong card-carrying liberals are born into a different kind of awareness. Whereas some sorts of people shut the windows and pull down the shades to a gathering storm, preferring the safe unquestioning mindset of the status quo, some are almost predestined to throw them wide open and invite the tornado in to tea. I was one of those.

My mother has said that I was always rooting for the underdog, always marching for a cause. That’s good to know because I was conveniently blessed with being born into an era that had plenty of causes to go around. Like so many of the younger baby boomers, my first clear memory of any historical reference being the Kennedy assassination (I think I missed the Cuban missile crisis), it wasn’t difficult to grow up with a healthy distrust of the government and believing everything was a conspiracy. It is no wonder many in my generation are paranoid. Some of us even grew up to create TV shows like The X-Files.

For the most part, music that made it to the radio at the end of the ’50s consisted of the hit factory out of Philadelphia (conveniently where Bandstand originated from), and the Brill Building in New York. Occasionally, a really choice R & B record would rear its fine colored head inside so much white bread fodder, but it was pretty rare before Elvis went into the Army. Those early rock and roll pioneers of color, like Chuck Berry, Fats Domino and Little Richard, still had not been able to break down the barriers of race that divided this country. They may have had hit records, but they still had to enter through the back door. Though something astounding happened at the dawn of the ’60s and a guy in Detroit by the name of Berry Gordy, heralded a major cultural shift. He decided to merge two record labels that he had started; one in 1959 called Tamla Records and the other in 1960—Motown Records. It then became merely, Motown, and it was a massive game changer. Not only would it influence American teenagers (including honorary teenager, Dick Clark), to no longer think of music done by black artists as ‘race records’, but those early Motown recordings, along with those of Phil Spector’s girl groups, would travel across the ocean to England, and one day add to the simmering soup that would bring pop culture to a boil.

There was a short period of time between 1961 and ’63, where I became aware of the folk music scene. Summer camp counselors had us around the campfire singing Peter, Paul and Mary songs (which I didn’t know at the time were folk standards updated or more accurately, watered down to protect the innocent from the more left-leaning sentiments of their authors). And though the name Bob Dylan hadn’t yet crept into my daily vocabulary and awareness, he was there nonetheless.

Simultaneously, outside the coffee house scenes of Hollywood and Venice Beach, life in Southern California in the early ’60s was everything the Beach Blanket Bingo promotional machine would have you believe. It was a young, money-to-burn, carefree-in-the-sun, hot rod and surf music world. Our rooms had yet to smell of incense and grass but of model car glue, Coppertone and Kool Aid (which, as any red-blooded American kid would know, was best eaten as raw powder out of the packet, turning one’s hand into a palette of bright colors). T-shirts were white and logo-less, and we wore ugly plaid Madras shorts with deck shoes. I wasn’t old enough to get down to the beach where it was all happening, but with instrumental mood enhancers like Pipeline saturating the radio airwaves, the surfing seed was planted in me where it would unexpectedly sprout some 30 years later, taking me back to those summer days of my youth.

When The Beach Boys happened, there was nothing that came even close. The Four Freshman and others of that vocalizing ilk never sang about life in a sunny paradise, where real estate was the primmest in the country, the roads were open wide and dreams were being forged every day by hapless hordes who had all come West to become rich and famous. It was all up for grabs then and despite the blanket of smog that covered L.A. before catalytic converters became the norm, The Beach Boys made the California Dream absolutely gorgeous. Many hours were spent lying on the hardwood floor of my room, my head stationed between the two speakers of my new stereophonic record player that folded up into a carrying case, learning the kind of harmonies that only a tormented genius from Hawthorne, California could have thought up. The Beach Boys, at least in my life, were setting the stage for something totally earth shattering, something so incredible in the History of the World, it can’t even be accurately described. The feeling in the air, almost a vibration that, like exceptional dogs, only a chosen few could hear. It permeated every moment of every day leading up to that first night of the Ed Sullivan Show on Feb. 9, 1964 when we saw The Beatles for the first time. Like homing pigeons, we all knew where to be that night. That cultural shift was as momentous for us as it was for our elders who had watched a widow following a rider-less horse and a flag-draped casket only three months earlier. For us—it was that cataclysmic. We would never be the same.

2

so you want to be a rock ’n’ roll star….

Little Jewish girls from Beverly Hills with movie star fathers and socialite real estate agent mothers, weren’t supposed to grow up to be rock and roll musicians— but that’s what happened. It was okay for other Beverly Hills brats to become pop stars, as it was for Dino, Desi and Billy, two collectively the sons of Dean Martin and Desi Arnaz. Or for Gary Lewis (& the Playboys), son of Jerry Lewis. But not for me. Not for this daughter.

My father was Johnny Johnston, a Missouri-born blond dimple-chinned gorgeous crooner who had the distinction of playing a guitar when all the other crooners of the late ’40s and early ’50s basically stood implanted in front of a microphone. He was nominated for a Tony in 1951 for his role in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn on Broadway with Shirley Booth, and was under contract to MGM and Paramount, where he made a dozen or so pictures from 1942 to 1955, like 1947’s This Time For Keeps with Esther Williams and Jimmy Durante. It was during that picture that he met and started wooing MGM star Kathryn Grayson (Showboat), who eventually became his second wife. Kathryn was making It Happened In Brooklyn at the time and Dad had enlisted Durante (who somehow was in both pictures) to be his messenger boy, carrying love notes back and forth between the two sets. This infuriated one of the heads of the studio, who was in love with Kathryn and so, just like that, Dad was suddenly let out of his Metro contract.

My mother told me a fascinating but tragic story of how the role of Julie La Verne in Showboat was originally given to Lena Horne, but because of 1951’s now antiquated Production Code (which wouldn’t allow interracial couples to be shown on the screen), the part was given to her friend Ava Gardner. Lena was heartbroken but so was Ava, who really didn’t want to take the role away from Lena.

My mother had a wealth of stories such as this and should have written her own book.

My Dad recorded a slew of songs that he popularized such as Old Black Magic and Laura (which reached Number 5 on the charts in 1945). He could have introduced the song Unchained Melody (from the movie Unchained, in which he played a piano playing convict), which was later to become a huge hit in my era by The Righteous Brothers. But Dad decided that since Sinatra didn’t sing in From Here To Eternity, neither would he sing in his picture!

One day I would discover I inherited that propensity toward self-sabotage in my own career. Not only that, I would attract and be attracted to other people that did the exact same thing .

I find it to be yet another irony in my life that my father had the starring role in one of the first quintessential rock and roll movies, Rock Around The Clock and that he hated rock and roll and never let me forget it. I have the lobby poster from that movie and my Dad’s picture and name are prominently displayed on it. In the 1956 film, he played the pipe-smoking promoter who ‘discovers’ Bill Haley. He also delivered the very first lines of dialogue in the picture.

My mother Shirley was a gorgeous brunette from Miami, who at barely seventeen, met the producer Joe Pasternak in New York while she was attending the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. He gave her the clichéd "I’m going to make you