The East Bay Sounded Like This ...

PART I

The Doobie Brothers, Santana, Starship, the Neighborhoods, and the Nimitz (17)

Fremont | Niles | Union City | Hayward | San Leandro | Oakland

The walls of my Studio are shaking!

The Doobie Brothers are cranked up loud, the way I like it. It’s the kind of loud that helps me find every memory possible in a space I love, then starts shaking the Fremont out of me.

Then “China Grove” hits.

That opening hits just right.

Hard.

Immediate.

Alive.

I have heard that song across my life and the effect remains. The riff arrives. My spirit rises.

Then comes that bridge.

Epic.

Tom Johnston.

Perfect.

Every time.

The Studio fades into the background.

Bullard Street stands on deck.

I’m a boy again.

A transistor radio blaring with distortion.

Fremont outside.

The East Bay younger.

The Doobie Brothers belong to us.

Bay Area band.

That mattered more than I knew.

Famous people came from distances in a boy’s imagination.

New York.

Detroit.

Memphis.

Los Angeles.

London.

Liverpool.

Places carrying enough mythology to feel almost fictional.

Then the East Bay started arguing with that idea.

I was four when my Dad and I met Kenny Stabler and Fred Biletnikoff at the Fremont Hub.

We had eaten at H. Salt Esq. Fish & Chips, my favorite, and were heading toward Montgomery Ward when my Dad saw them.

Oakland Raiders.

In my Fremont.

My Dad walked over and introduced me as one of their biggest fans.

They knelt down, shook my hand, and thanked me for supporting them and the team. Then they told me they had been little once too. They had started with dreams, and they believed anything I dreamed could come true just as it had for them.

At four … you receive words like that as law.

Then they had to go.

They were looking for their coach.

John Madden.

That happened here.

The larger world could step out of a boy’s imagination and kneel down in front of him at the Fremont Hub.

Then the Doobie Brothers gave me another version of the same lesson.

The Bay Area made sound big enough to travel everywhere, and never leave.

The Doobie Brothers came from our part of California.

Their music played everywhere.

Rock and roll traveled with us.

Kitchen counters.

Workbenches.

Burger joints blared that great sound .

Cars.

Garages.

Front yards.

Driveways.

Somebody washing a car. Somebody cutting grass. Somebody repairing something.

The seventies opened up loud, stable and very much in control of the sound America loved.

Guitars got bigger.

Drums got louder.

California rock had muscle.

The Bay had its own sound, attitude, and smooth swagger.

The Doobie Brothers carried all of it straight to the Bay.

“China Grove” became one of my favorites.

Air guitar remained the superior instrument because technique could remain entirely theoretical.

I was disproportionately amazing.

Just ask me.

The neighborhood had simply failed to recognize the scale of what was happening.

So I helped.

Mom’s transistor radio went outside.

Bullard Street became an audience.

Our front yard was my stage.

Then another boy showed up.

That changed everything.

One boy with a radio is enjoying music.

Two boys possess the beginnings of a band.

Three boys.

Four.

Then we recruited a fifth.

Soon … we  were the greatest, self declared,  rock air band of Bullard Street.

Musical ability carried limited influence over personnel decisions.

We were so grateful we played by air, not technique.

Yet.

Mama’s Folgers coffee cans became drums. Really.

Household items were pirated.

Bikes stood close by because every serious rock band requires transportation.

We played.

We performed.

We rocked!

We became famous inside a very concentrated market.

The music gave us permission.

The Doobie Brothers sounded enormous.

We were validated.

Knowing they came from here changed the scale of our world.

We were supremely confident that greatness began at home.

Fremont was about to be proud.

The East Bay became larger than ever.

My own imagination kicked in.

Danger entered the room.

At scale.

By 1981, I was twelve.

The Argus had been part of our household for years.

Now I was delivering it.

My new Walkman put the music directly inside my head.

Many mornings began before Fremont finished sleeping.

Fresh newsprint.

Ink.

Paper dust on my hands.

On my face.

Heavy canvas bags.

Cold air.

Fog.

Porch lights glowing in gray fog.

Mission Peak somewhere beyond visibility.

A bike under me.

Work ahead.

And … the Doobie Brothers playing.

Motivating me.

Inspiring me.

They rocked with me and … The Argus.

That sentence still makes me smile.

There I was, riding through early morning Fremont, balancing those newspaper bags, making every turn count, carrying papers to front doors while the Doobies supplied the soundtrack of my life.

“China Grove.”

“Listen to the Music.”

“Rockin’ Down the Highway.”

"Take Me In Your Arms (Rock Me a Little While)"

"It Keeps You Runnin'"

Those songs … gave me extra motion.

My Mongoose was already fast.

Add the Doobie Brothers soundtrack and the engineering improved considerably.

The bags pulled from front and back.

The tires moved through wet pavement.

My hands knew the route.

My body knew the turns.

The music led me forward.

Homes.

Porches.

Papers.

Pedals.

Turns.

Next house.

I cared where the paper landed.

One to two feet from the door.

Rain brought another standard.

Tie the paper to the handle.

Keep it dry.

Handle the route responsibly.

Build the customer list.

Earn the money.

Earn trust.

People knew my name.

I liked that.

The boy heard rock and roll while learning discipline.

He felt freedom while carrying responsibility.

He moved through Fremont before sunrise while the music made the whole place feel larger than the map.

Years later, I understood the combination.

Work and music.

Movement and identity.

Home and possibility.

The Doobie Brothers gave the mornings rhythm.

The Argus gave the mornings purpose.

Fremont gave both of them a place to live.

Then life widened.

The bike became a car.

Bullard Street became a starting point for longer roads.

The East Bay opened farther.

Oakland.

San Leandro.

Hayward.

San Jose.

San Francisco.

The Nimitz, Highway 17.

People call it 880 now.

Fine.

My memory has its own highway department.

It will forever be the 17 Nimitz.

Night driving.

Bay Area lights..

Industrial buildings.

Green signs.

Cars running north and south through the Bay.

The radio loud.

Then one song came into its natural environment.

“Rockin’ Down the Highway.”

Some songs just require room.

Some require headphones.

That one wants asphalt.

It wants speed.

It wants road under you and somewhere ahead worth reaching.

I knew exactly where I was reaching.

Home.

Fremont.

Bullard Street.

The East Bay sounded different once I began driving through it myself.

The boy who had played rock star in the front yard now had wheels, gas, open roads, and miles.

The music had grown with me.

Then, late at night, another part of the East Bay entered the car.

Breathing in the East Bay air.

Fresh baked bread.

Impossible to ignore.

Kilpatrick’s.

That aroma reached the road and took over everything.

Mind bending!

The green sign.

The bakery.

The bread.

The Nimitz.

The music.

All of it arriving at once.

I knew that fragrant awesomeness long before I understood what memory was preparing to do.

Sound came first.

Aroma followed me home.

And home … was Fremont.