"I can't get no...I can't get no...I can't get no..."

The memories behind the songs.

If you lived through the 60s like me, the title of this post must be a dead giveaway.

It’s 1965. The British invasion is well underway, and through the radio waves comes that distinctive Gibson Fuzzbox guitar riff that every high school band tries to duplicate, including mine. “Satisfaction,” by The Rolling Stones, becomes that band’s first Number 1 hit in America.

A short detour here. Last week I launched a series of posts I’m planning that will combine music with memories and history, and I asked readers to participate by sending me your special musical memories.

A dear friend, Wendy, obliged. Here’s what she sent:

“Love this and the way you talked about your big, wonderful musical home. What a blessing to take with you into this decade of our lives. So much fun…with the band practicing in your garage. I was always a groupie! And the Beatles! I think they were the highlight of our musical journey in high school, or at least that is how I remember it!”

Thanks, Wendy. More comments to come. With all the difficulties facing our nation today, hopefully one place we can all go to smile again is our memories and the music that defined, or still defines us. The latest Beatles album. The soundtrack to a favorite movie, like “The Sound of Music,” or “Fiddler on the Roof.” Maybe a classical piece.

Or for Karen and me, “The Wedding Song,” by Noel Paul Stookey (Peter, Paul & Mary"), which a college friend played live at our outdoor wedding one beautiful afternoon in June.

“Music can change the world.” - Ludwig van Beethoven

But…back to Wendy and the song “Satisfaction.” Wendy was my very first girlfriend who after a couple of months of “going steady” broke up with me and became my best friend’s girl, and later his wife. (Still love them both!) It was at the Playa Del Rey, CA apartment of Brad’s mom and stepdad that my band, named…get ready for it…The Owls…had its initial practice. One of our first songs—“Satisfaction.”

I can still see it clear as day:

Me on my Martin six string playing that famous three-note riff, trying to coax an acoustic steel-string guitar into recreating the song’s signature fuzz sound (which can only be done electronically with a guitar pedal).

Doug, with his flimsy nylon-string guitar (that years later he launched down a river), trying to play rhythm but getting only a muffled, twangy, out-of-tune sound that added nothing to the mix.

Craig, who we determined that day would never sing a note.

A wanna-be drummer—I don’t even remember who at this point—pounding on a stack of magazines in an effort to keep a beat we could all follow.

And Jimmy, singing a mix of words from three different songs.

Oh my, we were really bad back then. But playing music brought us together as friends that day, relationships that lasted for years to come. By the time we were seniors, ours was the most popular band (at least in our minds) at our high school.

(We eventually changed the band’s name to The Hong Kong Refugee Choir. I know—don’t ask!)

In 1965 25% of homes had their milk delivered, a number that would substantially decrease within a decade. The ultra-resilient Super Ball was the biggest toy fad since the Hula Hoop. Skateboarding is in the midst of its first wave of national popularity.

By the end of that year, 190,000 American soldiers are in Vietnam.

But in our sleepy, lily white community of Westchester, Calif., insulated from the chaos of the 1960s—both inside and outside our homes—we lived in a joyful bubble. Some of us, like Brad and Wendy, embraced the righteous movement protesting the Vietnam War. Others, like me, were happy just to enjoy those last few fleeting moments of freedom before graduation. Watch the old sitcom, Happy Days, and you’ll get the idea.

Hey Jude versus For What It’s Worth.

The music of the 60s defined it all.