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The long and winding road

In the late '60s a group of young Clearwater musicians went their separate ways. Now, these former hippies are back in the Tampa Bay area, solidly in the middle class.

By LANE DEGREGORY
Published July 25, 2006

[Art by Richard W. Radloff]

Do you recognize your neighbors in this version of the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band? Look at the end of this story to see who’s who.

It started as a scrapbook, hundreds of black and white photos hot in the 1970s. Back then, Richard Radloff carried his camera  everywhere.   He was a long-haired, cigarette-smoking, draft-fearing drummer, a photographer for Clearwater High’s yearbook.   He was going to be a rock star.

In the summer of 1973, Richard pasted his best photos into a book: Jimi Hendrix wailing at Curtis Hixon Hall; would-be album covers showing the guys in his bands; a kid dancing at one of their concerts.  

He shared the scrapbook with his friends. He wanted to create something for them to hold onto, he said, so they would remember each other, and those halcyon days of growing up in the Age of Aquarius.

FLASH FORWARD 33 years: Richard and his wife, Susan, live in a four-story townhouse in Indian Rocks Beach. The downstairs room holds Richard's computers and sound equipment. Framed photos of the Fab Four fill the walls.

Instead of stretching to his waist, Richard's thinning hair skims his shoulders. He's still trim at 53. Too young to be in a section named Seniority, he says.

But he agreed to be part of this story because, well . . . it's so funny the detours and U-turns your life can take.

Look at all his old buddies, he says, the guys he played with in those bands: How did those freaks and hippies, who criss-crossed the state in a '67 Dodge van, who introduced Santana and Vanilla Fudge cover versions to hordes of Florida teenagers, wind up part of the Establishment?

Richard opens the old scrapbook. Flipping through the worn pages, pointing at black and white photos, he starts laughing.

See this guy, with the long, wavy hair? He's an accountant in Palm Harbor. That guy? He's a hospital consultant, lives in Palm Harbor too. And this guy in dark sunglasses, holding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon? He's the spokesman for the Clearwater Police Department. Really.

That guy runs a recording studio. Look at him, he's a sheriff's deputy now. This guy's in a church band with his son. And this guy here plays organ at the Devil Rays' games.

They all set out to see the world - and landed back near Tampa Bay.

LIKE THE SCRAPBOOK, the collage was Richard's idea. "I wanted to create an Omega to that Alpha," he says. "I wanted to give the guys something that focuses on that whole time period in our lives."

The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's album, he says, was a turning point for him and his friends, their introduction to musical experimentation, sound effects and psychedelia. "It's a touchstone for our generation," he says.

So when he decided to create a new scrapbook for his old friends, Richard started with the Sgt. Pepper's cover: "I wanted to make a parody of it, with all the cultural icons of our era."

He sorted through thousands of faded photos and negatives, scanned hundreds of images into his computer: friends, teachers, political figures, the kid dancing at the concert, old girlfriends, guys from his bands.

He spent more than 120 hours, including tweaking and cropping the images. Then he downloaded the Sgt. Pepper's cover - and started cutting and pasting.

His buddy Wayne's face replaced the stone statue head in the original cover. His old girlfriend, Louise, deleted actor Diana Dors. Band members Jeff, Gary, Billy and Bill became John, Ringo, Paul and George, resplendent in their gold-braided uniforms.

Instead of spelling out "The Beatles," red flowers across the bottom of the album bloomed into "Peace Memorial."

"That was the band so many of these cats passed through, so many people around here would remember," Richard says. "We all played different roles in so many bands around here."

Richard worked on his album cover for more than two years, eventually layering 117 files. It took him another year to get the guys together for a reunion concert.

Last March, the day after the reunion, Richard had them to his townhouse for dinner and the unveiling of "their" album cover. He gave each of his friends a matted copy of the artwork.

The collage revived decades of foggy memories and unleashed a slew of stories: about road trips and acid trips, friendship and fatherhood, Vietnam, the music industry, what's happening to America.

The former band mates marvel at the twisting paths they took - from changing jobs to losing wives to finding God. The most amazing thing, they say, is though their lives are so different, they still see each other often. And whenever they do, they make music.

THEY MET IN 1967, in the "summer of love." The Beatles had just released Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. "It rocked our world," Richard recalls.

He and his friends had just finished seventh grade at Oak Grove Junior High. A guy named Brad Trumbull had just moved to Clearwater. He had a keyboard.

So did Wayne Shelor. Bob Strickland and Rob Lowe had guitars. Richard's folks had recently bought him a drum kit - with cymbals and everything.

They rented a storage space to practice in, taped up posters, hauled in a carpet, rigged some amps. They had groupies before they had a name.

“Santana, Rare Earth, Cream, Hendrix — we played all the improvisational, underground bands,” Richard says.

“Here’s a bunch of 14-year-old white guys from Morningside whipping out Curtis Mayfield,” the Chicago R&B star.

By the time they hit high school, they had become Peace Memorial, named for a church one of the teenagers attended. They had their own sound guy, a light man, roadies and an agent. They played parties and proms, gigs in Gainesville, Daytona Beach, Orlando. They were making more money than their big brothers who had day jobs.

They thought those days would last forever.

Look at them now:

BRAD TRUMBULL, No. 37 in the outline of their cover, keyboards and vocals

“We’d bring our guitars to school and play in the library. Then we’d go over to someone’s house after school and practice all night. We covered anything that was on the radio: Traffic, Three Dog Night, Zeppelin.

“My older brother drove us to gigs in this brown Dodge van because we were too young to drive.

“We didn’t really do drugs or drink, most of us. We were so into music, if someone got messed up on a gig, the other guys would all get on him.

“I don’t think we thought much about the future in those days.”

After graduating from Clearwater High in 1972, Brad moved to Texas. He toured with a band called Savvy for a decade before moving back to Florida.

Now, Brad has three children and four jobs: He’s the keyboard manager at Sam Ash music store in Carrollwood. He directs the 18-piece band at First Methodist Church, Brandon. He plays in a classic-rock duo, Calico. And ever since Tampa Bay has had Major League Baseball, Brad has rallied the crowd at Tropicana Field as the Devil Rays’ organist.Often at ball games, Brad will look out to see his former band mates in the stands, making faces at him.

At Easter, when Brad’s church debuted a musical he wrote, the same guys were in the congregation, leading the applause.

WAYNE SHELOR, No. 3, No. 66, keyboards and roadie

“I was an outlaw in high school. I lived on my own, in a little apartment, and worked at Church’s Fried Chicken. There were concerts (in Florida) every weekend: Jethro Tull, Elton John, ELP. I used to strap a pack on my back, stick out my thumb and go.

“The Vietnam War was threatening every teenage male in America. We weren’t apathetic. But no one had ever laid down their life for a cause. If there’d been a Tiananmen Square in Clearwater, I don’t know if any of us would’ve put ourselves in front of the tanks.”

Wayne dropped out of high school his senior year. He shaved his head to join the Army. (See: Bob the Barber, No. 21, holding a long lock from that very day.) Wayne never was sent to Vietnam.

After the service, he worked for the Orlando Sentinel, then moved back to Clearwater. He eventually shocked himself by applying for a job as spokesman for the city police department.

“I had to come clean with the chief,” Wayne says. “I mean, I grew up here. It was the ’70s.”

In his office at the cop shop, Wayne has a state-of-the-art computer stereo; tiny speakers angled just so. Every day, he brings pieces of his past to work: Santana, the Beach Boys, Pink Floyd. A blown glass sun catcher hangs in the window above his desk: an electric blue peace sign, shining over the police station.

BOB STRICKLAND, No. 48, No. 62, drums and vocals

“I met my wife, Dena, when she was 13 and I was 16. She’d come to the garage and watch our band practice. We’ve been married now for 28 years.”

Bob went to Florida State University, where he played in an acoustic duo with Tim Hamm (No. 46). He financed a master’s degree in religion by playing in the group Shamrock. Then he and his wife moved to Chicago where — much to everyone’s surprise — Bob re-enrolled in school and earned an MBA.

In 2003, Bob and his family moved back to the Tampa Bay area, where he hooked up with Tim again. Their band, StringWorkz, plays originals plus Clapton, Blind Faith, the Beatles — the same covers they cranked out in high school. By day he is a hospital consultant.

Bob says his two sons remind him of himself when he was trying to navigate the world:

Taylor, named for James Taylor, is a 21-year-old drummer and guitar player who hopes to go to Berklee College of Music in Boston. Luke, 18, just dropped out of Florida State to open a bicycle co-op.

“He’s a real smart kid, with real strong values,” Bob says of his younger son. “He’s a vegan. He won’t sit on our leather couch. He’s taking this whole counter-culture thing to a level I never dreamed of.”

ROB LOWE, No. 6, keyboards, guitar, vocals

“The hippie flavor was certainly among us back then. We were all iconoclastic, going against the grain, fighting the establishment by flying our freak flags.

“Richard, (No. 33) he was someone you couldn’t ignore. He had this long, crazy hair he wore tucked under a wig, because there was this school dress code you could only have your hair so long.

“My junior year, I got a draft card. I knew if I was drafted I’d end up in a body bag. Thank goodness, the draft ended my senior year. But I never saw my life past age 30.

“At 17, I got into drugs pretty heavy. I got too spaced out, and realized I was farther out than I should’ve been. So I started reading the Bible.

“Finally, something touched me. I realized God was using music to draw me back. I’d lie there, listening to the Moody Blues’ spiritual messages, and, well, just being involved in music helped salvage my life.”

At St. Petersburg Junior College, Rob studied music. In the early ’80s, he moved to Nashville to be a songwriter.

Then, for reasons he still can’t explain, he went back to school and became an accountant.

“My friends couldn’t believe it,” Rob said. “And I have to admit, it is kind of boring.”

Rob and his wife, Diane, live in Palm Harbor and have a 24-year-old daughter named Jennifer. Recently, Rob began playing music again. He has written 11 spiritual songs and his old friend, Steve Connelly (No. 17) is helping him produce an album.

“When I hit 50, I finally started kicking myself in the butt to do something worthwhile. I know I don’t have much time left,” Rob says. “I hope some of my new songs will inspire others, the way music helped save me.”

STEVE CONNELLY, No. 17, guitar, bass, vocals
“We were the first Grateful Dead cover band in this area — Real Eyes, started in 1973.

“At one of our shows, at the Depot in Tampa, this guy brought us a bucket of (concert) Dead tapes. That night, after the gig, we all went to the bass player’s house and dropped acid. We lay there for five hours, letting those tapes loop over and over . . . I haven’t done acid in 30 years.”

After high school, Steve and his girlfriend, Charlotte Wilson (No. 23), formed a bluegrass band called Just Another Rainbow. They went on to become the Headlights, along with high school friend Scott Dempster (No. 63), and later toured as the backing band for former Byrds member Roger McGuinn.

For the past eight years, Steve has run a Pinellas Park music studio called Zen Recording. The studio is booked by young bands all this summer. “I’d never have imagined, in 1967, that 40 years later I’d be here recording kids playing Zeppelin, Hendrix (No. 61) and the Stones.

“I thought, if we lasted this long, we’d be like the Jetsons, zooming around in space cars, and music would be all this electronic stuff. But it’s still just two guitars, a bass and drums.”

RICHARD RADLOFF, No. 33, drums, lights, sound — album art

“I quit high school after ninth grade to be a rock star. Then I quit the band because my girlfriend was upset over me being out every night. So I went back to school, joined some other bands.

“We all had this thing that drew us together — still does. It was friendship, sure, but more than that. And it wasn’t about people applauding: It was connecting with people in the midst of music — the other players, the audience. Bang! Something happens and it’s all there. That was the jones   all these cats had.”

Richard spent two years studying music and philosophy at St. Petersburg Junior College, then embraced music full time, playing drums and mixing sound for friends’ bands.

He went on the road in the ’80s, doing sound and lights for festivals, adjusting mikes for Tony Bennett, Marilyn Manson, Ray Charles. When he met his wife, Susan, 17 years ago, he quit that gig.

These days, Richard installs sound systems in high-end home theaters, and travels around setting up audio for business conventions.

“It still surprises me. I mean, I’m this old freak, sitting across from the president of Sharpie, and he’s asking me for advice. I’m corporate? How did that happen?”
Richard shakes his head.

“Really, it freaks me out. And you know what’s even freakier? That guy probably has Hendrix in his iPod, too.”

Though he has never been politically active, Richard spends a lot of time pondering politics. This isn’t the America he and his friends envisioned back at Clearwater High.

“Where is the love, the peace, the unity through music any more? It’s all death and destruction, all about anger and getting in your face.

“We were supposed to make a difference, to love people, not crap on our brothers. What happened? All that hope we had somehow got hijacked along the way.”

It helps, he says, to have friends who remember, who once believed — who are still seeking . . . whatever it is . . . through music.

“We’ve been bouncing all these ideas off each other, playing together when we can,” Richard says of his former band mates. When they were starting out, they did only cover versions. Now everyone’s writing originals — rock, blues, jazz, country and Christian.

They’ve gone their own ways, but somehow the harmonies hold.

“We’re talking about getting back together and getting into Steve’s studio sometime soon,” Richard says.

They already have a name for the album: That was then. This is now.

Lane DeGregory can be reached at (727)893-8825 or degregory@sptimes.com.

[Last modified July 24, 2006, 22:05:02]