Grandmother was released from the hospital the week of Thanksgiving. They brought her home in one of those Ford vans you see on TV cop shows. Only she wasn’t on a stretcher. They gave her a gleaming new wheelchair and when the paramedics opened the rear doors, there she was, smiling wanly at her reception committee: Mom, Dad, me and Connie. With minimal grumbling, Dad wheeled her into the house and into her new bedroom on the first floor, convenient to her two favorite places—our kitchen and the backyard where she could supervise Mom’s gardening chores.

Black Friday had become a bacchanale of shopping since they expanded the Bergen Mall in Paramus. It was only a 15-minute drive west on Route 4 and Mom, Dad, and Connie left right after breakfast, leaving me and grandma at home. I had volunteered to stay behind with her because, practically speaking, I had nothing to shop for. My father had restricted me to boys’ clothes until I graduated from school and turned 18. He said he couldn’t stop me from robbing him of his only born son when the law recognized me as an adult able to make my own decisions, however ill-advised. It was a situation he tried to avoid confronting. In fact, he met with my therapists in New York once and then swore off the whole affair, leaving Mom to liaise with them.

Since we were home alone, Grandma asked me to put on one of the gowns I had worn on stage during the summer. She said she had fought so hard to recover from her stroke just to have the pleasure of seeing me in it. I wiped away tears and ran off to change. I put on the silver lamé dress I had worn for our final concert at Murray the K’s Brooklyn Fox Show on Labor Day. Quickly, I made up my face and fitted my Hank’s Honeys wig on my head, hoping it didn’t look askew.

She clapped like a boisterous child presented with an ice cream cone when I executed a glissade into the room and struck a glamorous pose. Dad didn’t allow me to take ballet lessons with Connie but I shadowed her every move when she practiced at home.

“Now, koneko, let me hear you sing. Your mother says you sing like an angel. Is she just boasting because she is proud of her youngest daughter or are you really the next Dinosaur?”

“You mean Dinah Shore?”

“Yes, that’s what I said, no?”

I sat down at the piano Mom insisted Dad buy for Connie’s music lessons, although, of course, it was really because she knew I was inseparable from Bobby. If he spent 20 hours a week practicing, she knew I’d want to be there accompanying him on piano or, later, clarinet. Connie abandoned her music lessons after less than a year, but I persisted. Maybe because I wanted to spend time with Bobby or maybe I really do have talent. What a thought!

I played the chords underlying the first two lines of the first verse: A, E, G, and D to recall the melody of the song I had only ever played before or after sound checks when I was alone or just with Bobby. I tried to sing it the way Carole had on that demo she recorded. It was “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.”

“I do not understand most of the words in the song, koneko, but it must be a love song. You were thinking about Bobby, no?”

“Yes, sobo. I’m so scared I’ll never see him again. He’s in basic training right now and then they’ll ship him overseas for two years!”

“He will return to you, Itsuki. I believe in fate. You are his. He is yours. Forever.”

There was silence between us for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes. I put on a smile and said to sobo, “I never did get to tell you what happened when we started the tour after Bobby and I appeared on television.”

“I’m all ears. Is that the right thing to say? In Japan, we would just say you have my undivided attention. But ‘all ears’ is such a strange image…”

Bobby and I were waiting for our bags to come around at the luggage carousel in LAX when Ray, our road manager, told me there was a limo waiting to take Hank, Honey and the Honeys (which included me!) to Billy Schechter’s house in Laurel Canyon, north of the city in the Hollywood Hills. Bobby and the rest of the band and crew would be staying at the Sunset Marquis Hotel in West Hollywood. My bags popped into view and Bobby grabbed them as they came around, handed them to me, and, with his usual puppy dog eyes, said he’d see me tomorrow at the recording studio.

Hank, Honey, the three other Honeys and I squeezed our way into the Cadillac Fleetwood that they say comfortably seats six (not including the driver). The truth is fitting seven people in that limousine made it feel like we were riding in a clown car. An image of us all spilling out onto the sawdust of a circus floor when the door opened made me giggle and Honey reflexively giggled too. Why she did, I have no idea.

Billy had taken a later flight since he had business to tend to in New York that morning. Hank told me he’d arrive sometime this evening.

“Have you ever been to Cali, Shuggie?” Hank asked.

“No, this is my first time. I’ve never been farther west than Philadelphia, really. Of course, you guys are used to traveling and performing all over the country, even England. I read where you toured there with Motown last year. You were on the same bill with The Supremes and Stevie Wonder!”

“Yeah, that was a lot of fun. A lot of ‘ello gov’na and fancy a cuppa? And we didn’t have to consult no Green Book to see where we could sleep or eat. Hell, two years ago, before Billy bought that house in Laurel Canyon, the band had to stay in the fuckin’ Dunbar Hotel on Central because the better hotels were still segregated. In Los Angeles! I suppose you’ve never had that problem, being half white and everything.”

“Is Bobby going to be alright staying at the Sunset Marquis? He’ll stick out like a sore thumb, won’t he?”

“Nah, the Marquis is integrated. All the music types stay there. Black, white, what have you. I heard The Rolling Stones stayed there last year. Miles Davis and his crew is supposed to stay there sometime in August.”

“Oh, wow, Bobby like really digs Miles. And Coltrane. He’ll be disappointed to miss them. So, Billy’s house must be really big. Are there enough rooms for all of us?”

“Oh, yeah, no problem. We’ll double up, two to a room. Maybe you and me could share—”

“Hank, she’s 17. Jailbait in most states,” Honey interjected. Under her breath, Viola muttered, “Never stopped him before.”

“We’ll discuss this later. It’s gonna be a while between now and bedtime. Right, Shuggie?”

I’d forgotten the time difference! My body was still on Eastern Standard time. But it was barely a quarter of an hour after 12 noon here in the Hollywood Hills. We were packed so tightly in that car that when Viola’s stomach rumbled, I could not only hear it, I felt it. Other than that sound, we rode in silence for the rest of the hour long drive up La Cienega Boulevard. When we finally pulled up the driveway of Billy’s house, I prepared myself for the inevitable clown avalanche onto the pavement. But I leaned on the driver’s arm when he opened the door and managed to maintain my balance as I took a panoramic view of Billy’s estate-sized property. I really don’t know much about architecture, but it was sort of futuristic looking, all metal and glass, right angles and razor-sharp lines. Like Frank Lloyd Wright. Am I wrong?

Marisol, Billy’s surprisingly young and attractive Chicana housekeeper, showed us our rooms. I was shocked to find that Billy had arranged a separate bedroom for me, while the others shared theirs. On the bed in my room was laid out a one-piece bathing suit, presumably in my size.

“Mr. Schechter said you would not have packed a bathing suit so he picked out something that you might find acceptable to wear? After you shower, you can go for a swim in the pool. I’ll bring out a light lunch for everyone in about an hour. Is there anything else you need?”

Ten minutes later, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror in the en suite bathroom. I had been apprehensive about exposing myself to this extent but, as I turned from side to side and peered over my shoulder to appraise my backside, I concluded that the swimsuit was actually quite flattering—if you like slim girls with bubble butts and tiny breasts. When I came outside, Hank was swimming laps while the girls were taking in the sun on loungers, chatting and laughing.

When Hank saw me, he swam to the edge of the pool and laughed, “Hey girl, that suit looks like something your grandma would wear. I was expecting something a bit more, how you say, sexxxyyyy.”

“Leave her alone, Hank. She’s very modest. Her momma raised her right. Not like them showgirls and prosties you fooled with before I met you.”

Hank winked at me and replied to Honey, “who says I don’t trifle with the like even now? You got a private dick following me?”

“That’s one thing I wish you’d keep private, sweetheart. Look, you got Shuggie blushing, talking that kind of shit. Bet you Bobby never talks like that. Right? Come over here, Shuggie, us girls want to know all about you and Bobby. When’s the wedding?” She laughed uproariously, joined by the other girls. Hank splashed the water loudly with his right hand, turned his body and swam to the far side of the pool. Just then, Marisol appeared, pushing a cart filled with covered dishes. Lunch was served!

Billy finally showed up around 7PM, looking a bit haggard from the plane ride and maybe whatever business he had to tend to earlier in the day in New York. Marisol served up a delicious dinner of beef enchiladas, Mexican salad with cilantro lime dressing, and the American version of Mexican cerveza, several bottles of Corona beer. Billy winked at me from across the table and had Marisol fill my glass with beer. “No one snitches on Shuggie, okay?” Everyone laughed and we clinked glasses in a toast.

After dinner, we reconvened in Billy’s “bachelor pad”-styled living room and began listening to records on his expensive looking high-end stereo system. We all danced to a cavalcade of 45s ranging from Martha & The Vandellas to Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye to Etta James, Otis Redding to The Animals, and on and on. Honey and the other girls knew all the most popular dances: the Frug, the Monkey, the Jerk, the Watusi, the Boogaloo. I couldn’t keep up. I sank into an easy chair as I watched everyone else gyrate to Smokey Robinson & The Miracles. In a sudden break from the danceathon, Billy placed an LP on his Garrard turntable. After dropping the needle onto the run-in groove, Billy lifted me out of my chair and swept me into a slow dance posture. The music started: Tony Bennett singing “Fly Me to the Moon.”

We glided across the room, the sweet string arrangement conducted by Don Costa and Tony’s velvety baritone transporting us to a realm of romantic longing I had never experienced. Billy’s gentle eyes stared into mine and we moved as if we were alone in the room, in that house, on a hill above the city of angels. Someone picked up the needle. There was silence. Billy and I stood still.

“Hey, man, don’t monopolize the dance floor. Let me show Shuggie what real slow dancing is all about. Now, let’s re-start the record and let a man jump in and shake ‘em on down.” He took me in his arms and the music resumed. Billy turned toward the bookshelf-lined wall and leaned against it, his face a mask of calm resignation. Honey and the girls looked on with disdain. Honey, especially, couldn’t decide whether to get up and leave the room or just sit there and stew.

Hank was surprisingly light on his feet and quite gentle as he moved me around the room, executing something like waltz steps. He smiled at me. At one point, he began to nuzzle my neck. Honey sprang up from her seat and walked brusquely out of the room. After another few seconds, the song ended and Hank released me from his grip.

“It must be the time change. I’m really tired. I think I’ll just go to my room and hit the hay. Thanks to both of you for the dance, gentlemen.” I hurried up the stairs, my shoes clomping on the steps.

“Hey, Shuggie, it’s only 9:30. Well, the night is still young. Ladies, who’s up for more boogaloo?”

My body felt it was really past midnight, so I was out like a light when my head hit the pillow. Loud voices woke me up around the actual midnight hour. I couldn’t tell what they were shouting about but it was clearly a trio of voices: Hank, Honey and Billy. It sounded like they were still in the living room downstairs. Honey and Hank shook the walls with angry expletives and Billy shouted for them to calm down to no avail. I couldn’t go back to sleep with all that commotion, so I picked up the phone next to the bed and dialed the Sunset Marquis to speak to Bobby. The switchboard operator patched me into Bobby’s room, but it was Willie our trumpet player who picked up.

“This is Willie. Who’s calling?”

“Oh, hi, Willie. This is Shuggie. Can I talk to Bobby?”

“Bobby? He’s dead to the world. Here, you can hear him snoring. Really loud too.”

“Could you go wake him up. It’s kinda important. Thanks, Willie.” I heard Willie trying to rouse Bobby from his deep sleep. The snoring was interrupted by grunts and moans. Finally, Willie told him I was on the phone. A few seconds later, in a raspy, yawning voice Bobby half-whispered, “Hey, Shuggie, what’s up?”

“Hank, Honey and Billy are having a hell of a screaming match right now in the living room. Can’t you hear it?” I held the phone out with my extended right arm.

“Yeah, so just wrap the pillow around your head and cover your ears. I’m going back to bed, Shuggie. It’s like 3AM New York time.”

“Bobby! Do you know why they’d be at each other’s throats like that?”

“Well, okay, but don’t tell anyone I told you. Honey wants out. Out of the marriage, out of the band. She wants to go solo, personally and professionally. She’s gonna finish this tour and then leave for CBS Records. John Hammond thinks she could be the next Aretha Franklin.”

“Wow. I thought they were happily married.”

“Well, you’ve never been known to be too observant.”

“Bobby, I wish I was there with you instead of Billy’s house.”

“Yeah, I know. But we’re just peons, Willie and me. You’re a star, Shuggie.”

“Remember when we used to sleep in your car? When we couldn’t find a place to crash?”

“My aching back remembers too well. I always let you sleep on the back seat. Me, I had to keep the steering wheel from deviating my septum whenever I turned my head.”

“Not always. There were times when it was cold at night, and we didn’t have a blanket—”

“Shuggie, I’d really like to go back to sleep. We’re supposed to be at the recording studio at 9AM.”

“Okay, Bobby. Good night. Sweet dreams, my sweet.” He had already hung up. They were still going at it downstairs. I took my pillow and wrapped it around my head, covering my ears. Remarkably, I drifted off in a few minutes.

The next morning, everyone was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at Sunset Sound. Well, not really. Billy had coffee ordered in and we must have drunk several gallons among us. The pair of recording engineers for our session declined our coffee. They had their own thermoses that they brought to work every day. I guess engineers don’t make a heck of a lot. I watched Hank and Honey intently for signs that last night’s verbal fisticuffs had been left behind and that a productive day of recording wouldn’t be derailed by another outburst. So far, they seemed wary enough of each other to be civil and concentrated on the tracks Billy had us lay down.

The first song we worked on was a showpiece for Hank called “Let One Hurt Do.” It reminded us all what a really good singer Hank was. He had the pipes and stage presence to be a solo act but I think he preferred to be the leader of an ensemble, a variety show unto itself, with male singers, female singers, a crack band, dance moves and theatrical flourishes. For certain, he liked being the final authority in all things musical and otherwise.

After the band managed to satisfy Billy’s critical ears with umpteen takes of the instrumental backing for the track, Hank and the four Honeys put on headphones and positioned ourselves before our microphones to sing over it. After two practice runs, Billy started rolling tape. It was a one take success.

As the morning flowed into the afternoon, it was becoming obvious that Honey had very little to contribute to the session. There was only one track that she sang lead on. And she was superfluous as a backup vocalist since the Honeys nailed down our harmonies pretty efficiently. She and Hank exploded at each other during a coffee break. Billy just closed the studio door on them and sat at the control panel, moving the potentiometers up and down absentmindedly, waiting for Hank to return. When Hank came back in, he was alone.

“Uh, Honey’s done for the day. She’s gone back to the house. Said she’d rather sit by the pool than twiddle her thumbs here.”

“No sweat. We didn’t have anything for her to do anyway. Okay, everyone, let’s go over that chart again. I want the brass to come in a little brighter, maybe up half a step. And Chubby, keep the arpeggios in the pre-chorus. I like them.”

It was past 5PM and Billy had released everyone for the day. “Shuggie, can you stay for a bit. I have one more track I’d like you to sing on.”

I nodded to Bobby as he packed up his saxophone and walked out of the studio. “Sure, Billy, what do you have for me?”

“I took a later flight yesterday because I did a session with an orchestra at the RCA studios. I wanted to give you a solo number. At least see how you sound, just by yourself. You’re a quick study so we’ll probably get this done in a minimum number of takes. Afterwards, we can have dinner at Tony’s on the Pier in Redondo Beach. Half-hour drive from here. They’ve got great seafood—”

“Oh, no, seafood kinda makes me nauseous.” I shook my head vehemently.

“Well, we’ll go somewhere else then. Let’s go through the lyrics, okay?”

It took longer than Billy expected. He wanted me to sing in a style that was really different than anything I’d done with Hank’s Honeys. After about ten takes, I felt my voice starting to get hoarse but it was the eleventh take that got it right…at least to Billy’s satisfaction. The song was “Smile.”

As Billy ushered me into his candy apple red Mustang convertible, I asked, “how are you going to use that track? I mean, no one else in the band is on it. It’s just me, singing.”

“We’ll release it under your name.”

“Oh, no, Dad will kill me. I can’t use my real name. Dad’ll never hear the end of it in Bergenfield. He might even lose his job!”

“I thought of that. We’ll give you a stage name.”

“What is it?”

“No hurry. I don’t plan to do anything with that record until we’ve got you buttoned up with an exclusive contract.”

“Bobby says people in this business need to have a lawyer look at anything before signing.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Of course, I do. It’s just…don’t you think it would be advisable to have all the legal stuff checked out?”

“No, you’re right. Smart girl. Now, let’s find a place that doesn’t serve seafood.”

We finished up recording at Sunset Sound the next morning and Honey was rather subdued but present in body if not in spirit. After Billy and I returned to his house at around 11PM, the three of them had a relatively calm discussion of their situation. At least there wasn’t any shouting or name calling that I could hear as I trundled off to bed.

In the early afternoon, Billy loaded us into a Greyhound bus, and we drove to the Santa Monica Pier where we were scheduled to appear on a taping of Dick Clark’s Where the Action Is. The show aired daily at 4:30PM in glorious black & white immediately following the cult soap opera Dark Shadows. We pretty much just got to stand around and lip-sync to our current single, “Heaven Must Have Sent You” while a bunch of clean-cut teenagers encircled us, clapping hands and dancing in place. Honey Hutch was at her telegenic best as she charmed her way through the song, her arms stretching toward the sky to express her gratitude to the gods for sending her beloved down to her on earth. Steve Alaimo, one of the co-hosts, jumped in at the final note to chat for a minute with Honey.

“Honey! Great to have you on the show for the first time. Could you introduce your wonderful backup singers to everyone?”

“Well, Steve, it’s a pleasure to be here, you know, where the action really is!” The crowd of teenagers hooped and hollered. “To my right, we have Viola, Cissy, Thelma, and Shuggie, our newest Honey.” There was scattered applause. “And, of course, behind me is Hank, our fearless leader.” Hank bowed to more scattered applause.

“Hank, want to tell the audience out there in TV land across the country about the summer concert tour you’re just about to embark on?”

“Yeah, Steve, thank you. The tour starts Saturday in San Jose and goes for two months until Labor Day. We’ll be in Denver, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, Philly, D.C., among other cities, and end up back East in New York City. So, we hope to see all of you out there this summer!”

The next morning, again like middle school students on a field trip, we boarded a Greyhound bus and were driven to the Los Feliz enclave of Los Angeles, at the foot of the famous Hollywood Hills. This was where the ABC Television Center sat, at the corner of Prospect and Talmadge, and where Dick Clark’s legendary American Bandstand was taped. By the summer of 1966, American Bandstand had been relocated from Philadelphia for two years already, now a pre-recorded weekly show on Saturdays rather than a live Monday to Friday affair. As on Where the Action Is, the band lip-synced “Heaven Must Have Sent You.” This time before an indoor audience of clean-cut teenagers who were suitably enthusiastic for the cameras.

Both Hank and Billy were more than chagrined that after their segment, Dick Clark chose to interview Honey Hutch alone and apart from the rest of the band.

What really irked Billy was that Honey never mentioned the band’s summer tour. Instead, she engaged in a discussion of her future plans and the possibility of recording as a solo artist. Clark seemed genuinely surprised by the tenor of the conversation but followed up with questions about her professional and personal relationship with Hank. To her credit, Honey tactfully evaded Clark’s questions, saying “I believe everything is in God’s hand. He has a plan for me, for all of us. Even for you, Dick Clark.” Then she laughed. Hank and Billy stood in the wings. They weren’t laughing. Nor smiling.

On the bus after the taping, Hank started to go off on Honey but she turned away from him, her hand held up like a stop sign. “I don’t want to talk about it. Now, go to the other end of the bus and sit down with your girl Shuggie. And Billy! Just cool it. This has nothing to do with you.”

“What do you mean? You’re half of this act. You’re the star attraction. Hell, you’ve got Dick Clark thinking you’ve already left the band. And we’ve got a 40-date tour starting Saturday for god’s sake.”

“Talk to the hand, Billy. I’m tired of riding stankin’ buses. I’m tired of the chitlins circuit—”

“Chitlins?! You’re calling Ed Sullivan and Bandstand the chitlins circuit? I had to talk my ass off to get you guys booked on these shows. We’ve got a record with a bullet on the charts!” Billy almost screamed as Honey just stared out the window.

“Most of all, I’m tired of Hank. Of all his bullshit. All the girls and the verbal abuse. Billy, you more than anyone know we’ve gone through six, no make it seven, Honeys in the last year.” Hank stood up and exclaimed, “I didn’t have nothing to do with them leaving. They were fooling with guys in Stevie Wonder’s band. That drummer. Joe something. Right, Billy?”

“You see, Billy, you see? I’ve had it. After this tour, I’m quitting. The band, Hank, everything.”

They went back and forth, even after the bus started its downhill journey back to the Sunset Marquis. Sitting with Bobby near the front, I squeezed his arm, concern on my face. This could really blow up the whole tour. I couldn’t imagine Hank and Honey co-existing much less performing together night after night on an eight-week concert march across the country.

Billy Schechter was already a legend in the music business at the tender age of 25. His office in the Brill Building had a score of gold records proudly hanging on the wall. His desk displayed the two Grammy Awards and an Oscar he had already won in only half a dozen years producing, arranging, and recording chart-topping music. He’d gone far, as far as Brooklyn to Malibu, not only in geographic distance but in professional acclaim. But, above all, Billy Schechter was really good at promotion, of his artists as well as himself. Wanting to start off the tour with a splash, Billy had convinced the program director at KFRC, San Francisco’s leading Top 40 radio station, to hold a contest for the privilege of opening for Hank and Honey Hutch at their Saturday, July 2nd concert in the San Jose Civic Auditorium, a 3,300 seat venue, 50 miles south of San Francisco on the southern shore of the Bay. The clever gimmick was that the contestants would be local amateur or semi-pro bands from the Bay Area, preferably teenage high school students from the target demographic.

So it was that on Friday afternoon, the day before the concert, our band and the two contest-winning bands went through a sound check at the Civic Auditorium. We were scheduled to do our sound check last, so the band scattered, most of them wandering around the shops of Downtown or taking a brief walking tour of the San Jose State University campus nearby. Bobby wanted to go back to the bus and take a nap. He said he couldn’t sleep because of Willie’s loud snoring. I giggled and he shot me a quizzical look. So, left to my own devices, I decided to sit and watch the contest winners go through their sound checks. Who knows? Maybe they have some talent.

There were some tables backstage where I could sit and just read the local newspaper or daydream. At a table to my right sat a petite blonde girl, 17 or 18 years old I assumed, strumming on an acoustic guitar and singing sotto voce. It sounded like a folk-rock song. Something Bob Dylan or Donovan would sing.

She saw me staring at her and stopped strumming. “Sorry, am I disturbing you? I thought I could just hang out here backstage until they call us.”

“Oh, no. I was enjoying listening to you. Is that a Dylan song? Sounds like one of his.”

“I wish. It’s something I wrote. Not finished yet. Working out the chords. I’m not a great guitarist,” she giggled. “I’m Stevie Nicks. Our band is opening for Hank and Honey Hutch tomorrow.”

“I’m Shuggie Brennan. I’m a Honey.”

“Well, really, you’re cute and everything—”

“No, no,” I laughed. “I mean I’m a Honey, one of the backup singers.”

“Wow. How old are you? You look so young to be a professional singer.”

“I’m 17. I’m a senior this Fall. This is really just like a summer job.”

“Nice summer job. I just graduated last month. Me and the rest of my band all went to Cubberley High in Palo Alto.” A tall young man with curly brown hair walked by carrying an electric guitar and waved to Stevie. He pointed to the stage. “That’s Lindsey, our lead guitarist. He writes songs too and sings.”

“He’s cute. Is he your boyfriend?”

“Maybe. Depends on my mood. You know guys. So, are you dating that cutie with the saxophone? I saw you two holding hands when we walked in a half hour ago.”

“Maybe. Depends.” We both giggled. Stevie got up from her chair and turned in the direction of the stage.

“Gotta go. We’re doing our sound check first. Nice meeting you. See you tomorrow night for sure.”

“What’s the name of your band?”

“Fritz. Actually, the full name was originally the Fritz Rabyne Memorial Band. It’s a long story. Bye!”

I looked on from the wings of the stage as Stevie and her band ran through the four songs they were allotted for their 20-minute set. I really liked their final song. I don’t know what the future held for them, but Stevie and Lindsey were quite impressive. For a high school band, they seemed rather advanced. Of course, that’s only my opinion, from the vantage point of less than a month as a wizened veteran of the industry. It was entitled “Take Advantage of Me.”

It was after 9PM when the emcee introduced us to the sold-out house that had restlessly endured two amateur local bands for over an hour and then watched as our assemblage of musicians set up in anonymity. Hank, Honey, and The Honeys strolled out on stage as the blinding lights centered on us, placing the band in partial shadow. We were the singers, the center of attention.

We opened the show with “Somebody Somewhere Loves You,” an energetic up-tempo showcase for our ensemble singing. Hank and Honey were in good voice and seemed to have palpable chemistry on stage. The crowd of over 3,000 stomped their feet and some were even heard singing along. I looked back in the shadows and Bobby was blowing up a storm on his sax. These were the first four minutes of my professional career, and they were brilliant! The crowd gave us an ovation as Hank took centerstage to sing “Soul Galore.”

That threatened to blow the roof off the place. The audience went wild, and it took a minute or two for things to settle down. A red spotlight shone down on Honey as she stepped forward and Hank laid down a bluesy A minor riff. This was a showstopper for Honey, the kind of song Hank and Honey had made popular on the chitlins circuit, what they would ruefully call ‘grown folks’ music. Honey unleashed “That’s What My Man is For” on their innocent teenage ears.

Honey took several bows and there were tears rolling down her cheeks. Hank came over to comfort her. The audience must have thought this was some theatrics on their part. But Honey brushed aside Hank’s hands and cried out, “I can’t! I can’t do it! Let me go!” She ran offstage, past Billy in the wings. The crowd was still under the impression that this was Hank and Honey doing Shakespeare in the auditorium. But when Honey didn’t return to the stage after several minutes, a buzz went up in the house.

Billy ran out on stage and huddled with Hank. The audience began to get a little restless. It had been almost ten minutes since Honey took her last bow. I walked over to overhear Billy instruct Hank to continue the concert. He saw me standing close by and pulled me into their huddle.

“I’m making an executive decision. This concert resumes with Shuggie taking Honey’s parts—”

“But, Billy, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You know all the parts. All the lyrics. You’ve watched Honey sing these songs over and over again. You can do this.” Bobby was suddenly by my side. “You know the set better than Honey did, Shuggie. If Billy and Hank think you can do it…” Hank nodded and gave me a thumbs up. “Girl, you got this.”

Billy took a microphone and addressed the impatient audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems Honey has experienced an unfortunate costume malfunction at a rather untimely point in the proceedings. But, not to worry. The show must go on. Hank and the band are ready, willing and able to give San Jose a show you won’t soon forget.” He took my hand and led me to the front of the stage. To me, he whispered, “Show ‘em what you got, kiddo.” Then he walked offstage. The spotlight hit me, and our drummer counted down. It took a Herculean effort to even open my mouth but something resembling a lyric wrapped in melody eventually emerged.