Another great show I remember from then, must have been a year or two earlier, happened Downtheshore, that great Jersey paradise we patrolled all summer long as soon as Tommy got his license (he was six months older than either Gee or I). That would have been summer of ’68. Since we were from central Jersey, we could make day trips to nearly the entire oceanfront, from Belmar in the north to Wildwood in the south, Seaside Heights or Toms River, Sea Girt or Island Beach, we did them all. We skipped Atlantic City, which was like a ghosttown before the casinos, full of moldy old hotels famous long ago, and Asbury Park, which was going ghetto, but any day we could score beer somewhere and get gas money we’d go flying down the Parkway.

          This one day, we made it all the way down to Wildwood to stroll the Boardwalk. Forget the salt taffy and the miniature golf, we rode the roller coasters until we were ready to heave, then went to the beach to relax and sneak a few beers in, it was piss warm by then but who cared. It was a perfect day, the hot angry sun beating down on you but nullified by the sweet, wet, sea breeze and the slosh of the breakers, not big enough to surf but you could body surf them in and they’d roll you over and grind you into the sand and you’d have sand in your shorts because that’s all we wore and never brought suits.

          And the girls! I have a theory that the late 1960s represented a peak of female perfection, Jersey cornfed beauties in hippie regalia or bikinis, and we were all crazy with desire, Tommy the most but Gee and I not far behind. That particular day we were lucky enough to meet three girls who were down for the week, and they invited us to stay overnight with them, the memory is still vivid but that’s not what I’m thinking about now. The thing is, we didn’t have to drive back on that marathon redeye drive back home, so we had time to stroll the Boardwalk at night and the girl were all eighteen and looked older so we were able to get into one of the clubs.

          It was an Irish place, O’Reilly’s or O’Malley’s I forget, on Atlantic Ave. close enough to the sea that all the windows were open and the night breeze was coming in (which was good because there was no AC and a sweaty crowd).

          “Look, there’s a band playing!” Gee said, pointing out a bandstand that was bristling with mikes, amps and guitar stands. And that’s a place where you’re standing very close to heaven: a soft night, a beer in hand, women to talk to, and a band about to start playing.

          In just a few minutes the owner was standing up at the front mike and saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, we don’t usually have music on Tuesday nights but tonight we’re making a special exception for some Wildwood regulars who are here and wanted to play. They may be from the City of Brotherly Love but they play like Jersey boys, from Philadelphia please—the Nazz!”

          “Nazz!” said Gee happily. Tommy had his nose in the brunette’s hair and reacted a second behind Gee. I knew them too and had their first record. They weren’t my favorite band in the world, but it was a great find for a Tuesday night in Downtheshore.

          They were just about to become my favorite band (pre-Dead). Four slender guys took the stage, dressed in full hippie flower like Jimmy Jam had started to look like two years earlier. They had bell-bottom pants and velour blouses and bright scarves and hair that fell to their collars and they looked like music to me, what I wanted to be, what I wanted to become. From my record I recognized Stewkey behind the keyboards and Todd on guitar (he wouldn’t be Todd Rundgren to me for a couple of years yet) and they were itching to start, one-two-three-and—

          An astonishing four-handed racket filled the club, a keening, brawling rush of sound, resolving down to a powerful riff and vocals, harmony, bruising into a chorus that was announced by a tom and cymbal splash and here come the words: Forget all about it awhile! Forget all about it awhile! Forget all about it a while! I was ready to.

          “Who’s the drummer?” I yelled at Gee, because he was playing the best and loudest drums I had ever heard.

          “Keith Mooney!” he shouted back, and that couldn’t be right, even though Nazz had ripped off the Who by stealing the lick to “I Can’t Explain” to start their first record. But he had the drive and flair of Keith Moon, and the volume, so I wasn’t going to contradict him.

          Mooney kicked off the next tune with an assertive ramble around his big drum kit, and this one was a pop tune with a rock heart, skinny Todd channeling Clapton and Townshend up front, all speed and flash, I may be wrong but I’m not wrong long.

          “This is great!” Tommy said, who had actually turned away from his girl to watch the band.

          Next came a blues, wild and raucous, something familiar about it,, wild and—Wildwood! It was the Wildwood Blues, and what could be more perfect than that?

          Well, they could top it, it seems because next they plowed into a killer riff, so vaguely familiar, couldn’t place it couldn’t place it but it was near the heart of rock and roll and here’s the chorus, wait for it while Mooney spilled an extra drum riff and it’s under-the-ice, bah dad da under-the-i-i-ice, bah dah da! Then it went into a solo following the riff and then, maniacally, up to a whole new plane where Mooney is whacking the shit out of the drums, landing monster kill shots and the three of us and even the girls are hopping up and down, up and down, under the ice, under the ice. Wow!

          When the cheering and shrieking stop, Stewkey behind the keys said, “Thom Mooney on the drums, please!” and that cleared up the Keith Moon confusion. “We’re here touring our new album, and we called the first one Nazz, so naturally we’re calling the new one (pause) Nazz Nazz!”