Doug Clark: More like a tribute, but still good vibrations

Like most members of my generation, I contracted that musical epidemic known as Beatlemania.

But not in the beginning.

Oh, no. Those mop-topped Liverpudlians weren’t the ones who compelled me to pick up a guitar and join a band.

That I owe to a California quintet who sang of surfer girls and souped-up cars.

The Beach Boys.

I was knocked silly the moment the radio started airing those lush harmonies and rockin’ songs of carefree, sun-baked adolescence.

“Well, I’m not braggin’ babe so don’t put me down. But I’ve got the fastest set of wheels in town.”

How do you not like that?

I was a seventh-grader when The Beach Boys stopped in Spokane.

The show took place on a dreary February night. A Sunday. I went to the old Coliseum for what had been advertised in The Spokesman-Review as a “1964 ALL-STAR REVIEW!”

The Beach Boys headlined. They were preceded by The Cascades, which had scored the previous year with “Rhythm of the Rain.”

It was my first rock and roll show, and I’ll never forget it.

The Beach Boys, still fresh-faced kids themselves, sported their matching trademark wide-striped shirts. They sounded amazing as they burned through their formidable hit parade: “Surfer Girl,” “Surfin’ USA,” “Little Deuce Coupe,” “In My Room,” “Shut Down” …

The die was cast. Within days I was warbling in a Beach Boys cover band. I hounded my parents until they gave in and drove down to Hoffman Music and bought me an electric guitar – a red Fender Mustang.

Life was good.

Who knew that the Wilson brothers’ old man/manager was an abusive ass who helped drive son Brian, the group’s genius songwriter, to drugs and despair?

Who would predict that hunky drummer Dennis Wilson would one day become an addicted mess and, in one of rock and roll’s more ironic endings, drown?

And I don’t have time enough to delve into the ugly lawsuits.

Life, as we baby boomers eventually learned, isn’t all sweet dreams and California sunshine.

Aw, but wouldn’t it be nice if we could go back?

On Friday night I drove to the Northern Quest Casino in Airway Heights to see the group once known as “America’s Band.”

And most of The Beach Boys still looked fresh-faced and youthful.

Wait a minute. Who are these guys?

OK. Let’s do a head check. Carl and Dennis Wilson are touring heaven. Brian is off doing his own thing. Al Jardine was booted out some time ago.

Of the eight-piece band that played the casino, Wilson cousin Mike Love was the lone founding member.

We must count Bruce Johnston, I guess. He joined the band in the mid-1960s, after Brian’s mental illness forced him off the road.

The other six musicians on stage were skilled pros with killer voices. They sang all the high falsetto parts. They also helped cover up the decidedly age-decayed abilities of Love and, to a lesser degree, Johnston.

Love is a mere mannequin compared to the performer he once was.

This version of The Beach Boys struck me as more of a dead-bang tribute act than the real deal.

But, hey, the music was polished. The band sounded great.

So why complain?

Besides, life can’t be like a Beach Boys song anymore.

For example:

Hook up with some random surfer girl today and you’ll wind up with a case of the crabs (or even worse).

Any jerk burning rubber in all four gears is just begging to get blown away in a road rage war.

True, some kids still spend a lot time holed up in the dark sanctuary of their rooms.

But they’re probably just watching Internet porn.

So The Beach Boys aren’t what they used to be.

Who is?

To be honest, most of the over-the-hill souls I saw at my second Beach Boys concert looked like something that washed up on a beach – me included.

But the songs endure. They are still catchy and cool. They evoke good vibrations and memories of tan and sandy summers so long, long ago.

“And she’ll have fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away …”

Oh, and for the record: I refused to take the 55-and-older discount offered at the casino buffet.

Once a rebel, always a rebel.