The only choice is to sing along

The first time I saw them, they were “The Rick Z Combo.”
It was a spring dance when I was in high school, one of those girl-ask-boy things that were known back in the day as a Sadie Hawkins dance. (If that reference escapes you, you’re too young to remember the comic strip Li’l Abner.)
The combo was fronted by the fastest, most adept guitarist I’d ever seen before. And when the group played certain numbers, kids didn’t just dance. They also gathered in front of the band, like an audience, taking in the performance.
It was — to my mind at least — the golden age of garage bands. Every town across America seemed to have at least one. For awhile, they seemed to sprout on every block. Order a Silvertone guitar from Sears or buy one at a pawnshop. Get your hands on an amp. Learn three chords. And you were ready to go.
Sure, the stage might have been wooden Coca-Cola cases turned upside down to lift you three and a half inches above the floor. But it was a stage, and that’s what mattered.
For most garage bands, the garage was the final parking place. But the kids gathered to listen to “The Rick Z Combo” and watch the lead guitarist’s fingers fly over the fret board knew this band was different.
Musically, they were better. Their playlist wasn’t the same as every other band’s. They’d been listening to some rhythm and blues (“Stormy Monday”) and even some jazz (“Fever”). And though it was only rock ’n’ roll, it was darned good rock ’n’ roll.
The next time I saw them was the prom of my junior year. By then, they were Rick and the Raiders. And by then the rest of eastern Indiana and western Ohio had figured out that these guys were good, so good they might make the big time.
By then, everyone around had heard of the guys from Union City. Rick Zehringer and his brother formed the core of the group, and the family’s roots are in the Fort Recovery area. Rick, that lightning fast guitarist, had become the gold standard for every area garage band. He was the guy to emulate. His was the skill to which to aspire.
Legend had it that when Rick Zehringer picked up a guitar at a Dayton pawnshop and began to play it was such a distraction that another member of the group was able to shoplift an instrument. Was it true? Probably not. But when a mystique is building, legends are inevitable.
As luck would have it, that high school prom was one of the last for “Rick and the Raiders.” Their gig was the prom itself. Another Ohio group — “The Jokers,” who were often performing at The Triangle in Greenville — was the band for the after-prom.
By the time school started in the fall, Rick and the Raiders were no more. Now, they were “The McCoys.” Now, they had the number one hit in America, “Hang On Sloopy.” Now, they weren’t a garage band but rock stars.
Along the way, Rick Zehringer became Rick Derringer, a change I suspect he’s regretted more than once. As a guitarist, songwriter and producer, he went on to a long and successful career, working with rock artists like Johnny Winter and Edgar Winter among others.
As for me, the last time I had a chance to hear Rick on the guitar was at that high school prom in the spring of 1965.
But it’s about this time of year that one of his greatest songs starts playing in my head, a youthful, full-tilt rock anthem that brings back echoes of high school, garage bands and endless possibilities.
“It was a warm spring night at the old town hall,” he sang. “There was a band called ‘The Jokers,’ they were layin’ down. Don’t you know I’m never gonna lose that funky sound.”
Hey, what can I do but sing along: “Rock ’n’ roll, hoochie koo. Truck on out and spread the news.”[[In-content Ad]]