Star Struck at Six

Seeing Ricky Nelson in Concert at Pleasure Island

In the early sixties, the world belonged to my two teenaged sisters. The caboose in the family, I would come of age in a different era, but for then, I watched and learned as they skipped from sock hops to pep club rallies, had first dates, and played the latest rock n' roll on our HiFi while we learned the twist. 

Their only anchor in life was their six-year-old sister, because they often had to babysit. For me, it meant tagging along on many of their adventures.  I cruised the boulevard  with them "American Graffiti" style in a someone's very big car, listening to the Supremes or the Four Seasons.  I had crushes on all of their boyfriends. One, who would become my brother-in-law, gave me a dime and told me to call him when I grew up. 

We had an older sister-in-law, too, a real southern beauty who willingly drove us places. One June day in 1962, the four of us piled into the family car to go to Pleasure Island, an amusement park in Wakefield, Massachusetts, where I attended my very first concert. 

We drove into the park through it's live-action entryway - over railroad tracks where a real train being chased by cowboys and Indians on horseback passed by. We'd come for the concert, but Pleasure Island had more than enough attractions while we waited for it to begin. I loved the crooked house, where I held on to side rails and walked through at an awkward angle; the burro ride on the little "mountain trail" which I wasn't old enough for, and alas, never would be, and Moby Dick, a mechanical whale who rose from the pond and blew water through his spout. The animals, the miniature cars...there were so many things that rivaled Disneyland, which was only some far off place we'd probably never go anyway.

When the time came, we were among the first of the crowd of crazed teenagers squeezing through the opening in the stockade fence that cordoned off the Showbowl concert area.  Embrazened by our solidarity, we were standing right at the foot of the stage looking up adoringly when Ricky Nelson emerged from behind a door with his guitar. His was the familiar face from one of my favorite t.v. shows, Ozzie and Harriet. My mouth hung open in pure surprise as I heard him play the songs we listened to on the radio, now seeing the real Ricky himself, and not in black and white. Every song he played, we knew - "Hello Marylou, goodbyeheart!" - but whenever he stopped, people would shout "Play Traveling Man!" one he was best known for. "I'm a traveling man, made a lot of stops all over the world," and he went on to single out the Polynesian baby over the sea, the sweet Fraulein, the Eskimo, and the China doll - all the lucky girls he knew in every port.  As I remember, we were right at his feet, but just seeing the television star and oh-so-handsome young man may have made me a bit faint, even at six.  He was a young girl's safer answer to Elvis, his music was upbeat and had no suggestive words or swinging hips. We had yet to experience the magical mystery tour of the Beatles and the depth of meaning in the folk rock from Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, which was popular when I was a teenager, or the showmanship of Michael Jackson. We loved Ricky.

Fast forward to 1985, and Pleasure Island was a thing of the past, but Ricky was back in Massachusetts on tour.  I had to go, even though my sisters were no longer interested. He had long ago faded from popularity, but many retro concerts were being held in Newburyport during the summer Homecoming Days, so my husband and some friends made the trek. Sharing a pair of binoculars from our bleacher seats, we could see he was still handsome. He gave a quiet almost intimate concert, playing old familiar songs one after the other.  During a break, he shared a little humor with the audience, and since it was hot he wiped his face with a towel, then threw it into the screaming crowd of girls who clamored at the foot of the stage.  It felt a little like we were at Rick Nelson's "Garden Party," where we came to reminisce with old friends, share some memories, and listen to a few old songs.  They say you can never go back, but for a little while, I relived the days when the music that underscored our lives was fun and upbeat, and life was safely scripted. Ozzy and Harriet would have it no other way. 

That was to be one of Ricky's last concerts. His D3 plane crashed on New Year's Eve 1985.  There were so many musicians killed that way, traveling from concert to concert to bring us joy and memories. When we talk about the past, it's often the music of those times that weave their way into the fabric of the story.  Ricky's music will be forever entwined with memories of my first concert and the three young women in my family who let me tag along.  

Ricky Nelson in Concert at Pleasure Island