Teenage Scribbles: Grease is the Word

Grease is the Word, drawn Fall 1978.
Colored pencil and felt tip pens on 3-hole punch paper.

It required 4 separate chunks, with several days between, for me to get through ABC's Grease Live! 

Technically, the production was awe-inspiring and progressive - the strings, pulleys, smoke and mirrors to pull that off was monumentally impressive.

Artistically, it was akin to watching a high school karaoke production of Grease, the movie. And some of the performances were equal to the amateur role playing we did in our basements and living rooms throughout the Summer and Fall of 1978 - and we were far more passionate about it.

John Travolta as Danny Zuko, drawn Fall 1978.
Felt tip pen on 3-hole punch paper.

Emotionally, Grease Live! was overwhelming because of the personal nostalgia it conjured. This is why I had to take long breaks between viewings. Living in the past is time consuming, especially when hitting pause to go digging in the crates to bring sacred Grease relics out into the moonshine of today. 

The relics are these drawings, done in frantic, zealous bursts from the Fall of 1978 to the Fall of 1979. They were originally pages in a Grease and Olivia Newton-John scrapbook, with Grease trading cards glued to the backside of each page. 

Olivia Newton-John as Sandy (goody-two shoes and tramp), drawn Fall 1978.
Crayola crayon and felt tip pen on 3-hole punch paper.

Before Grease

In 1976 I became a card-carrying member of the Olivia Newton-John Fan Club, previously shared here. As an ardent follower, I knew she was filming a movie version of the stage musical Grease.  (If you're a hardcore fan, this oral history of making the movie from Vanity Fair is a must-read.)

John Travolta-wise, my love of Welcome Back, Kotter took me to the movie theater 4 times in very early 1978 to see Saturday Night Fever. Back then, it was not a big deal for a 12-year old to attend an R-rated film. A round of applause goes to my mother, Barb, for also sitting through this movie 4 times, and buying me the soundtrack, and enduring the endless replays of such on my little Sears record player. 

As the Spring 1978 ramp-up publicity to Grease gained fever pitch, it was a given I was seeing this movie, and I passed this enthusiasm to my 6th grade best friend, Beth Barclay. Beth and I shared a love of all things Hollywood and Casey Kasem Top 40, so getting her to see Grease during our summer vacation was an easy sell.

Montage of John Travolta as Danny Zuko, drawn Fall 1978.
Crayola crayon and felt tip pen on 3-hole punch paper.

Grease, June 1978

My mother, Beth and I saw Grease in a nearly-full theater on opening weekend. At the conclusion of the production number for "Summer Nights" we were deeply enchanted. As the end credits rolled, Beth and I gushed about seeing this movie again - can we stay for the next screening?!

That summer, we saw it a total of 7 times. My mother - a life-long hardcore movie musical obsessive - saw it 3 times. The other 4 times, she chauffeured us to and from the theater.

Repetition is a valuable tool, and by July we had the movie memorized. In that summer between grade school and junior high - where puberty happened but had yet to corrupt us - we spent our days creating decadent scenarios within our Barbie village and recreating Grease.

We'd slap on the vinyl Grease soundtrack, and practice our favorite numbers, or get really ambitious and stage it from beginning to end, complete with dialogue and choreography. Furniture was moved to recreate stage sets, and Beth's little sister, Amy, was recruited so the ensemble numbers had more spirit. Little sis also cut down on how much work I had to do.

Still have the Grease books bought from Summer 1978 to Fall 1979.

Without fail, Beth (a brunette) was always Sandy. I (a blonde) was always Danny Zuko. And Kenickie. And Rizzo (though sometimes Beth would give that a spin, and she did an impressive Frankie Avalon). And Marty. And Frenchy and and and... If I were to have gone onto a career in musical theater, this multi-tasking schizophrenia would have been the first 1,000 hours toward the magical 10,000 hours of mastery.

Yes, I often lobbied to know what it was like to "do" Sandy, and I got winded from all the running around and singing required of being so many characters. But there was scant complaining from me, because the joy of our passionate recreations was equaled only by our pursuit of perfection. 

The Pink Ladies, drawn February 28, 1979.
Felt tip markers and colored pencil on 3-hole punch paper.

We spent our spare time apart tweaking and deepening the performances so that our next production was flawless until it was time to dissect the technical aspects of the next big number. Another trip to the movie theater was required to review details. 

As was my only-child M.O., I took it to laser-beam precision depths of full immersion. I bought the Grease Fotonovel to serve as a script for nailing dialogue (and dorkishly noted some of the inaccuracies). I bought the novelization of Grease to get a deeper understanding of the characters. I scrapbooked with the devotion of a Tibetan monk.

This was serious business. Our deadline for a full-scale, full-length living room production was right before starting junior high in September 1978. 

Stockard Channing as Rizzo, drawn Fall 1978
Crayola crayon and felt tip pen on 3-hole punch paper.

1978 was a blissful Summer. I reveled in the energy of combining forces with another devotee, spending every moment in pursuit of a candy-colored Hollywood dream. When not discussing every minor detail of the movie, Beth and I talked in Grease dialogue. It was amazing how there was a quote to go with most any situation. And it was a dream come true for me to have a comrade in arms, a friend who thought and felt just like I did.  We created our own little world, and thought it was the best place ever.

For most of the summer, I was preoccupied doing things with a friend, meaning I didn’t spend as much time alone, didn’t spend the summer trying to cadge smokes or getting into trouble or eating like a starved pig. I did normal family things with Beth’s family (her Mom teaching us the steps to the Miracles’ “Mickey’s Monkey” was a highlight), and, for once, felt like I belonged, felt like I was a normal kid. It was all because of Grease, and it was all magical.

Grease was a shared mission, a place, a motion... and finally, that previously off-putting contemporary opening song made sense! Truly and absolutely, Grease was the way were feeling.

Except for this one moment...

Didi Conn as Frenchy, drawn Fall 1978.
Crayola crayon and felt tip pen on 3-hole punch paper.

Beth, Amy and I were riding in a car with their Mom when Exile's "Kiss You All Over" came over the radio. Mrs. Barclay told us she loved it because it’s what she wanted to do to the man she was in love with. That man was not their father.

Beth and Amy were aware something was wrong, since their dad had not been living at home for some time. They were also abstractly aware that their mom had a beau, but it wasn’t that concrete of a concept until their mom made this comment. Us 3 kids were numbed by the mother's exclamation, until Beth jumped into the dead silence to try and make light of the situation by asking her mom questions about this new man. The soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Barclay was more than happy to talk about him, chatting away like a schoolgirl, failing to notice the odd looks on our faces as we struggled to make sense of it all.

"There are worse things I could do than go with a boy or two..."

Jamie Donnelly as Jan, drawn Fall 1978.
Crayola crayon and felt tip pen on 3-hole punch paper.

After Grease

I couldn’t have been more jazzed about starting junior high. My school picture bears this out, depicting a bright-faced girl giving her best Farrah smile, braces glowing from the flash bulb. It’s the look of a kid fortified by the perfection of a world created by the best of friends ready for new adventures.

The first day of school was a grand adventure. I now took a bus to Kirby Junior High, sharing a seat with Beth, pouring over our schedules. We no longer sat in one classroom all day, but flitted about from room to room, and the possibilities of all the new kids we’d meet was delicious. For the first half of the day, I delighted in the rush, the discovery, and felt so adult, so like the Pink Ladies.

Come the lunch bell, I race to the cafeteria, swarming with hundreds of kids, and I don’t even bother with food, for I’m looking for Beth. I spot her at a table, and I push my way through the crowd, and triumphantly plop down across from her and say: “This feels just like Grease! I feel like Rizzo on the first day of their last year of school!”

The T-Birds, drawn February 28, 1979.
Felt tip pens and colored pencils on 3-hole punch paper.

Beth smiles and looks up over my shoulder. I turn to see a short, puffy-faced blonde-haired boy with a lunch tray, giving me a dirty look. Beth says, “This is Johnny.”
Johnny says to me, “You took my seat.”

I stand up and Johnny slides into the vacated seat. I’m left standing there confused, staring at Beth with a thousand questions running across my face. She gives me a sheepish smile and says, “I’m having lunch with Johnny. He asked me during 3rd period.” Johnny smiles at Beth like a weasel on the make, she gives him moon eyes back, then looks back up at me and shrugs.

All the commotion around me fell silent, as my mind literally reeled. I could feel my heart beating fast, and the bottom dropping out of my soul as my pink (lady) bubble burst. I couldn’t speak, and what was there to say?

I spun around and high-tailed it out of the cafeteria, blindly pushing through the masses of kids, and out into the relative quiet of the hallway. I stood against a bank of lockers, breathing heavily as I realized I had just been tossed aside for Johnny and made a fool of, and was now all alone in this junior high adventure.

At the end of this first day, I got on the bus, expecting to at least be able to sit with Beth for the ride home, but guess who is sitting with Beth? I take a seat as far away from Beth and Johnny as possible, and stare blankly off into the distance for the entire ride.

"But to cry in front of you, that's the worst thing I could do."

My beloved Jeff Conaway as Kenickie, drawn Fall 1978
Crayola crayon and felt tip pen on 3-hole punch paper.

Within a couple of weeks of starting junior high, Beth's mom married her boyfriend immediately after the divorce was final, and she and the girls moved to the stepfather's messy ranch house in St. Charles, MO. Beth and I saw each other about once a month, still collecting Grease cards and posters, singing the songs and reciting lines, but the long commute from Black Jack to St. Charles was annoying our mothers, so we switched to long phone calls.

Keenly aware that my magical friendship and summer was now "forever autumn," I doubled-down on my creative solitude, retreating to the safe haven of Hollywood fantasy land. This was the time period I did the bulk of these Grease drawings. The TV series Taxi debuted, ramping up my Kenickie/Jeff Conaway obsession (which lasted until he died). I even wrote my own screenplay of the movie, which was more about testing my memory than any screenwriting aspirations. On yellow-orange paper Mom nabbed from work, I started with describing the ocean-side opening scenes of the movie, and typed clean through to the red car flaying off into a blue sky.

In November, Olivia Newton-John released the album Totally Hot, doubling-down on her Bad Sandy image, creating the best album of her career, and kick-starting my obsession with raccoon eye liner and leather.

Kelly Ward as Putzie, drawn Fall 1978. My apologies to Sonny and Doody for excluding them.
Crayola crayon and felt tip pen on 3-hole punch paper.

Come 1979, I discovered Blondie and New Wave. Beth discovered burnouts and drugs. We were both in the quicksand of teenage girl torture, but found different ways of dealing with it. I got on board with REO Speedwagon because she developed a liking for them, but other than that, Grease was the only common bond that remained strong. Then, even that wasn't enough, and our friendship dissipated like mist in a strong morning sun.

In August 1979, I drew this final Grease image, ending where I'd begun, but this time it was black and white rather than full color. 

Coming full circle and the end of the run, drawn August 20, 1979.
Pencil and felt tip pen on 3-hole punch paper.

PRINCIPAL McGEE: Before the merriment of commencement commences, I hope that your years with us here at Rydell have prepared you for the challenges you face... you will always have the glowing memories of Rydell High. Rydell forever! Bon voyage!

Teenage Scribbles: Tom Petty & Stevie Nicks

Tom Petty, March 27, 1980
Pencil on bond paper

Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers got lumped into New Wave for a bit, maybe because their debut album sounded like such a throwback? That label quickly proved false, but it did lead me to Damn the Torpedoes.

I was blissfully free of any Byrds or Bob Dylan associations, so I took their work at face value, and loved it. Plus, Tom Petty just came off as effortlessly cool, which was a major selling point to someone who was tragically uncool.

Looking at this old drawing reminded me of someone... who is it? Ah yes, Dale Gribble! No editorial opinion is meant by that.

Stevie Nicks, August 1982
Pencil in sketch book

Since 1975, I've had an intense love/hate relationship with Stevie Nicks. She was given a reprieve from my hatred when she started hanging around Tom Petty, reasoning that someone as cool as him would only hang with other cool people, right? Their relationship resulted in some adultery rumors for Petty's marriage and Stevie's debut solo album, of which I genuinely liked 40% of.

Back in the day, the image of Stevie Nicks was compelling, but the musical output that came from it too often bothered me. I was never a fan of poetic mysticism, save for a few tunes from The Doors. And it bothered me that she got the lion's share of attention in Fleetwood Mac, when it was clear that Lindsey Buckingham and Christine McVie consistently had the goods while Stevie was hit or miss.

A good case in point is the Fleetwood Mac album Tusk. In my mind, the 2-record set is really 3 solo albums. Christine McVie’s songs were faultless, and so organic and seemingly effortless that it was easy to once again take her for granted, rather than praise her as being the most consistently great member.

Then there were Lindsey's songs! I was captivated by the ad hoc feel of his tunes, as if he’d haphazardly thrown a mess of wet noodles on the wall and whatever stuck became a song. They sounded alive and urgent and even when he was pissed off (on something like “That’s Enough For Me”, for instance) it still sounded…fun. “Fun” was never a word one would use to describe any part of Fleetwood Mac, but neither was “alive” and “urgent,” you know? But that’s what I heard coming from him, and at times it seemed like Lindsey was making a jittery new wave record while his bandmates were putting on more cocoa butter to soak up the Southern California sun.

Then there were Stevie's songs. "Sarah" is undeniably pretty. "Angel" remains her best rock moment. But then there was "Sisters of the Moon," which makes me cringe just typing the title.

As soon as I had home-taping capability, I made a cassette of just Lindsey's Tusk songs, with some Christine bonus tracks thrown in. Pointedly, there was no Stevie. And by the time of her second solo album in 1983, I was decidedly anti-Stevie (save for the track "Enchanted"). Turns out Lindsey's production was her emperor's clothing, and here was my editorial cartoon on the matter:

For the Bird, Winter 1983
Charcoal on sketch paper

Teenage Scribbles: Jim Morrison

Jim Morrison, Spring 1981
Felt tip pen and letter stencil on bond paper

Only upon finding this stash of drawings from my teenage years did I remember how much Jim Morrison once meant to me. The 1980 publication of the Jerry Hopkins and Danny Sugarman book No One Here Gets Out Alive was a conjuring trick that resurrected the dead. And the first Second Coming of Jim Morrison culminated in his September 1981 Rolling Stone cover with a headline forever etched in my brain: “He’s hot, he’s sexy and he’s dead.”

Jim Morrison, August 1982
Pencil in sketch book

While many of The Doors’ singles were still all over the radio, the book (which I read a total of 5 times in high school – even gave an oral book report that garnered an A) led to buying and listening to the albums.  Because it was so evocative of the era, this led to a crash course in 1960s hippie history (Richard Brautigan, Peter Max, youth rebellion, free love and rampant venereal disease), and I briefly fashioned myself a modern day hippie. But hippies weren’t as glamorous as, say, The Warhol Factory, and since both camps did lots of drugs, might as well stick with The Lower East Side over Woodstock (indoor plumbing always wins).

Come the tragic murder of John Lennon, it was The Doors, The Beatles and Black Sabbath who got me through that horrible winter of 1980-81. And come the introduction of marijuana to my world, Jim Morrison’s excess was an inspiration to scale greater heights of inebriation. He set the example that constant intoxication can lead to artistic achievement, so under the ever-present gaze of an American Poet poster on the bedroom wall, I wrote horrible poetry.

Strange Days, August 1982
Pencil in sketch book

Come the time I had a boyfriend with a terrible liquor problem, I realized that Morrison de-evolved into a fat, belligerent drunk, and suddenly, the romanticism of him faking his own death evaporated. And year after year, Ray Manzarek’s non-stop worship that relived every second of Morrison’s existence seemed pathetic.  And I am still traumatized by this drum poetry reading by John Densmore.

Since 1980, Jim Morrison continues to be a Burnout Rite Of Passage, like a sexy, psychedelic teddy bear for the Freaks & Geeks years. Walk into any head shop right now, and he’s up for sale alongside the Grateful Dead and Jimi Hendrix posters.

Jim Morrison, Winter 1983
Scratchboard

But my genuine take away from that phase is two of their albums: Morrison Hotel and Waiting for the Sun.  To my ears, they stand up proud regardless of historical context or personal memories of Morrison worship… which I forgot I had till I saw these drawings.

Teenage Scribbles: Chrissie Hynde

Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders, March 22, 1980
Pencil on 3-hole punch paper

When I first heard “Brass in Pocket,” it was good enough. Being high on a New Wave frenzy, I was excited for an album that would probably be another in a series of Blondie clones, and that was fine by me.

Seeing the debut album cover for the first time at Camelot Records was exciting; it was just as simple and iconic as the cover of Parallel Lines, but more minimalist. And that red leather motorcycle jacket and fingerless gloves? It was a lightning rod for a girl still in the “dress-up” stage of life.

But once the record needle hit the first track on the album (“Precious”), it was – literally - drop-jaw time. This was so not Blondie new wave fizz – this was some serious rock shit, with dirty words, dirty thoughts and dirty guitar wrangling that had me miming an air Telecaster before ever reaching the final track, “Mystery Achievement.”

The impact of that first listen to their debut album still resonates to this day. It was the songs, the sound, the sequencing of different emotions. That a girl was at the center of it was just one of many transcendent points. But let’s focus on Chrissie Hynde.

Chrissie Hynde, May 13, 1980
Watercolor on bond paper

Whereas Debbie Harry was a goddess, Chrissie Hynde was human. No matter how much makeup and clothing I slapped on, I could never replicate a millimeter of the Harry aura. But I already had the bangs and too much eye makeup – throw in some hastily crafted fingerless gloves, buy a leather jacket and voila! – I could look like a 10^th rate knock-off of my new idol (and that I went to high school dressed like that remains one of the most embarrassing days of my youth).

As much as I needed to be inside the music I listened to, I had never felt the urge to pick up a guitar until Chrissie. In retrospect, it feels like an acoustic guitar magically popped into my hand somewhere during the 3^rd listen of side one of the album. In reality, it was a $35 Sears acoustic given by my Mom as a birthday gift the following October. But it was Chrissie who inspired the need, Nancy Wilson of Heart who seconded the motion, and that enabled a teenage girl to have the exact same experience as every teenage boy around her. Gender should not be allowed to rob one of that heady musical milestone and Chrissie made it seem as natural as getting a driving learners permit.

Pretenders Space Invaders, October 1980
Pencil and marker in sketch book

Because so much was made of Debbie Harry being A Girl, Chrissie being One of the Guys had real magic. She was following in the footsteps of her musical idols – most all of them men – and her being female never made her reconsider what she could or could not do. That she was able to accomplish all this without sublimating her natural female tendencies was a lesson quickly learned. That she did not make an issue of it made it all the more potent.

In the press, Chrissie wasn’t so much out spoken as honest about everything. From being drunk and belligerent to being broken-hearted and vulnerable, she wasn’t a manufactured image, she just was.  And none of it would have meant much for very long if not for those songs and that band of people.

James Honeyman-Scott instantly became my new guitar god, Martin Chambers made my legs twitch and Peter Farndon was so dreamy. Together, those 4 were dynamite, and I could empathize with the great thrill it must have been for Chrissie to be Just One of Those Guys. Which is why the deaths of Honeyman-Scott and Farndon were such a punch to the gut – it might as well have been the Lynyrd Skynyrd plane crash for all the destruction it caused to a great rock band.

Chrissie Hynde, August 1982
Pencil in sketch book

Chrissie and Martin recovered and moved on, and had many great moments. It’s not like Chrissie could have stopped doing the only thing she ever wanted to do in life. And in the ensuing years, even when she had moments of musical laziness or misfires, she is always genuine in much the same way Keith Richards or Iggy Pop are always true to their code. Chrissie Hynde proves that musical integrity and longevity is not just a Guy Thing, but rather it’s staying true to what you were born to do.