back in 1963 but, after dire warnings from Douglas, McLaughlin learned to hover by the microphone’s volume control during the offending song, ready to protect the vulnerable teens of Harbor Springs from lines such as ‘Girl, I’d like to lay you again’, or ‘Her ass is black and her tits are bare’.
McLaughlin liked and respected Osterberg, but was convinced that such obscenity could never win over an audience. Normally, the drummer got so carried away he didn’t even notice his screamed vocals weren’t audible. Neither did it bother his audience of apprentice teenyboppers, whose ecstatic response encouraged him to try another brief vocal spot, singing the jingle of a then-popular sugar-laden cereal, Sugar Crisp. As their drummer imitated the TV commercial’s wacky cartoon bear singing ‘Can’t get enough of that Sugar Crisp’, Jim’s fellow Iguanas were astonished to see that the resort’s female population had brought boxes of the sugary puffed-wheat concoction to the club, and were throwing it onto the stage as if at some cute performing monkey.
By the middle of that summer, McLaughlin, Swickerath and Kolokithas noticed that on their weekends off, when they would return to Ann Arbor to see their parents, or girlfriends, Jim invariably remained in their chalet at Harbor Springs, where by now he had been given his own room in a vain effort to stem the tide of mouldy peanut bars and rotting apple cores that accumulated behind the communal sofa. Much of the time, Osterberg stayed indoors, playing two LPs over and over - Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home , and The Rolling Stones Now . ‘Not a day went by that I didn’t listen to those things for hours.’ But his bandmates had no knowledge about what else he got up to during his weekends off until, one weekday evening, he invited the others up to an imposing mansion overlooking the bay. Ushered into a large dining room, Swickerath and Kolokithas were astonished to be greeted by a distinguished-looking businessman, who was introduced by Osterberg as ‘Mr Reynolds - he owns the Reynolds Aluminum Company’. The friendly industrial magnate chatted to the assembled Iguanas, telling them what a fan his daughter was of their music, before handing each of them a chisel and asking them to inscribe their names into a huge aluminium table that dominated the room. Soon it transpired that Jim hung out with the daughters of the Wrigley’s Chewing Gum family too, while on other weekends he had worked his charm on Chuck Bowbeer, owner of the Depot House, an arty coffee bar based in a railway carriage, and persuaded him to host Jim’s poetry readings. They never knew whether Jim invited girls other than Lynn Klavitter back to their quarters, but McLaughlin, who at one point had shared a bed with Jim in their tiny chalet, decided to change the arrangement after noticing some fresh stains on the sheets. ‘Sorry about that,’ Osterberg informed him with typical bluster when McLaughlin complained. ‘It was either that or fatherhood.’
Osterberg worked his magic on visiting musicians too. When famed bouffant-haired girl group the Shangri-Las came to town, most of the Iguanas were in a cold funk at the prospect of backing such legends. ‘I was terrified,’ says McLaughlin, ‘but Jim said, this is going to be great, screw the practical side, man, we’re on with the Shangri-Las.’ After an hour of practice in the afternoon with the band’s ‘greasy lead-guitar-player slash manager slash roadie-guy’ they hit the stage, with McLaughlin babbling, ‘Which one is the candy store one, what are the chords, this is going to be a disaster!’ But: ‘Jim was perfect. He had the confidence, he knew no one would notice if we made any mistakes. And they didn’t.’
McLaughlin and band disliked the Shangri-Las’ brunette back-up singers, but they suspected Jim had something going with the blonde one. He had a knack of getting on with whatever band they worked with, whether
McLaughlin liked and respected Osterberg, but was convinced that such obscenity could never win over an audience. Normally, the drummer got so carried away he didn’t even notice his screamed vocals weren’t audible. Neither did it bother his audience of apprentice teenyboppers, whose ecstatic response encouraged him to try another brief vocal spot, singing the jingle of a then-popular sugar-laden cereal, Sugar Crisp. As their drummer imitated the TV commercial’s wacky cartoon bear singing ‘Can’t get enough of that Sugar Crisp’, Jim’s fellow Iguanas were astonished to see that the resort’s female population had brought boxes of the sugary puffed-wheat concoction to the club, and were throwing it onto the stage as if at some cute performing monkey.
By the middle of that summer, McLaughlin, Swickerath and Kolokithas noticed that on their weekends off, when they would return to Ann Arbor to see their parents, or girlfriends, Jim invariably remained in their chalet at Harbor Springs, where by now he had been given his own room in a vain effort to stem the tide of mouldy peanut bars and rotting apple cores that accumulated behind the communal sofa. Much of the time, Osterberg stayed indoors, playing two LPs over and over - Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home , and The Rolling Stones Now . ‘Not a day went by that I didn’t listen to those things for hours.’ But his bandmates had no knowledge about what else he got up to during his weekends off until, one weekday evening, he invited the others up to an imposing mansion overlooking the bay. Ushered into a large dining room, Swickerath and Kolokithas were astonished to be greeted by a distinguished-looking businessman, who was introduced by Osterberg as ‘Mr Reynolds - he owns the Reynolds Aluminum Company’. The friendly industrial magnate chatted to the assembled Iguanas, telling them what a fan his daughter was of their music, before handing each of them a chisel and asking them to inscribe their names into a huge aluminium table that dominated the room. Soon it transpired that Jim hung out with the daughters of the Wrigley’s Chewing Gum family too, while on other weekends he had worked his charm on Chuck Bowbeer, owner of the Depot House, an arty coffee bar based in a railway carriage, and persuaded him to host Jim’s poetry readings. They never knew whether Jim invited girls other than Lynn Klavitter back to their quarters, but McLaughlin, who at one point had shared a bed with Jim in their tiny chalet, decided to change the arrangement after noticing some fresh stains on the sheets. ‘Sorry about that,’ Osterberg informed him with typical bluster when McLaughlin complained. ‘It was either that or fatherhood.’
Osterberg worked his magic on visiting musicians too. When famed bouffant-haired girl group the Shangri-Las came to town, most of the Iguanas were in a cold funk at the prospect of backing such legends. ‘I was terrified,’ says McLaughlin, ‘but Jim said, this is going to be great, screw the practical side, man, we’re on with the Shangri-Las.’ After an hour of practice in the afternoon with the band’s ‘greasy lead-guitar-player slash manager slash roadie-guy’ they hit the stage, with McLaughlin babbling, ‘Which one is the candy store one, what are the chords, this is going to be a disaster!’ But: ‘Jim was perfect. He had the confidence, he knew no one would notice if we made any mistakes. And they didn’t.’
McLaughlin and band disliked the Shangri-Las’ brunette back-up singers, but they suspected Jim had something going with the blonde one. He had a knack of getting on with whatever band they worked with, whether
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