Friday morning, we were lounging on the bus, an hour out of Chicago, where we had just completed three nights of concerts amidst a city torn by race riots and the mass murder of eight nursing students by some psycho named Richard Speck. I was trying to show Bobby how much easier it was to play his alto sax than what I played in the school band, the clarinet. The fingerings were almost exactly the same except you had to cover holes rather than press keys. They differ in that the saxophone overblows the octave while the clarinet overblows a perfect 12th or an octave plus a 5th. So, when the saxophone or clarinet plays a D on the fourth line of the staff the same fingering is used. But when I tried to play Bach’s “Minuet in G Major,” (nowadays credited correctly to Christian Petzold) the basis of The Toys’ hit, “A Lover’s Concerto,” it was less than good.

“It’s my embouchure. I can never get it right. Even on clarinet.” I handed the saxophone back to Bobby and blushed before my attentive audience of bandmates.

“I guess your lips are only shaped perfectly for singing…and kissing,” laughed Chubby, our pianist. Bobby looked down at the floor as my face grew even redder.

“Guys! Hank and I have a little announcement. An addition to our tour itinerary. We’re playing the Newport Folk Festival the Saturday after next!” Billy stepped aside to reveal Hank standing behind him.

“I had nothing to do with it. It’s all Billy. Billy, want to tell us why a soul music band is playing a folk music festival?”

“When I first realized we were scheduled to play Boston that very same weekend, a genius idea came to me.” The guys all groaned in mock derision. “Newport’s only a 90-minute drive from Boston. Our Cleveland date’s on Thursday. We play Boston on Sunday and Monday. If we get in a day earlier, we can hit Newport. Expand our audience. Get some good press.”

“I don’t care about good press, Billy. How does playing a folk festival help us sell more records? “Kumbaya” ain’t topping the charts these days. Anyways, that audience doesn’t want to hear pop songs. They’ll boo us off the stage once they see we got electric instruments and drums.”

“Times they are a-changing, Hank. The Lovin’ Spoonful – a rock band – is on the same night we are. And Dylan went electric a year ago—”

“Didn’t they boo him off the stage?” asked Bobby.

“That was overblown by the press. A small minority of the audience booed. But they clapped up a storm, begging him to come back out for two encores. I think Dylan was more upset than the audience.”

“But we ain’t got nothing in our set-list that you’d call folk music,” Hank pointed out.

“I thought of that and I’m going to work with Shuggie to add a couple of folk-inflected numbers to the set. I’ll back her up on acoustic guitar.”

“Good. For a moment there I was afraid the band would have to do a few choruses of “We Shall Overcome” or “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

“Hank, you’re a genius!” Billy slapped Hank on the back and rushed up the stairs to the upper deck of the bus, where, for most of the five-hour drive to Detroit, you could hear him strumming away on his guitar and singing in a low voice.

Since we had concerts on consecutive nights in Detroit, Billy had us booked into the famous Holiday Inn where The Rolling Stones had stayed in ’64 and ’65 on their American tours. The hotel was located in the heart of Corktown, the oldest neighborhood in the city, just blocks away from Tiger Stadium. In fact, Bobby was excited to learn The Tigers were home, playing a doubleheader on Sunday against The Cleveland Indians. He dragged me to the first game, which started at 2 in the afternoon, although I couldn’t care less about baseball (or any other sports for that matter). We bought Tigers caps to keep the searing sunshine from blinding us as we sat in the bleachers. Bobby said I looked really cute in the cap. I guess I looked a little too cute because some beer-splattered bleacher bum started to paw me when we all stood up for the obligatory seventh-inning stretch. Bobby almost decked the guy before two of his buddies pulled him back and into his seat. He left us alone for the rest of the game, but his snoring was rather annoying. Unfortunately for the home team fans, the Tigers lost 7 to 3. We rode a city bus from the stadium to The Olympia, where the band was scheduled to play that evening. The ride took 15 minutes. Waiting for the bus took a half an hour.

We had just come off stage to a standing ovation from the capacity crowd of 13,000 in The Red Barn, as the locals called The Olympia because of its red brick edifice, after a stirring performance of our encore number, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” done in the special concert-length arrangement Billy had written. An excited Billy corralled us backstage and was almost hyper-ventilating before he spoke to us.

“Great news, guys! Just spoke to Bryce Reynolds. He was here tonight and he was overwhelmed by your performance tonight—”

“Who the hell is Bryce Reynolds?” Hank asked.

“He’s the music columnist for the Amalgamated Press Syndicate. His column appears in 300 newspapers across the country. And he’s gonna write us up in his next column. This could mean real national exposure—”

“Yeah, but, teenage record buyers don’t read newspaper columnists,” Hank countered.

“Network executives read them. They book hot bands on network TV shows. That’ll push record sales. Record sales push concert tours. We could be in Europe next summer!”

“I’m just tired right now. Let’s get back to the hotel.” He gently moved Billy out of his way and walked toward the exit to the parking lot where the buses were readying to leave. Everyone in the band shrugged their shoulders at Hank’s moody behavior.

I sat down next to Hank on the bus ride to the Holiday Inn. He was uncharacteristically quiet, just peering out the window at the dark Detroit streets.

“What’s wrong, Hank? Everyone’s really excited by what Billy told us. Maybe we could get booked on The Hollywood Palace or Shivaree. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“It won’t be the same if Honey doesn’t come back.”

“What did her mother say? You went to see her today, right?”

“She hasn’t heard from Honey either. The only thing she thinks is that Honey’s in New York maybe signing a solo recording deal. Could be with Atlantic. I know Jerry Wexler’s been after her for a while. He thinks he could be another Aretha.”

“But you’re not just concerned about her going solo, are you?”

“Nah, Shuggie, a lot of people wouldn’t believe me, including Billy, but I really do love Honey. She’s a load to handle. Got a temper like a volcano erupting. And she thinks I’m making time with every girl I see—”

“She didn’t think you and me…”

“Probably. That’s her. Green-eyed monster, you know. But, more power to her if she wants her own career, separate from me. I just want her back in my life. I’m not sure she wants that.” He turned back to the window as the bus turned right off Michigan Avenue onto 12th Street. The Holiday Inn loomed in the near distance.

For the rest of the week until we set foot on the stage at The Newport Folk Festival, our soundchecks were mostly Billy taking the band through the songs he had added to our set-list, songs customized for the Newport audience. Which meant I had to learn the lyrics to them as well as memorize all the musical cues. Bobby and I were great helps to Billy since we were the only bandmembers other than Chubby who could read a music sheet. Hank had the best line: “Now I know more than three chords. I can write me a symphony!”

The long, hot Midwest summer of 1966 continued as we played single dates in Milwaukee and Cleveland during the following week. It was a good thing we simply hopped off the bus in Cleveland, played a two-hour concert in The Cleveland Arena (10,000 capacity), and hopped back onto the bus to leave town. Beginning on Sunday, the 17th, the predominantly African American Hough section of the city had ignited into six long days and nights of looting and rioting following a racial incident in a white-owned bar in the neighborhood. Four young black men were killed, another 50 injured in the melee. For a teenager raised in the relatively sequestered environs of suburban New Jersey, these glimpses into the burning pyre of racial and social unrest in America’s heartland were shocking and deeply disturbing. My head was spinning. But I had my own issues to deal with. Somehow it was comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one who found life a harrowing journey and had chosen a hard road to go down.

One of the benefits of adding The Newport Folk Festival to our tour was Billy’s decision to have us stay at The Hotel Madison in Boston instead of sleeping on the bus. Since we would be in the area for four nights, it made sense to spend the extra coin. The Hotel Madison was next door to The Boston Garden where we were scheduled to perform on Sunday and Monday nights. We could almost literally hop out of bed and land on stage.

When Bobby told me he had somewhere in mind to spend Friday evening, I was afraid he wanted to see The Boston Red Sox play at Fenway Park. They were at home this weekend. Fortunately, he was anxious to go see Duke Ellington and his orchestra perform the complete “A Concert of Sacred Music,” his latest album, at The United Methodist Church, a 10-minute drive from the North End of Boston. This was Ellington’s collection of songs and tone poems, an attempt to create a jazz mass or liturgy. It had been critically well-received as a noble concretion of jazz, spirituals, and religion. Bobby was most interested in hearing one of his alto sax heroes Johnny Hodges play live. My own favorite from the concert was “Come Sunday,” a musical prayer to a caring God.

The next morning at breakfast, instead of an ebullient Bobby full of enthusiasm over seeing the Ellington concert the night before, I sat across from an expressionless mannequin who hardly spoke two words to me.

“Are you going to be like this all day? Tired of me already?”

“No, I got some bad news from home last night after we got back to our rooms.”

“Oh no, it’s not your parents or your sisters, I hope.”

“It’s…it’s nothing to do with them. They’re fine.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“We weren’t talking about anything else. At least you weren’t saying a word about anything. We could go back to just staring at each other. I wouldn’t mind that too much.” I laughed, trying to lighten his mood. But he just receded farther from view, becoming mute again. “Well, we’re not due on the bus until noon. Why don’t we walk around The North End? See the sights. There’s the Paul Revere House, the Old North Church, Little Italy…”

It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning but taking a walking tour of The North End with Bobby was tantamount to sightseeing by myself. He was occupied by whatever mysterious thoughts had crept into his head after his phone call from home. For a connoisseur of street food, he was remarkably unaffected by the Italian ices and cannoli we picked up in Little Italy. Whatever was bothering him, I squeezed his hand to let him know I was there for him. But he didn’t offer any explanation for his zombie impersonation, even after we boarded the bus to take us out to Newport.

A 90-minute drive from Boston, The Newport Folk Festival is held on a site in Fort Adams State Park on the southern tip of Rhode Island. A four-day presentation of musical genres loosely grouped together by tradition and the use of acoustic, mostly stringed instruments: gospel, bluegrass, folk music of the British Isles, Americana, and some modern folk-pop. The headliners for Saturday night’s bill included Phil Ochs, Judy Collins, Howlin’ Wolf, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, The Lovin’ Spoonful, and, of course, The Hank Hutch Band (featuring me!).

Backstage, waiting around to go through our perfunctory soundcheck, Bobby and I were listening to Phil Ochs perform his lovely update on the traditional sea chanty, “Pleasures of the Harbor,” when John Sebastian and Zal Yanovsky of The Lovin’ Spoonful wandered into view.

“Hey, Sugar Pie! Jim Morrison says hello,” Yanovsky shouted as he approached. I winced at the mention of Morrison and subtly moved behind Bobby, hoping to hide from view.

“He said you pushed Honey Hutch out of the band. I can see why. Jim said you can even sing a little,” Yanovsky laughed, holding his hand out to Bobby. “Zal Yanovsky, guitar man, Lovin’ Spoonful. My partner, the immortal John Sebastian, singer and poet.” Bobby shook Zal’s hand in silence, as I stayed behind his wide shoulders.

“We were just in L.A. and caught The Doors at The Whisky. Jim couldn’t stop talking about you,” Sebastian noted, shifting his stance to get a look at me.

“Wha…what did he say about me?”

“Not much really. Just that he thought you were going to be “the next thing.” He said you aced it at The Bowl. They were late getting back to The Whisky because they stayed to watch your set. Elmer was really pissed when they finally showed up for the late show. He almost clocked Jim when he argued with him. Ex-cops are the wrong guys to have words with, ya dig?” Zal smiled knowingly. Bobby perked up and inched closer to Yanovsky.

“Hey, I read about you getting arrested in L.A. a couple of months ago. For grass, right?”

“Yeah, the fuzz out there are real fascists about smoking a little tea. They almost had me deported back to Canada. Bob, our manager, got me some Perry Mason-type legal counsel and the whole thing’s pretty much blown over. Ironic, but a lot of American kids are dying to be sent to Canada. Better dead in Saskatoon than dead in ‘Nam, eh?”

“You’re talking about draft dodgers?” Bobby quickly asked.

“We Canadians aren’t for the War. Kids who cross the border aren’t shunned. Maybe not downright welcomed but you can have a good life in Canada if you’re a straight arrow. I know some dudes in Toronto who made the “great escape.”

“Do you have to apply for citizenship?”

“We call them landed immigrants. But, hey, there’s no turning back. It’s not as bad as being a deserter but you can kiss returning here goodbye. Like I said, the fuzz will be on your ass if you ever show your face again. Why, you know someone who’s been drafted and wants to run?”

“Uh, no, just curious—”

“We’re next, Zal. Come on. See you guys around. I think you’re closing the bill tonight. Right after our set. It’ll be tough to follow our act.” John laughed and grabbed Zal to walk onto the stage. I shot Bobby a long look as his eyes followed John and Zal. Something was definitely up with him. I just didn’t know what.

10,000 lovers of folk music sat in rapt attention as the warm New England summer evening settled in, peaking in enthusiasm when Judy Collins introduced Pete Seeger in the middle of her set to sing a duet of Seeger’s famous transcription of Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8, “Turn, Turn, Turn.”

It was 11PM when The Lovin’ Spoonful trundled onto the stage. Surprisingly, a loud roar erupted from the audience when John Sebastian cradled his autoharp to strum it and winked at some girl in the front row. It was like a wave of teenage spirit had suddenly and shockingly washed over the seemingly geriatric crowd. They launched into “Do You Believe in Magic?” their first hit song from the previous year. The song had an infectious bounce to it but it was the lyrics that hit me where I lived. Was the girl John singing about…me?

Do you believe in magic in a young girl's heart?
How the music can free her whenever it starts
And it's magic if the music is groovy
It makes you feel happy like an old-time movie
I'll tell you about the magic, and it'll free your soul

It had been the summer of Shuggie’s freedom, and music was the magic potion. I wanted to drink more of it. Keep on drinking it. I rushed onto the stage after The Lovin’ Spoonful finished their set to a raucous ovation and gripped the microphone in a state of rapture. We were barely announced when the band pierced the silence with the opening bars of “Oh No Not My Baby.” I sang my heart out, emotions on point as the feeling of impending doom in my relationship with Bobby grew with every baleful expression clouding his face.

The crowd warmed to us as we progressed through our usual setlist. Even Hank seemed to enjoy playing to the kind of audience he had never envisioned appealing to. For an encore, the band had cleared off and left me alone, standing at centerstage. Billy strolled out, carrying an acoustic guitar and a stool. Seated comfortably, he began to pick out the notes to a song I’m sure with which everyone in the crowd was familiar: “The House of the Rising Sun.”

The audience shouted and stomped their feet, pleading for another encore. Hank slapped Billy on the back. “Do it, man. Here’s your chance.” To rhythmic clapping, the band reassembled as Billy strapped on his guitar at centerstage. The string section and Bobby on flute played the intro to “Glory, Glory Hallelujah,” Billy’s arrangement of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

In the parking lot, as we climbed onto the bus to take us back to the Hotel Madison in Boston, I saw Bobby and Zal Yanovsky engaged in an animated conversation as they stood by The Spoonful’s Ford Econoline van. I shouted to Bobby, motioning for him to board our bus before we left without him. He shook hands with Zal and ran to the bus, hopping on just as the driver closed the doors.

“What was so interesting that you almost missed the bus?”

“He told me where to score some great weed in Boston,” Bobby shrugged as he slumped into the seat next to me.

“Something’s going on with you. Just tell me already.”

“Not just yet. I’ve got some things to work out.” He kissed my forehead and turned to look out the window. Meanwhile, Hank was telling Billy he ought to revive his performing career. Billy just smiled.

It was Sunday night, after the first of our two dates at The Boston Garden, and, dead tired, I collapsed on the bed in my hotel room. As I said, the Garden was virtually next door to our hotel, so ten minutes after our last bow, I was already sinking into the arms of Morpheus, still dressed in my stage clothes. Bailey was nowhere to be found. My roommate had gone off with some guy she knew from her childhood in Jamaica who had emigrated to Boston. I wasn’t likely to see her again until the next afternoon. The phone rang loudly and insistently, shaking me awake at the stroke of midnight.

“Shuggie, it’s me.”

“Who’s me?” I asked groggily.

“Your big sister, squirt. I can’t believe I woke you up. I thought show people stay up till dawn and sleep into the afternoon.”

“Connie, why are you calling me?”

“Not much for small talk, are you?”

“I was asleep. I intend to go back to sleep as soon as possible.”

“I just wanted to check in with you. I do care about you…sort of. I just got back from Mom and Dad’s, and they told me something that I’m sure was devastating news to you—”

“What are you talking about?”

“About Bobby getting his draft letter. I thought you’d be in tears—”

“Can’t be. He would’ve told me. Are you sure Mom and Dad were talking about my Bobby?”

“They found out from Bobby’s mom. The letter came Thursday. He’s got to report to the induction center in Newark on August 1st. That’s a Monday, I think. Why wouldn’t he have told you?” I started sobbing. “Shuggie? You’ve got to talk to him. I think it’s cruel for him to keep this from you. So, he was going to just up and disappear next week? You’ve got to rethink your relationship with that dude—”

“I’ve got to go, Connie,” I said between sobs. “Thanks for calling.”

“Hey, let me know what—”

I hung up and ran out into hallway. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I was in front of Bobby’s room, banging loudly on the door, and shouting his name. Someone from across the hall popped his head out and was about to say something when Bobby opened the door.

“Shuggie, what’s going on? Why are you crying?” I wiped my tears with my sleeve.

“Bobby, we have to talk.” I pulled him out of the room into the hallway. “Let’s go to my room. Now!”

After shutting the door to my room, I motioned for Bobby to sit on the bed.

“Where’s Bailey?” he asked.

“She probably won’t be back tonight.” I sat down on the bed next to Bobby and hugged him. The tears started to flow again. “Weren’t you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“I know, Bobby. Connie just called and told me. Your draft letter came Thursday.”

“I didn’t want to bring you down. I mean, you’re a star now. What happens to me can’t affect you and your future. It shouldn’t. You’re going to make it big. I know it!”

“Forget about my future, Bobby. What about your future? They could send you to Vietnam. And…and you could end up…oh, Bobby, I can’t lose you. I love you. I’ve always loved you—” Bobby held me in his arms as I completely lost it. After a few minutes, Bobby wiped my cheeks with his thumb.

“I’m going to go to Canada. Zal told me there are hundreds of Americans in Toronto and they’re accepted. They can work, even go to school. They can live their lives.”

“But you’ll never be able to come back. They’d put you in prison if they caught you. Are you really serious about doing that?”

“We’re in Toronto next weekend. All I have to do is stay behind when you guys leave for Buffalo on that Monday. I could get a gig within the week. There’s lots of jazz clubs in Toronto.”

“Have you told Billy?”

“Yeah, I told him on Saturday at Newport.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me to keep mum about it to you.”

“What?”

“I could see his point. It’s a distraction you don’t need right now. You’re becoming the star attraction of the band. Everybody’s depending on you to keep this tour afloat.”

“How could you think so little of what we are to each other that you’d listen to Billy? That’s bullshit. I’m a nobody. When Honey comes back—”

“Regardless, I was thinking of you, Shuggie. You’re going places. You have talent. You’ll find someone a whole lot better than me. Smarter, more successful, better looking...okay, not better looking.” He laughed and made me snort and hiccup.

“I’ll go with you, Bobby. I’ll stay behind in Toronto with you. We’ll do this together. I’m your woman…forever.”

“No, you’re not, Shuggie. Billy loves you. He’ll make sure you become the person you were meant to be. I can’t help you anymore.”

“I’ve made up my mind, Robert Eugene Messina. And you can’t make me change it.”