The Nightcrawlers, that Daytona Beach rock band with the cool hit song "The Little Black Egg," disbanded in 1966. Six months later the song got even bigger, landing in Billboard's Hot 100 chart at No. 85.
Guitarist Sylvan Wells is convinced the end of the group saved his life.
"All of us have said the same thing: If we had kept going, I don't think any of us would be alive today," Wells said by phone from his home near Boston. "We were lucky we got in and got out without getting heavily into the drug stuff."
Sure, Wells' comments seem like hyperbole. "Rock 'n' roll eats its young. So what? Yadda yadda yadda."
We think of Jimi, Jim and Janis, and Sid Vicious and Kurt. But then we flip the radio dial in our psyches and get back to diggin' the music, willfully ignoring its shadow side.
I've interviewed dozens of pop music stars over the years: Janet Jackson, Aerosmith's Joe Perry, Tori Amos, the Roots' ?uestlove, Motley Crue's Nikki Sixx.
But the stars won't talk about the shadow side -- unless, of course, they have penned a "tell-all" confessional memoir about how they survived the sex and drugs to emerge triumphant.
Such accounts aren't so confessional. A publicist will warn before an interview that Joe Rock Star will not answer questions about his dust-up with the cops or his meltdown in a Hollywood cafe. Or Jane Rockette lets slip a tantalizing half-confession during an interview, then shuts down any follow-up questions.
Those "tell-all" memoirs always leave some of the story untold. Rock does eat its young, and those who survive don't talk about the demons they glimpsed in the mirror.
And so some of the deepest glimpses I've had into rock 'n' roll came from the near-stars, such as Wells with his heartfelt contemplation of fate.
Or the time I interviewed the Honeyrods, a young Nashville rock band, and its frontman stammered "We're just kids!" which sounded at once like a P.R.-concocted credo and a fright-spawned slip of the tongue.
Or the time my late News-Journal colleague Tom Tucker, who played with the pre-fame Allman brothers before choosing a career in journalism, said to me: "Rick, the music business is just sleazy."
Tom fell silent, and I was dumbstruck by the utterly sad look on his face. I could tell he didn't want to say anything more.
Wells believes the Nightcrawlers could have continued and become "the biggest thing in America. You say, 'What if?' Today I have two kids and five grandchildren. All of us are still good friends and all of us have done well in life. What more could you ask for?"
Some of the joy the band created back in the day can be seen in the documentary film "Cracking the Egg: The Untold Story of the Nightcrawlers," available soon on DVD at Atlantic Sounds in Daytona Beach.
And I still recall the time I ventured with my guitar to Tom's Ormond Beach home for a jam session, and Sylvan dropped by, and Tom got out his guitar and said, "Hey, listen to this!" and he broke into "The Little Black Egg."
And the smile on all our faces was one of the greatest rock 'n' roll joys I've ever had.
We think of Jimi, Jim and Janis, and Sid Vicious and Kurt. But then we flip the radio dial in our psyches and get back to diggin' the music, willfully ignoring its shadow side.
I've interviewed dozens of pop music stars over the years: Janet Jackson, Aerosmith's Joe Perry, Tori Amos, the Roots' ?uestlove, Motley Crue's Nikki Sixx.
But the stars won't talk about the shadow side -- unless, of course, they have penned a "tell-all" confessional memoir about how they survived the sex and drugs to emerge triumphant.
Such accounts aren't so confessional. A publicist will warn before an interview that Joe Rock Star will not answer questions about his dust-up with the cops or his meltdown in a Hollywood cafe. Or Jane Rockette lets slip a tantalizing half-confession during an interview, then shuts down any follow-up questions.
Those "tell-all" memoirs always leave some of the story untold. Rock does eat its young, and those who survive don't talk about the demons they glimpsed in the mirror.
And so some of the deepest glimpses I've had into rock 'n' roll came from the near-stars, such as Wells with his heartfelt contemplation of fate.
Or the time I interviewed the Honeyrods, a young Nashville rock band, and its frontman stammered "We're just kids!" which sounded at once like a P.R.-concocted credo and a fright-spawned slip of the tongue.
Or the time my late News-Journal colleague Tom Tucker, who played with the pre-fame Allman brothers before choosing a career in journalism, said to me: "Rick, the music business is just sleazy."
Tom fell silent, and I was dumbstruck by the utterly sad look on his face. I could tell he didn't want to say anything more.
Wells believes the Nightcrawlers could have continued and become "the biggest thing in America. You say, 'What if?' Today I have two kids and five grandchildren. All of us are still good friends and all of us have done well in life. What more could you ask for?"
Some of the joy the band created back in the day can be seen in the documentary film "Cracking the Egg: The Untold Story of the Nightcrawlers," available soon on DVD at Atlantic Sounds in Daytona Beach.
And I still recall the time I ventured with my guitar to Tom's Ormond Beach home for a jam session, and Sylvan dropped by, and Tom got out his guitar and said, "Hey, listen to this!" and he broke into "The Little Black Egg."
And the smile on all our faces was one of the greatest rock 'n' roll joys I've ever had.
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