We probably should have known our performance would be a fiasco. My friend and fellow high school senior Don asked me if I wanted to form a band and play at the school Gong Show, so the two of us worked up “C’mon Everybody” on acoustic guitars. We didn’t have a drummer yet, but we stayed together enough with my Casiotone drum machine to impress the booking committee. Shortly after they accepted us, Don asked our classmate Rich to play drums. We rehearsed a few times. In what would prove to be a fatal mistake, we never actually practiced with a full drum kit. Rich would come over and bang out his parts on a drum pad or a piece of wood. We didn’t even see his drum set until the night of the show.

We were scheduled to play “C’mon Everybody” at the very end of the night. Earlier, a “real” band had played - some guys from the smoking lounge who covered Ozzy’s “Bark At The Moon.” No sweat, we figured: we’ll just go on, play our song and win the audience over. We took our places. Rich started playing drums. I immediately realized that I couldn’t hear either of our guitars or Don’s vocals. We must have sounded like the Shaggs. We stopped, we started again, and the same thing happened.

There was a nauseating moment as the audience went from silent to murmuring to heckling. That’s when I saw it out of the corner of my eye: for the first time that evening, one of the teacher/judges had leapt from behind her table, brandishing a pan that had been refurbished as a “gong.” Her hand motions were clear. “Should I do it? Should I do it?” The audience shouted their affirmation. “Do it!”

A tinny CRASH! sounded. We gave up as the real band set up for their preplanned “encore” (it was in the program!) of Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love.” One of Don’s friends broke a cafeteria window to show his displeasure. I just found my parents, who took me home. No one said anything in the car. I didn’t cry or scream at the injustice of it all. I just sat very quietly in my room for the whole weekend. (I did, however, write an outraged editorial in the next issue of our underground newspaper.) It’s been more than two decades, and I still can’t listen to “C’mon Everybody” or any other Eddie Cochran songs, but the experience boosted my appreciation for the Kinks’ “All Of My Friends Were There.”