By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
"I do not play to musicians," says Dale, whose career is riding high again thanks to Tribal Thunder, the startlingly good HighTone Records album released last year. "I play to the people. I've never taken a lesson in my life, and I can play every instrument there is. I play by ear, but I can fool anybody into thinking I went to some conservatory of music. I create a nonchemical river of sound, and I never know what I'm playing next or how I'm going to play it. I just start ripping and take what I feel from the audience--and it comes. There's no bullshit. If you're not sweating, you're stealing people's money. That's why people feel what I do. In all these years, I've never had one person walk out of a show and say, `Dick Dale's a fake,' or, `He sucks.' One and one is two with Dick Dale. It's not three, like these politicians say. The kids who've been following me around on this tour call my music `Dick Rock,' and they call themselves `Dickheads.' And the reason they do that is because music is an attitude--and man, my whole life has been an attitude, too."
According to the loquacious Mr. Dale, what's been written about him over the years has been largely inaccurate--"because a lot of historians weren't even born when this stuff was going on, or were wearing diapers." These ho-dads have mangled the record, Dale asserts--but he's more than happy to set things straight, in absolutely staggering detail. "If you ask me what time it is," he says, "I'm going to tell you how to build a clock."
The Dale legend began in 1954, when young Dick, a native of Quincy, Massachusetts, moved with his father to Southern California. By the following year he was immersed in the surf culture--"I surfed from sunup to sundown," he recalls --and had co-founded a motorcycle/car club known as the Sultans of Southwest L.A. Just as important, he was a budding musician who had the good fortune to meet Leo Fender, the famed guitar and amplifier designer Dale calls "a genius, like Einstein. He gave me this guitar, a Stratocaster, and said, `Play it, beat the devil out of it, and then tell me what you think.'" Dale thought plenty of this particular Strat; he still plays it today.
When he wasn't hanging ten, Dale was hanging out at the Rinky Dink Ice Cream Parlor in Balboa. "This kid named Billy played the piano there," Dale notes. "His sister and his stepsister, these two long-legged beauties, wore these little leotards and did modern dancing while he played this Jerry Lee Lewis plinkety-plink-type thing that I really enjoyed." Soon, Dale had convinced Billy to let him sit in, and the rocking sounds they made began to attract crowds. The owner of the parlor was so impressed by the increase in business that he raised the group's nightly wage from $6 to $10. When Dale and company asked for $15, however, they were sacked.
Dale was not depressed by this turn of events. He and his father promptly contacted the owners of Balboa's Rendezvous Ballroom, a massive venue (capacity 4,000) that had sat unused, with the exception of high school graduation exercises and similar events, since a failed attempt to revive the big-band era. Although Dale says the city fathers regarded his style of playing as "evil--devil music," he was allowed to rent the ballroom as long as those attending wore ties. "They felt, `If they're dressed up, there won't be any trouble,'" Dale remembers, laughing. "So my dad and I bought a box of ties and handed them out at the door. The first night [May 31, 1958] there were seventeen surfers with ties and bare feet."
From this humble beginning, Dale built a rabid following that filled the Rendezvous night after night to hear his unique guitar sound. "Hank Williams was one of my big influences, so what I was actually doing was playing country music," he claims. "But I was doing it with this ruck-a-tuck beat that I'd developed from listening to [big-band drummer] Gene Krupa. It was this rickety-dickety-dickety-dickety feeling and a bump-bump-bump-bump--that really heavy sound--with the Gene Krupa music-is-sex thing. It just got everybody dancing, doing the jitterbug and the lindy with their petticoats flying. They loved the rhythms that I was playing."
The surf sound Dale pioneered was vastly influential, but he wasn't able to translate it into the kind of fame the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean and the Ventures achieved; his songs "Let's Go Trippin'" and "Miserlou" were popular in the early Sixties among surfing aficionados, but failed to hit the Billboard Top 40. To Dale, the reason is simple: "`Let's Go Trippin'' was so tinny that I smashed it against a wall in frustration when I heard it. Every time I tried to record, I'd get some engineer who'd say, `I can't capture your guitar. It's too big, too heavy, it's bleeding into everything, we're going to have to pad it.' So they'd pad it and it would sound like shit, it was so tinny."