Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

turkeys like ten-pins. "Now, Buster," sighed the flyboy, "Tell me — what's your big sweat?" Bobby Shane grinned. "Well, tomorrow"— he glanced at his watch — "yeah, tomorrow, I'm getting married in Washington, D.C." The pilot grunted congratulations, the fact that Washington was almost a thousand miles away and he sincerely hoped Bob made it. If he'd known the hi-balling Kingston Trio better that skeptical crack was hardly worth the breath it took to utter. Bobby Shane made it to the altar on time, of course, and with him Dave Guard and Nick Reynolds, who wouldn't have missed the fun for anything. To get there from the turkey patch they hiked to town, commandeered a car, drove all day, played their date that night, then hopped for the Capital, arriving at 3:00 a.m. That afternoon all were sharp for the joyous rites. But next morning — the groom was rousted out of his nuptial bed at six to take off once more. And his pretty Dixie bride didn't lay eyes on him for a full month! For the Kingston Trio, such risks and rigors of big time barnstorming, mixed with richer rewards, have been par for the course — ever since Tom Dooley sent them winging a little over a year ago. Going for broke with a dream In that time they've hustled over 150,000 miles to meet the demand for their clean cut folk-and-rhythm harmonies, witty cut-ups and quips. They've played over a hundred college campuses, almost as many clubs, fairs and theaters, and missed only one date. To make it, they've scrambled by train, plane, boat, bus, truck, hack, and — as Dave Guard puts it — "If they'll bring over some coolies we'll go by rickshaw." Along the way, they've sweltered and frozen, slept standing up and gulped vitamins like jelly beans to keep going. Often they've worked eighteen hours out of twenty-four and started all over again after a couple for shut-eye. But they've also had packed houses wait three hours to hear them sing, after something broke down, as happened last year in Lawrence, Kansas. At Indiana U., just the other day, tickets vanished one hour after they went on sale for a date two months ahead. Right now they're booked ahead solid until next May. What with albums, gold records, TV, clubs and one nighters, Nick, Bob and Dave will rack up a cool million this year for their pipes and patter and they'll top that in '60. Yet, their really important payoff — which Dave Guard, Nick Reynolds and Bob Shane gratefully recognize — is something you can't measure in tax brackets or fickle fame. A good sample is just what happened that March 15th in Washington when Bob made beautiful Louise Brandon his bride, with his pals standing by. That day playboy Bob, last bachelor of the bunch, snugged down meaning, at last, for his young life — and the Kingston Trio became the Kingston Sextette. Today, three wives named Gretchen Guard, Joan Reynolds and Louise Shane are helping build three purposeful lives with three once aimless, knockaround guys. But that wouldn't have happened if the boys hadn't teamed up first and gone for broke with a dream. And that's not all — "There's no doubt about it," states Bob Shane flatly. "We've all been good for each other. By getting together this Trio has solved the emotional problems of three fairly mixed-up guys." "Face it," confirms Dave Guard. "We were a bunch of wild hairs pointing in all directions until we tied into this challenge." "Yes, sir," argues Nick Reynolds. "How many fellows really know what they want 52 to do when they get out of school? None of us did. Mostly, you want to make a living doing what you like, and the big dream is to do it with your pals. Man, we got that dream! Whatever happens later on, these two years have filled a gap with something we'll always prize, when we might have just goofed off, fumbling around alone." All these reflections, of course, refer to the days — only a brief spell ago — when Dave, Nick and Bob were fresh out of Stanford University and Menlo College, respectively, wondering what next. At that point, about all they owned in common was an education, good looks, plenty of pizazz and obvious talents for making music. Now and then they did, and as long as people cheered and gave them plenty of beer to drink they were happy — or so they pretended. But underneath each nursed a private puzzler that you'd never suspect. And all were putting off the answers. Take big Dave Guard: Then, as now, dapper Dave seemed to have the world right by the tail. Six-foot-three, handsome and smart as a whip, Dave trailed nothing but honors, accomplishments and popularity in his wake. Talents? You name them; Dave had them. Athlete, judo expert, honor student, campus activity leader, money maker, top musician and dynamite with the girls, you'd say graduate student Dave was Stanford's man most likely to smell sweet success. "Of course, I'm prejudiced," sighs his pretty blonde wife, Gretchen, today, "but I think Dave's close to being a genius." She isn't the first to figure that way. Says Bobby Shane, who grew up with Dave in Hawaii and went to the same school, Punahou, "Dave was always two jumps ahead of everyone in everything. He was a natural brain. His grades were always terrific and so was everything else about him." Dave had a degree in Business Administration. "But what business? I didn't tM ! I I I I I ! ! ! I ! I I 1 I I I I I M I I I t ; Steve McQueen: I don't talk ■numbly. People listen mumbly. Sidney Skolsky in the New York Post ~ n 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 know," he admits. "Business is such a nebulous word. I wanted to make the right move because, you see, I've always wanted security." That's not too original an urge these days, but in Dave Guard's case it traces way back. When he was only seven, Dave's world literally went up in smoke. That was Sunday, December 7. 1941. Red-balled Jap planes buzzed down to the rooftops of a new housing tract at Hickam Field and, as he watched in terror, sprayed bullets all around him and set the place on fire. Dave, an only child, lived there because his dad was a reserve colonel who worked, and still does, for the Army Engineers. After the Pearl Harbor debacle they evacuated Dave and his mom to the States. That gave a jolt to his security, for sure, but even after he came back, "wearing shoes," young Donald David Guard rattled around Honolulu pretty much on his own without a normal home life. His mother, Marjorie, was secretary to the Commander of Military Air Transport and away all day. Dave was placed in private school and "my parents gave me carte blanche long ago." He used his independence poking into everything and every place, often with his classmate, Bob Shane. One favorite spot was Waikiki Beach, where every Island kid bangs a ukelele between rides on the rollers. "You get an awful good crack at musical styles Hawaii," says Dave today. "South Japanese, Chinese and good old Amer jazz — the whole melting pot." With ] he was sopping it all up and sendin out, kid style, summers and after set which to Dave soon became somewha a bore. At Punahou High he ran the 880 and hurdles, played end on the f ball team, starred in a variety show banged out his island folk songs. "I liked all that," he remembers. "It a bid for popularity." But classwork brilliant Dave Guard was too easy to 1 his interest. "I figured nothing was I penins," he says. "I wanted to get aw; specifically back to the States. Honolv fine but it's only eighty miles around Island. I still get nervous when I sta; one place more than three weeks," g Dave. "That's why this life I've got ] is my dish. Travel's exciting to me." Dave's deal with the folks In his junior year at Punahou, E made a deal with his folks to earn ! his expenses if they sent him State to Menlo Park prep. He piled up his — $1000 — greaseballing in a service sta and diving for coral. But at Menlo, pi ping for Stanford, it was the same story. Bored with work that came easy, Dave started messing around i six months before graduation, got boun out of school for "an incident involvin bottle of vodka." But he stuck aroi Menlo Park with another service stai job and they let them come back for finals. He graduated in a breeze walked right into Stanford. Now, Stanford University is no joyi for anyone, not even a brain like D Guard. But to show you what a real ( head can do: Dave fell out of a sea story window of his frat house the i confused week end and broke his b on the pavement below. They shipped 1 to Honolulu and he lost his whole f year. Even with that setback, he gra< ated in three years, taking sometimes units and hitting A's and B's. He worl all his way through— hashing at gi dorms, gardening, janitoring in the brary, moving furniture and pumping j But he still had time to staff on the hur magazine, Chapparal. write songs for Stanford Gaieties, win the Sigma Award for "greatest contribution to house" and pin a collection of cam] queens! It's no wonder Dave Guard took on graduate School of Business with greatest confidence although he had o $3 to start. By that time, he had anoti more interesting racket to earn his cal With Bobby Shane, only a mile away Menlo Business College, he harmoni for $15 a night at parties and Stanf< off-campus hangouts like Rossotti's i The Cracked Pot. But Dave still packed one big nagging question mark: Where I really headed? "I had no real idea," says. "I figured I'd just try to play i cards right and something would take c; of me. How vague could you be?" Bob's a real Kamaaina By then Bob Shane had an equa opaque view of his future but for differ* reasons. Bobby knew what he wanted do and had for a long time. But it did figure out with him — or his family. "S( sort of rebelled," he says, "and I got mixed-up, acted pretty bad for a whi too." Like Dave, Bobby's Hawaiian born a bred — only more so. His great-grandfath came over as a missionary back in Ki Kamehameha's day, so Bob's a fourt generation Islander or, as they say ov there, a real Kamaaina. The Shanes are) Irish; they're German and it started o