DECLAN MULLIGAN of the BEAU BRUMMELS
by JUD COST

A couple of years before the Monkees were laboratory-hatched by NBC television as the bionically perfect pop group, an organic version of the same thing had sprouted in the fog-shrouded streets of San Francisco: the BEAU BRUMMELS.

Central casting in Hollywood might have been hard pressed to come up with a more motley cast of characters than five North Beach pals like these. SAL VALENTINO: the swarthy good looks of Ramon Navarro and a voice sent from heaven. RON ELLIOTT: the intellectual's haircut of Jean Paul Belmondo (Ron was a music major at SF State) and a brief case full of brilliant pop tunes. RON MEAGHER: The boy-next-door attitude and Beatle haircut of their thumping bass player. JOHN PETERSEN: The rimshot-laden brilliance of their drummer, a California take on the Brian Jones look. And - the feature subject of today's ONLINE get-together - the "happening" Gaelic charm and, rock steady harmonies, as well as the occasional lead vocals of the band's only expatriate, DECLAN MULLIGAN, from County Tipperary, Ireland.
The sharp-eyed among you will notice this is the full Q&A, before it was trimmed down (believe it or not) to fit into the 24-page booklet for SUNDAZED's 3-CD Box Set, THE BEAU BRUMMELS: San Fran Sessions. Featuring sixty tracks (none duplicated from SUNDAZED's earlier re-issue of the Brummels' first two Autumn albums), and interviews with all five of the above, this mammoth project unearths long buried treasure from these SF legends and forever reverently closes that large iron door on their most creative period.

SUNDAZED: Did you come from a musical family in Ireland, Dec?
MULLIGAN: They were more theatrical, really, kind of dramatic. My grandmother, Nora Gough, was involved in amateur theater - not on the professional level. We were from a very pretty part of Ireland, about thirty miles from the south coast, a place in County Tipperary called Fethard, which in Gaelic means "high wood."

What sort of theatrical things did your family do?
They would all do pantomimes. Then my uncle moved to Southern California and got involved with Walt Disney Productions, and my grandmother contributed old Irish folklore and wrote some songs for Disney's Darby O'Gill And The Little People. I remember she got a big check from Walt Disney Productions. It was very exciting back then when she showed me her check and said, "Look at this. I got it from Walt Disney." She was a very bright lady. She was educated In England, and my earliest memory of her is sitting around the fire when I first got a guitar. She'd say, "Anybody can can sing the melody, but can you sing the harmony if I sing the melody?" I asked her what she meant, and she said, "Why don't you start writing your own songs?" And everything she told me was true. I should have started writing my own songs at fourteen.

Do you remember your first guitar?
My uncle brought a Harmony Hollywood guitar home for me from the United States in 1952. And even though there wasn't a soul around to teach me how to tune it, I loved that guitar. I used to like to watch those western movies where they sat around the fire and played the guitar: Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, I loved all that - "Tumbling Tumbleweeds." Then a fortunate thing happened, otherwise I probably wouldn't have persued music at all. This man from New York who played the guitar was visiting my sister in Ireland. And my grandmother contacted him and said, "Could you come over and show (Declan) something about it." So he came over one afternoon - I was very excited - and he tuned it for me, by ear, and played some chords for me. I was sold right there. Of course, some visitors came over after that and took it out of tune, and I got all ticked off about it.

Any particular musical heroes from those early days?
Well, Elvis Presley emerged right about then. And my uncle, who was involved with thoroughbred horses a lot, would travel back and forth to the States two or three times a year. He'd always bring me back the hot records - like that very first Elvis Presley album, which I still have. And I'd try to learn every song on the album and figure out all the parts. I tried to duplicate Scotty Moore's guitar part on "Blue Suede Shoes," but I couldn't because, for one thing, the strings on my guitar were this far from the neck.

When did you finally settle in San Francisco?
I lived for a while first in Toronto - just for the adventure - and then finally came down to live in the States in the summer of 1962. I'd been playing with a touring soccer team, and I was so impressed with San Francisco that I decided to come back here. Since all my relations had moved to Southern California, that's probably where I should have moved, but I didn't.

When did you start performing live music?
I'd been playing in Toronto for twenty dollars a night with this guy - I think he was from Argentina - from eight at night until three in the morning. Folk music, pop tunes, we played anything. I was working during the day as an underwriter for Fireman's Fund. And one day I bumped into this nurse I'd known in Ireland, and she said to me, "Is that Declan Mulligan I see? What have you been doing to yourself? You look dreadful." It was because these friends of mine were getting me up to play rock and roll records on this radio station at seven in the morning, and I'd been getting maybe two hours of sleep at night. It was driving me crazy, playing rock and roll all night, and now I'm hearing it again first thing in the morning.

How soon after you moved to San Francisco did you hook up with the guys who eventually became the Beau Brummels?
One night in early 1963, I went to an Irish dance at this place on Clement Street called Richmond Hall. And Ron Elliott, Sal and John Petersen were there, just like that, playing as a trio. They had no name back then, just playing. I remember Sal singing, "Don't they know it's the end of the world?" And they were refreshing to me, because it wasn't the same old (with Gaelic accent) "heedly, heedly la," which was what most of the people there wanted to hear. Most of the bands at Richmond Hall did that "skiddle-aye-oodley-aye" stuff, but I wanted to hear rock and roll. And these guys were more, excuse the word, "hep".

Who booked those Irish shows in San Francisco?
Well, there was this fellow named Bill Fuller, and he was going to re-open this place that had beem called El Patio, and he'd taken a lease on it and renamed it the Carousel Ballroom (later the sight of Bill Graham's Fillmore West). This guy was a millionaire - he'd been very successful with ballrooms all over the world, in Boston, Chicago, New York and in Manchester, England - and he wanted me to start a band. He always had three or four different types of bands at each place. And he wanted a kind of show band format for the Carousel - a big band to play for the strict dancers and a rock and roll band, and maybe a small Irish group, as well. I played in the small band, and if they needed a rhythm guitarist, sometimes in the big band.

Did anybody back home clue you in when the Beatles thing got out of control in 1963?
This friend of mine, Mike Larrigan, who I'd been in a band with in Ireland, wrote to me that there was this band called the Beatles that were really hot with this song called "Please Please Me." And right after that, I heard Tom Donahue say on KYA, "Hey, baby, there's this new group from England called the Beatles." You've got to remember that this was the spring of 1963. And Donahue actually played "Please Please Me" on the radio in the spring of 1963. Of course, I never heard it again until the next year. Later that year Bill Fuller called me over to the Carousel Ballroom - workmen were just putting in the sound systems - and he told me, "You should get yourself a group together. There's going to be a great market for groups pretty soon, believe me. There's this great group over in England called the Beatles. I've been involved with them a few times" - you can see his Irish Show Band on some posters with the Beatles when they played the Cavern - "and they're going to be the biggest thing in the world." And Jesus, he was right.

How did the Beau Brummels finally get together?
You hear many variations. But I approached Ron Elliott in 1964 and asked him if he'd play with me at the Carousel Ballroom. And then he said to me, "Hey, Muggins, maybe we should start a group." And I told him that that's what Bill Fuller wants us to do. So Ron brought me up to his home, and I met Sal and John Petersen. I was kind of an outsider coming in. We got a bass player who lasted one night, and I don't even remember his name.

How did you find the last piece of the puzzle, bassist Ron Meagher?
I think Ron Elliott was going out with a girl at San Francisco State, and she said she knew of a guy who looked like a Beatle and was a good musician. Ron (Meagher) already had his long hair combed down. I remember he was kind of eccentric at the time, but he was an excellent musician - a great ear and he picked things up fast. He was perfect.

You preceded the Vejtables at Big Al's Gashouse in Belmont.
Yes, we did. Something happened when Mike Mathis, Johnny Mathis' brother, was playing there. The club was busted because he was under-age. And when we played there, Ron Elliott and Ron Meagher were still under-age. So the ABC did a sweep. And we were swept out of there pretty fast.

So you wound up at the Morocco Room, three miles north in San Mateo?
We played there one night because Sal knew the owner of El Cid (a topless club in SF's North Beach). We'd been playing there on Monday nights, but our contract was terminated. It was the old story when you're playing clubs, you can't play a song they can't identify with. They don't want to hear original songs, no matter how good. They want to hear songs like "Money" or "Louie Louie." So that was the first time the Beau Brummels all played together, at El Cid.

How did you guys come up with the name?
I remember saying something about wanting a British-sounding name. I thought Beau Brummels was a good name. And it even began with a 'B' like the Beatles. In retrospect, it was kind of a thorn in our side, because Beau Brummel was the essence of sartorial splendor, and in order to keep up with that image you always have to be dressed well. We could never be casual.

I saw Tom Donahue try to make the group wear bowler hats onstage at his North Beach club, DJ's. That lasted about ten minutes into your set.

That sounds like something Derek Taylor would have wanted us to do. He was the Beatles' publicist when we met him at DJ's. I remember him having a long-distance conversation with Brian Epstein while he was in the club. He was over here trying to promote a kid called Tommy Quickly. Derek got into a big thing on the phone with Brian Epstein, and went back to England and resigned from NEMS Enterprises over it. When he came back out here, the Beau Brummels were the first US band he signed up to do. Of course later he worked with the Byrds and Paul Revere and the Raiders. I became very friendly with Derek. I was alone, away from my family, and when you meet somebody from the British Isles you get closer to them. We used to go for walks down Sunset Strip, and he'd tell me little tidbits about the Beatles, things you actually didn't hear.

That's a great photo of Derek, looking really harried, at a Brummels press conference.
Derek found this photographer, an old guy named Kirk Gunter, who was the only American the Beatles allowed to take pictures of them. He took those photos of them in the cowboy hats that appeared in Life magazine. So this guy took us down to this place in Santa Monica where we bought hats and canes, and he took pictures of us jumping off walls down at the beach.

Is that when Derek started doing publicity for the Byrds?
He invited me down to this Sunset Strip club called The Trip to see the Byrds. I remember they were up there onstage, tuning that twelve-string - going "doing, doing, doing" for what seemed like forever - and Derek, who was always a soft-spoken guy, was sitting at our table saying, "Jesus Christ, excuse me," and I knew those guys had better get the show on the road.

What about the club that became the Brummels' home base in the summer of '64, the Morocco Room?
I remember lots of little things. One night this poor guy came in who had cerebral palsy, and he sat down in front of me. When he got up to go to the toilet, someone else sat there, and I looked down and told him, "There's already somebody sitting there." This guy says to me, "I'm sitting here now." So I took my guitar off, and I got down off the stage and was about to get into it with this guy, when I got caught by the back of my neck and was literally lifted out of there. It was this Green Beret vet just back from Viet Nam, who was the doorman, and he says to me, "I don't ever want to see you get off that stage again, Dec. You know what happens when you do that? They come back here and say, 'That's the guy who likes to fight,' and before you know it you're in all kinds of trouble."

Did you draw well at the Morocco Room?
It had been a normal nightclub scene until two of the Bay Area's top disc jockeys, Bob Mitchell who was on from 3:00 until 6:00 in the afternoon and Tom Donahue who was on from 6:00 until 9:00, began talking about nothing but this group, the Beau Brummels. After they started doing that I remember picking Ron up one night and driving down to the Morocco Room, and saying to him, "Jesus, Ron, there must be a fire at the club." But it was just people lined up around the block to get in.

Can you recall your first encounter with Tom Donahue?
Rich Romanello, the owner of the Morocco Room, lived with this girl who posed nude at On Broadway - Judette the Nudette they called her - who was really a nice girl. She told us one night, "I'm gonna help you guys any way I can." Of course we didn't pay any attention to that, because we heard it all the time. But one night, lo and behold, this entourage comes into the Morocco Room: Judy with Tom Donahue, big as a house, and Sly Stone. Tom sat close to the band in dark glasses and listened. Then he asked us, "Hey baby, do you play any original songs?" By that time Ron had worked up "Laugh Laugh" and "Still In Love With You, Baby." So that was it. Donahue told us, "We'd like to see you down at the studio on Bush Street next Thursday." We went down there and did a demo tape.

Hadn't Rich Romanello financed a trip to record in LA before that?
Yes, he did. We drove down to LA at two in the morning after playing the Morocco Room, in a couple of convertibles with the tops down. I had a cold, and by the time we got there, I sounded like Tom Jones. We recorded three songs at Gold Star. I know we did "Stick Like Glue" and a Ron Elliott original called "People Are Cruel." And it was produced by Larry Levine who produced some of the Righteous Brothers things, and the Brummels never sounded like that again. Soon as we got there, here comes another big entourage, and I couldn't believe it. It was ninety degrees outside in LA, and they're all wearing fur coats. I thought the Vikings had returned. But it was Phil Spector and Cher and Sonny and the Ronettes. I remember Ron Meagher saying, "Wow, who was that? He's got hair like me." And he was pointing at Sonny Bono.

How was it working with Sly when you recorded for Autumn?
Sly was like I wished all producers would be. Maybe it was because it was a new thing for him, be he was alive, very alive. He was very effusive behind the glass. When you're in the studio, and you see blank faces staring out at you when you think you're playing somehting really great, it takes all the steam out of you. Sly would dance around and give us energy.

Was it mind-boggling having two national hits right off the bat?
It was exciting. I remember the first time I heard "Laugh Laugh" on the radio, Sean O'Callaghan playing it on KLIV in San Jose. All of a sudden it just came on the car radio. The first time I heard "Just A Little" we were on our way to the airport to do a movie in Los Angeles, Village Of The Giants.

How was it playing those great shows like Shindig in those days?
It was fun. Just think of all the great people who appeared on that show: Glen Campbell, Darlene Love & the Blossoms, the Everly Brothers. Jimmy Burton played with the house band, the Shindogs. I remember distinctly trying to figure out the chords and the harmonies to the new Beatles song they were playing, "I Don't Want To Spoil The Party." And one of the nicest guys we ever met turned out to be the host of one of our appearances on Hullabaloo - Sammy Davis, Jr.

Soon as the big hits came, you began the non-stop US tour grind.
Yes, but when you're younger you don't care so much. But maybe that's what lead to the demise of the group. I think I got a bit raggedy on the road. I attribute that situation more to my leaving the band than they did.

Were you burned out by touring?
I wasn't burned out. I just got homesick, and I still wasn't sure where home was, whether it was San Francisco, Toronto or Ireland. And then I was an Irish guy and kind of felt like the odd man out. Ron would get away by just locking himself in his hotel room. Because of his diabetes, I was kind of watching out for Ron. He was a very introspective and sensitive guy and still is. But the rest of them had different interests than I did. I'd just as soon have gone to play soccer when we were out on the road. So I quit the band in early July of 1965.

What happened when you quit? You were rumored to have sued the Brummels later for a very large sum.
I started working at the Carousel Ballroom with a group of Irish guys called the Californians. Actually they called us that when we moved back to Ireland. We called ourselves Samuel Pepys. We did all covers; it was a band that was losing air fast. Tom Donahue had called me and told me I had some money coming from the Brummels. He told me not to worry, that I could go back to Ireland if I wanted. He quoted me a figure due, like fifty seven thousand dollars. So I waited and waited and got nothing. As time progressed, they showed no interest in getting me my money, so someone said I should get a lawyer and try to collect. That all got blown way out of proportion.

The Brummels must have missed your harmony vocals.
Yeah, I was the highest singer in the band, so they would miss the voice. The only one who could get above himself was Sal, but he had to sing lead.

I read somewhere that you felt frozen out of the group.
If four guys don't want to play with you, you're pretty much frozen out. If you're being a troublemaker, and four guys don't want to play with you, you're gone. They were right, I guess. I wasn't easy to get along with. I don't blame them. I'd expect the same thing to happen again if I behaved the same way. It was mainly just a communciation thing. But I didn't go around moping about it. I kept playing and enjoying music and got on with my life. I was just grateful I got even a small smattering of stardom.

Epilogue: Want more? Pick up the San Fran Sessions Box Set and you can read interviews with four more Beau Brummels. And, as a bonus, we'll throw in 60 of the most lip-smacking slices of folk/rock pie you've ever experienced. As no less an authority than Peter Buck of R.E.M. (whose own band can trace its inspiration to the Brummels' headwaters) admits: "The Beau Brummels were America's answer to the Beatles and one of my all-time favorites." Ours too.