He was the first star drummer.

Except, of course, for Ringo Starr, but he was a Beatle. The Beatles were gods, everybody else was a musician.

And musicians the Young Rascals were, except of course for frontman Eddie Brigatti, with that space between his teeth. We knew everything about the bands, all we had were the album covers, and we stared at them, can close our eyes and still picture them.

I’d like to say I’m shocked that Dino Danelli died. And on one level I am, but on another, like Christine McVie, he did not die young, before his time, he was 78. Back in the Young Rascals’ heyday that was considered old, now everybody expects to live into their nineties, but if that were the case why would the U.S. average life expectancy be 76.1 years? Dino just beat the average, but one thing’s for sure, he and his band never were, average that is.

But it was a different era.

Kids had no idea who ran GM or IBM, there were no billionaires and the entire nation was music crazy. Credit the aforementioned Beatles. They broke in ’64, a slew of British bands invaded right thereafter and seemingly everybody in America bought an electric guitar, because like Roger (then Jim) McGuinn sang, they wanted to be a rock and roll star.

And to be a rock and roll star you had to be your material. You had to write it, play it and sing it. The Monkees were derided for not living up to this standard, today no one would care.

And the first Rascals hits were covers. The delicious “I Ain’t Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore” and the exercise in excitement, “Good Lovin’.” The Grateful Dead might have made the latter a staple of their live show, but anybody but a Deadhead would tell you the Rascals’ version is definitive.

In retrospect, the first Young Rascals album was just an introduction. It was what came thereafter that really cemented their reputation. The second LP, “Collections,” had the stellar Felix Cavaliere original “(I’ve Been) Lonely Too Long,” and the Cavaliere/Brigatti compositions “Love Is a Beautiful Thing” and “What Is the Reason.” Have you heard these recently? They maintain their energy, they stand up, exceed what is on the hit parade today. As for the third album, “Groovin’,” there was the title track, “A Girl Like You,” “How Can I Be Sure” and “You Better Run,” all on the same album!

The Young Rascals were a juggernaut. And I went  to see them headline a five act bill in the gym at Fairfield University.

People always ask me what was my first concert. Honestly, I can’t remember. We were taken to cultural events from the onset of my earliest memories. Young people’s concerts, plays, to go to a show was de rigueur. And using today’s terminology, we were free range kids. Taking the train into New York City alone… And going to the show alone. We didn’t need an escort, a chaperone… We were dropped off and waited in line after the show to use the pay phone to call for a pickup. By time our parents arrived the venue was usually empty, security, or what stood in for it back then, would be telling us to leave, they didn’t care about our safety, they just wanted us out.

Now on October 15, 1966 when this concert took place, no one left early. No one cared about beating the traffic and you couldn’t miss the opening act.

Anticipation built and the Young Rascals delivered. This was long before the day of tapes, never mind hard drives. You either had it or you did not. There was no click track. There were only four men on stage, running through their hits.

And even though he was in the back, Dino was as big a star as Eddie out front. There’s the way he twirled his sticks… That was his trademark, we’d seen it on TV, it seemed impossible, he never dropped a stick and never missed a beat. You can see Dino in action at 4:48 in this clip: https://bit.ly/3W3qFNp

When the show was over my friend and I rushed the stage, got right up on the platform, and we took Dino’s sticks.

They were thick. And they had slices in the parts where your hands would normally be. Yes, Dino played both ends. After he twirled them he couldn’t be concerned with which end he was playing.

I kept those sticks until 1975, when my mother turned my bedroom into an office. She threw out my all my stuff, all my mementos, my World’s Fair hat…and Dino Danelli’s drumsticks.

She also threw out my baseball cards and my American Flyer slot cars. If I had both of those today, I could retire. But in truth, it’s all about the memories, and I can still see Dino Danelli twirling those drumsticks on the Fairfield University stage. As for the records…they’re embedded in wax, we change but they never do, and when we listen to them we remember who we were and what we were doing and it matters not a whit to anybody else, but it’s everything to us.

Rock and roll is a hard mistress. What seems like forever is really just a few years long. When you’re young you think these bands will last forever. But few do. Except for the superstars, the rest go on to straight jobs, or die prematurely. It’s weird, without education or experience so many end up doing manual labor. They were your heroes, and now…

Of course there are oldies shows. And the Rascals even reunited and Dino spun his sticks once again, but now it’s too late. Just like a Monkees reunion is too late. Life bit ’em in the ass, and eventually it’s going to bite us too.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. What you’ve got to understand is in the sixties kids ruled. Oldsters didn’t want to be us, they resented us. Kids tested limits, kids drove the culture, and nowhere was this as prominent as it was in music. I’d detail the growth, from cottage industry to public company, but if you were not there… Let’s just say before the Beatles no one expected rock acts to be forever, for the members to be rich, to live the lives of royalty. This was a new thing. And ever since everybody wants to imitate them, become rich and famous. But it’s not the same. Acts got ripped-off, but they got laid. The adventures were incredible, but now…

Elvis’s sales are going down, his audience is dying off. SiriusXM’s 60s on 6 is no longer on 6. That low channel number is valuable real estate. First it was the forties that switched to a high number, then the fifties and soon it will be the seventies. Our history is disappearing right in front of our eyes, and most don’t seem to care. They’re into the new. When sometimes the old is much better.

But in the era of constant school shootings, how much news value does the death of an old rocker have?

After Dino came Ginger Baker, the drum solo. But Ginger’s dead too. So many of them are already gone, with more on the way. If you didn’t see them, you never will.

All that’s left is the pictures in your mind. You can talk about them, but unless you were there you have no idea of the visceral impact of Dino Danelli and the Rascals and so many more. I remember tingling when I saw Gene Cornish in Sam Ash on one of those non-supervised trips to New York, we had to cruise 48th Street, go to Manny’s and the rest of the music stores that are no longer there. You had to go to the city to get a discount, now you just go on Amazon.

So if you were there you know how I feel. You want to remember Dino in that schoolboy outfit twirling his sticks and pounding the skins positively alive. You don’t want to think about the decades thereafter. Because Dino was a star, someone you looked up to, someone who was cool, someone who gave you reason to be alive.

But he’s dead now.

And soon you will be too.