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Jan & Dean Singer Berry Dies at 62
Mar 27, 6:38 PM (ET)
By ROBERT JABLON
LOS ANGELES (AP) - Jan Berry, a member of the duo Jan & Dean that had the 1960s surf-music hits "Deadman's
Curve" and "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena," has died. He was 62.
Berry had a seizure and stopped breathing Friday, March 26, 2004, at his home. He was pronounced dead that evening
at a hospital, said his wife, Gertie Berry.
He had been in poor health recently from the lingering effects of brain damage from a 1966 car crash.
Jan & Dean had a string of hits and 10 gold records in the 1960s with their tales of Southern California. Among
them were 1964's "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena," about a hotrod racing grandma, and "Surf City,"
with its lines about taking the station wagon to a place where there are "two girls for every boy."
With Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys, William Jan Berry co-wrote the lyrics for "Surf City" and "Deadman's
Curve," which featured the driving guitar licks and falsetto crooning of the wildly popular surf music.
Berry's hit-making career with high school friend Dean Torrence was cut short in 1966 when Berry's speeding Corvette
hit a parked truck and he suffered severe brain damage that left him partially paralyzed and unable to talk.
His recovery was slow, but eventually he was able to resume singing and writing songs.
In addition to his wife, Berry is survived by his parents, William and Clara Berry of Camarillo; three brothers
and three sisters.
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Surf Legend Jan Berry Dies
Jan and Dean leader was sixty-two
Jan Berry, the creative force behind legendary surf rock duo Jan and Dean, died Friday, March 26, 2004, after suffering
a seizure at his Los Angeles home; he was sixty-two. The singer had endured various health problems ever since
a 1966 car accident left him brain damaged.
Jan and Dean are best known for their early Sixties hits "Drag City," "Dead Man's Curve" --
a song about a tragic car crash that eerily foreshadowed Berry's own accident two years later -- and "Surf
City," a Number One single Berry co-wrote with the Beach Boys' Brian Wilson.
Born William Jan Berry in Los Angeles in 1941, Berry scored his first hit in 1958 with "Jennie Lee,"
released under the name Jan and Arnie. He and high school friend Dean Torrence began their string of hits in the
early Sixties. Unlike the more popular band they influenced, the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean did not do much touring
because Berry was busy studying to be a doctor. Those plans, as well as his group's, were derailed in 1966, when
Berry's speeding Corvette crashed into a parked truck in Beverly Hills.
After undergoing years of extensive therapy, Berry was able to return to music in 1973. Jan and Dean enjoyed renewed
popularity after Dead Man's Curve, the TV movie chronicling the duo's story, aired on CBS in 1978. The following
summer they opened for the Beach Boys on a large-scale tour of the U.S., and continued to tour throughout the following
decades. Berry released his lone solo album, Second Wave, featuring updated versions of Jan and Dean hits, in 1997.
Berry is survived by his wife Gertie.
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Surf Rocker Jan Berry Dies
by Sarah Hall
Mar 29, 2004, 10:35 PM PT
Surf music pioneer Jan Berry, one half of the duo Jan and Dean, died last Friday. He was 62.
The one-time surf rocker suffered a seizure in his Los Angeles home and stopped breathing. He was taken to the
hospital where he was pronounced dead, according to his wife, Gertie Berry.
a d v e r t i s e m e n t
The musician had been in poor health of late, due to lingering effects of brain damage from a 1966 car accident.
Berry's musical career began in the late 1950s with his first hit, "Jennie Lee," released under the name
Jan and Arnie.
He met musical partner Dean Torrence playing high school football in West Los Angeles. The two friends later formed
Jan and Dean, and went on to release a string of hits in the 1960s.
Berry was long considered the creative force behind the group, which had 10 gold records in their heyday, including
"The Little Old Lady (From Pasadena)" and "Dead Man's Curve," a song about a tragic car accident,
which would turn out to be sadly prophetic.
He penned the lyrics to the '60s number one single "Surf City" with close friend Brian Wilson of the
Beach Boys. Together with Wilson, he created the sound that came to be known as surf music--including falsetto
harmonies, driving drums and guitar licks.
Jan and Dean served as an influence for the more popular Beach Boys, but did not tour frequently because Berry
was studying to become a doctor.
Both that goal and his musical career were cut short in 1966, when his speeding Corvette hit a parked truck in
Beverly Hills. Berry suffered brain damage that left him unable to walk or speak.
After years of extensive physical therapy, Berry was able to return to making music in 1973. In 1978, CBS made
a television movie titled Dead Man's Curve, chronicling the story of Jan and Dean.
The duo enjoyed renewed popularity after the movie aired and toured with the Beach Boys the following summer. They
continued to tour sporadically in the years that followed.
In 1997, Berry released a solo album, Second Wave, which featured updated Jan and Dean songs.
He is survived by his wife, his parents, William and Clara Berry, and six siblings.
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Remember Me When I'm Gone . . . by Jan Berry
When I was young I had all the advantages. My father worked for Howard Hughes, we lived in Bel Air. I went to the
best schools, and got the best girls. My intelligence quotient was well above average; and yet I could be a rebellious,
troublesome punk who brought more than a little anxiety to my parents. That sounds normal enough; but the truth
is, nothing about my life has been ordinary.
I was famous before my eighteenth birthday; and I relished all that came with that. Hit records, national television,
and beautiful women. We were golden boys in an era when things like rock-n-roll and television were in their infancy.
But I stayed in school, taking music theory classes in college, majoring in zoology, and eventually entering medical
school. I lived two lives—vocal harmonies and biochemistry. Recording studios and lab specimens, Dick Clark and
bright classrooms. I couldn't get enough. I wanted to do it all. I wrote and arranged music, and produced hit records
at all hours of the night and weekends. In a one-year span at our peak, we had five top-ten records in a row. We
had movie and television deals. What didn't we have? And through it all, it was my way, or the highway. Take it,
or leave it. I'll admit that. Have I mentioned that I'm an Aries?
That's a brief sketch. But that's who I was. That's how I operated, blazing my own trail (some would say) leaving
people in flames around me. It's a popular notion about me; and I can appreciate it, to a degree. But the fact
is I had plans. I had big plans. I knew exactly what I wanted—for my life, for my career; and let me tell you a
little secret: I was pulling it off. Things were slowly falling into place for me, despite a weary string of business
and personal problems. I mean, a few dim spots notwithstanding, my future never looked brighter. Can you appreciate
that?
But that's when it happens—when you're on the brink, when your ducks are all lined up, and you have them just so.
Never assume you have everything pegged. Never tweak that last duck, and pat yourself on the back, and take everything
else for granted. Because that's when god rips the mike out of your hand and says, out of nowhere, you might not
come back from Dead Man's Curve. Say what? That's when you wake up in darkness, fumbling for the light switch.
Nine days after my twenty-fifth birthday I smashed my Corvette into a parked gardener's truck on a residential
street in Beverly Hills. A gardener's truck—can you believe that? The old steering wheel sandwich, with a windshield
wrap, and fiberglass on the side. And yes, I was speeding. Why? Ask people who knew me, and they'll offer some
wisecrack about my hell-for-leather driving. Why? Because that's who I was, and let's face it, god hadn't yet declared
that my show (my life) was being canceled. What else can I say?
I use the word god, by the way, to acknowledge whatever higher power is running this ride we're on. God, nature,
fate, karma; call it what you will. But it's there, and it knows everything. Just ask all the dead people.
I woke up a month later—in some frightening new universe, dark and lonely. People were there, but at first they
didn't mean anything to me. I tried to speak and couldn't. My body was different, broken—and my mind didn't have
complete control over it.
Listen carefully. It's a complicated situation; but we'll reduce it to three foreign-sounding clinical words: aphasia,
apraxia, and hemiperesis. Taken together, they mean simply that the language mechanism for communicating my thoughts
was damaged; an impairment in the sequencing of speech sounds left me groping for words; and the right half of
my body was partially paralyzed. I'll take Why Me for one thousand, Alex. I'm Mr. Everything with a genius-level
IQ, and this is how I end up? This is what I get for my efforts?
I was enraged and bewildered—to understate an understatement. My parents were told to prepare for the reality that
I may never walk or talk again. How's that for a pretty picture? But I was alive. My family and friends lavished
warmth and attention on me. But seeing the pain, horror, and pity in their faces (and knowing I was the cause of
it) made me long for the darkness again. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Pride can bore a hole in even the hardest
sense of self; and the resulting infection can kill you—if you let it.
I worked with speech and physical therapists. La, La, La. Calamity, calamity. Speak the speech as it is spoken.
Lean on the bars, and drag one foot in front of the other. Cake and cookies, cheese and crackers, make silly faces
and play like you're chewing. Tongue straight out; lick around lips in a circle. Is this really happening? In an
effort to overcome the obstacles, I applied the headstrong drive and determination that has always been with me.
No. Do it myself. But progress was slow, and I suffered high degrees of frustration and severe depression. I lashed
out at people who loved me—at people who were trying to help me.
But you set goals, and chart a course toward achieving them. That's how I've always operated; and music was the
light at the end of my dark tunnel. The right hemisphere of my brain was less affected by the trauma, thus preserving
a large portion of my pre-accident musical abilities. The mysteries of cerebral circuitry are still confounding
the best scientists and doctors. But my circumstances offer supporting evidence that the nervous system processes
verbal symbols and musical symbols (and abilities) in different ways. I'm slow, but I can still read, write, and
arrange music. Words are a different matter altogether. I can't tell you about it easily, but I can do music, if
you give me the time. Think about that.
I had a lifeline, and with the help of some special people and friends, I threw myself into making a return to
the studio—long before others thought I was ready. My assortment of lawyers, accountants, and business associates
(both new and from my previous life) saw me as a bothersome individual who might limp into their offices with mussed
hair, no shirt, perhaps a straw hat, or rumpled clothing, making belligerent demands that were difficult to understand.
Then they said I called on the phone too much. He's a telephone problem, they said. I, oblivious to how others
saw and heard me, just wondered why it was so damn hard to get down to the business of getting me back in business.
What is wrong with you people?
I was impatient and aggressive. I was childlike. I scared people. I caused problems for people, for my family,
and I caused enormous sums of money to be spent in the studio. But guess what? I started producing music again;
and in time I started singing on my own again. Melody flows more easily than the spoken word. What is right hemisphere,
Alex? Meanwhile, my doctors and psychiatrists dutifully took notes on it all. In another life I was fascinated
by science; and now I'm fodder for those doing the studying. I'm someone else's experiment. That's a nice, scary
little circle to contemplate, isn't it?
My father was my conservator. He made adjustments in his own busy life to help me live mine. He made tough and
important decisions on my behalf. And I have to admit that I often fought him over it, fiercely at times. He preserved
the documentary evidence of my life and career, and took notes chronicling my long journey toward recovery. That
must have been a nightmare diary for him (and my entire family) to keep. But it has helped preserve my story—and
my legacy. It's not always pleasant, but it's there. If I haven't said it before, I'm saying it now. Thank you,
Dad. I love you. My family has been through the ringer over me—my wonderful mother, my brothers and sisters. I
love you all.
Things progressed for me—but the road was not a smooth one. I continued to write, produce, and release music. Journalists
wrote about my struggles; and a fictionalized account of the story was told in a movie on national television.
Suddenly, there was a lot of new interest in my life and career; and my partner, Dean Torrence, helped pave the
way for us to return to the stage for live performances. I wanted to re-connect with the fans. All these years
later, people—young and old—still enjoy seeing us on-stage together. Thanks, partner.
Now a biographer (a writer and historian) is examining the documentary evidence of my life and career—my own voluminous
archive of materials detailing both the workings of my public career and the often-sensitive details of my private
life. In fact, he's helping me write this piece you have in your hands here. But you probably already guessed that.
It's liberating—a fluid voice by proxy. He's interviewing scores of my old friends and professional associates.
When I think about that, it scares the righteous hell out of me; but at the same time it fills me with a sense
of hope. My own voice is in there, among all the musty papers, and the memories of others. A story I could never
tell on my own is emerging; and yet I'm the one telling it all along. Can you dig that?
Brain damage. It's a trip you don't come down from—a permanent, surrealistic jaunt in the express lane. You live
with it. You learn to use it. I have an augmented memory—recollections of the original me from another life, recollections
from this life, and things people have told me about my past. My memory can often be triggered in a meaningful
way by specific names or items from my own history—and that's always interesting. But thirty-seven years on, I
still grope for the right words; and I still have to study the lyrics to even my most famous songs—one line at
a time—in order to remember them and deliver them on-stage. It's difficult for me to move around. I know what I
want to say, but it's hard to say it. Could you repeat the question? And it gets worse with age. I know what I
mean, but sometimes it sounds to others like I watch the couch and sit on the television. I freak over changes
in my routine. My wife takes care of me. It's hard for us. We make each other crazy at times, but we're still here.
I love you, too, baby.
You live with it. You embrace it. Because there's only one alternative—which brings me to the whole point of this
little exercise. How do I want people to remember me when I am gone? Creepy question, Larry, but I'm glad you asked
it. I don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon; but I'll play along. It's a simple question, with two simple answers.
First, I want to be remembered as one of the best record producers of my era. There it is. I'm not ashamed to admit
that. I want my due, and not one bit more. I was good; and I influenced some close associates who went on to become
well-known artists and record producers. I haven't had a public voice for a lot of years, and my professional legacy
has become distorted and half-buried. Some important longtime friends and creative associates (you know who you
are) have always acknowledged who I really was—and they're beginning to make it more public. Stay tuned.
But more importantly, a curious thing happened along the way, during this long strange trip I've been on. I became
a high profile inspiration for survivors of traumatic brain injury. I didn't see that coming, and never would have
dreamed it. But all of a sudden, there it was. The mantle was thrust upon me—and I embrace it wholeheartedly. People
who have had similar misfortunes come up to me after performances, some of them in wheelchairs, and explain how
my story has inspired them to find their own way again. They send me letters, and tell my family members of their
experiences. It's overwhelming, and it's humbling—because I know where they are. I know where they've been, and
I'd like to have an impact on where they're going, spiritually and emotionally. It's one more reason why individual
struggle and accomplishment is so important. And it's why we started a center for the brain injured in my name
back in the Eighties.
So take it from me, right now. You have to keep on going—no matter what your struggle is, regardless of your handicap.
I know it sounds cliché, but humor me for a moment. You have to fight the good fight. Let's just get all
of the old chestnuts out of the way up front: Never give up. Persevere. Stay positive. You can do it. Stay focused,
one day at a time, blah-blah-blah, ad infinitum. They can be hollow words, and you have to dig deep to reach the
core truth they represent. Don't be afraid to find it; and don't be afraid of what people might think of you along
the way.
Because the darkness will come, trust me on that. It will find you, and it will scare you like you've never been
scared before. It will cloak you with a negative force the likes of which you've never known. It will make you
question reality, and disbelieve all answers to the contrary—and it's not a one-time struggle. That's the kicker.
You don't beat the darkness permanently. It returns, relentlessly; and you have to be prepared to battle it on
your own terms, with your own proven tools for coping.
Believe me when I say I've been there. I know what it's like to be unable to communicate effectively. I know what
it's like to be cast aside as though you're not important. I know what it's like to have people sneer and snicker
at you. I know what it's like for people (even in positions of authority) to automatically assume you're drunk,
on drugs, or mentally challenged. I know how it feels to seek friendship and companionship, only to be taken advantage
of by others for their own personal gain. My family's good-faith efforts have gone awry in some cases, allowing
my recordings and sensitive information about me to get into the wrong hands over the years. It hurts.
It's a tough row to hoe. And the truth is, I haven't always been successful in dealing with my circumstances. In
spells of weakness, I turned to substance abuse to help numb the pain. Think about that—an already damaged brain
under the influence of illicit poisonous chemicals, in tandem with goodly doses of prescription medication. Let
me tell you, that scared people. I mean, I spooked a lot of people with that. It's hard to pull out of a downward
spiral. Thank god I was able to get my act together again. Once again, it was the music. To everyone who helped
me through that, you have my eternal thanks and appreciation. I'm still clinging to the light. Never give up on
me.
I'm no saint. I'm not perfect. Lord knows, I've made my share of mistakes in life—and some of them have been real
doozies. I'm not proud of them. But you have to admit to them, learn from them, and move on. There's no hiding
from your mistakes; and there's no magical solution to coping. You have to want it; and you have to be willing
to fight for it. You have to welcome the genuine people who want to help you. Remember the alternative. Remember
the reason for this little essay.
So when the darkness comes, keep an eye on the light—whatever that is for you—no matter how far away it seems.
Think of me, and people like me, with similar handicaps, and know that we understand and that we're telling you
it's okay to move forward, even if you're frightened. Things will get better. Look at Christopher Reeve for a shining
example of how to face adversity, real adversity, with courage and dignity. Fate is not selective. It doesn't ignore
the rich and famous. Just ask Stephen King. The same tragedies can befall anyone, no matter who you are or where
you come from—but the road home is a common highway. We can all share it. Write that down, and remember it.
That's rock-n-roll, baby. Let's keep on playing. To my partner of 45 years, I say, No hard feelings, buddy. You
knew who I was from day one. To all of our fans out there, you're a big part of the light at the end of my tunnel.
Thanks for being there. I wouldn't be here without you. And like I said at the end of Second Wave: be cool, take
care, and I love you.
JAN BERRY
April 2003
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