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anything I could say out loud. But I did say it silently in the secret chambers of my heart. As I kept playing songs like the Ronettes’ “Be My Baby,” written by Ellie Greenwich, Jeff Barry, and producer Phil Spector, I saw myself flying on the wings of the music, flying over Lake Superior, over Lake Michigan, over the Motown studio in Detroit where the Sound of Young America rose up like a “Heat Wave” burning in my heart, flying over Alan Freed in Cleveland and Dick Clark in Philly, where the kids were lining up for
American Bandstand
, flying straight into New York City and landing at the feet of Ronnie Ronette herself. I’d try to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. I was too timid, too unsure of myself. No Canadian man-child could hope to win the love of a lady who unabashedly demands, “Be My Baby.” My flight would end. My dream would dissolve.
    But the next morning I’d wake up and rush over to the piano and play the song. I’d play so loudly that the sound got all up in my ears. I’d close my eyes and, in the haze of my foggy morning mind, I could almost hear Ronnie saying, “Paul, come down to the States. Come down to Spanish Harlem, Knock three times to see if I’m home. Come down to where it’s hot and sweaty and gritty. I’m waiting for you down here, Paul. I may not be of your faith…but we’ll work something out.”
    One morning my reverie was broken by my mother shouting. “Start packing, Paul, we’re leaving for the weekend.”
    “We can’t leave,” I said. “The Four Seasons are on Sullivan again Sunday night.”
    “Seasons come and go, son,” said Dad, “but it’s summertime. We’re going to our cottage on the lake.”
    We often spent summer weekends lakeside. That was fine, except our cottage had no TV.
    “I don’t want to go to the lake,” I said. “I want to watch Sullivan. The Four Seasons are going to do their new song, ‘Rag Doll.’”
    “You’re already playing that ‘Rag Doll’ song. Isn’t that the one where you bash the bongos on top of the piano?”
    “Yes, that’s how I duplicate the intro that’s on the record.”
    “Well, so you have it down.”
    “I need to see them do it on TV,” I said. “I’ve never seen the song performed and can’t afford to miss it. I can stay home by myself.”
    “It’s a family outing,” said Dad. “You’re coming.”
    I pleaded to stay with relatives; I pleaded for a plan that would have us home in time for Sullivan; I pleaded for a postponement of the trip. But all pleas fell on deaf ears.
    Watching Canadian geese flying through summer rainstorms, I was miserable all weekend.
    The storm in my heart, the one that stirred my soul as it had never been stirred before, had come earlier from watching the Seasons on Sullivan singing “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” My parents had no idea how riveting that moment had been to me.
    Naturally it was in black and white. As the music started, singer Frankie Valli, guitarist Tommy DeVito, and bassist Nick Massi slowly began walking downstage in triangle formation.Valli, who considered Sinatra the performer’s performer, was almost conducting in a Frank-ish manner. The opening chords were chilling. The vocals were astounding, but my eye went to Valli’s right, to the fourth Season, the group member who interested me most. This was the great Bob Gaudio, the co-composer, along with Bob Crewe, of their greatest hits. He stood behind a keyboard. I practically pressed my nose against the TV screen to catch every nuance of their presentation.
    Later in life, I actually met Gaudio and pumped him for information. That’s when he told a story that blew my mind: After writing “Who Wears Short Shorts” as a member of the Royal Teens, he had an offer to go on tour. But he was only fifteen and Dad said no, not until he graduated. Bob was crafty enough even then to arrange a meeting with his dad and the principal of his high school. After Bob eloquently pleaded his case, the principal