By Jeremy Essig
By Jason Robinson
By Hans Morgenstern
By Joseph Hess
By Peter Gilstrap
By Julia Burch
By Jeremy Essig
By Nathan Smith
It all seems unbelievable but for one concrete piece of incontrovertible evidence: Resurrection, the album recorded by the Aerovons in 1969 but issued for the first time only recently. Frank actually left the band just before the recording and plays only on one bonus track, but he's pictured all over the impressive liner notes. Even without his shaggy '60s mop, Frank is easily recognizable as the skinny kid with the big eyes in those grainy old eight-by-tens.
The Aerovons' story is surely the only rock & roll legend that begins It all started at Bayless High School.... That's where Frank met Tom Hartman, a musical prodigy one year Frank's junior who had recently moved to St. Louis from Miami with his family.
Frank was in a band called the Generation, but was disappointed by his mates' lack of musical training or ambition. When he saw Hartman onstage with an early Aerovons lineup in 1965, Frank was instantly impressed. "I go hear him play," Frank remembers, "and it's like, 'Man, this guy's great; I could learn so much from this guy. I'd love to be in a band with him.'"
Within a few months, Hartman agreed, recruiting Frank to join the embryonic Aerovons on rhythm guitar. The band hit the mid-'60s teen-club circuit, regaling venues such as the Bat Cave and Castaways with its Brit-fixated sound. "As soon as a new Beatles album came out," Frank says, "we'd rush our asses down to Famous-Barr, pick it up and pick it out. We'd sit there and just study every song. At that time, we weren't thinking originals. We wanted to be a damn good copy band."
The Aerovons might have remained as such were it not for Maurine Hartman, Tom's mother, who stepped in to manage the still-teenaged band's business and booking. In Frank's words, Maurine "wanted to be in showbiz, but she got married and had kids. So she was sort of living through Tom." Her hardball attitude and business savvy opened doors for the fresh-faced teens. "Mrs. Hartman dealt with all the business, then she would tell us all the details," Frank says. "She could be a bitch, so she was very good out in the business world. Suddenly we were playing a lot of good gigs.
"Some of them didn't make us money but got us talked about on the radio. She got us on this train that went from downtown St. Louis to Clarksville, Missouri. They called it the Last Train to Clarksville and had a band playing in each car of the train. Well, it was a huge failure because the electricity on there couldn't handle the bands. But we got noticed."
Under Maurine's direction, the band played up its Anglophilia even more. The CD sleeve of Resurrection shows priceless promo photos of the Aerovons in full-on Rubber Soul mode, emoting meaningfully from beneath prodigious Swinging London hairdos. Business cards and fliers proclaimed "The Band With That 'Smashing' English Sound." Maurine Hartman was also absolutely determined that no romantic entanglements would slow the rise of the Aerovons. "She was always pushing us to get rid of our girlfriends," Frank says. "Here we are, just discovering girls, and she'd tell us, 'All they're going to do is hurt you. Get rid of them.' Was she right? Of course she was."
By 1967, giddy with local success and naïve enthusiasm, the band members set out to record at Abbey Road. That being the case, Maurine Hartman advised them to start writing their own material. "We went and bought this reel-to-reel and quit playing out," Frank says. "All we did was start writing songs and recording."
In the liner notes of Resurrection, Tom Hartman says that a Capitol Records rep heard the Aerovons recording at Premier Studios in St. Louis and brought the band to London. Frank can't recall that particular detail but remembers virtually everything else about their February 1968 trip. Still in high school, the impressionable Aerovons did a week on the London rock-star circuit, mouths agape and hearts aflutter. "The second night we're there (in London), she gets us into this club called the Speakeasy," Frank recalls. "There's Paul McCartney, Diana Ross, Michael Caine. I'm still in high school, seventeen years old at that point, and we're standing in the same room with these people! Later that night, I'm in the bathroom taking a leak next to Paul McCartney!
"There was this little black guy running around the club in this big bolero hat. And Hartman and me are like, 'Who's this fucker think he is, Jimi Hendrix?'" Sure enough, it was. Later on, Hendrix got onstage, borrowed a guitar and wowed the pop elite with half an hour of feedback. "We'd never heard that before," Frank continues. "Now, anybody can do it, but back then? He just had the whole place totally silent and focused. Stuff that had never existed before was happening right in front of your eyes."