On ‘American Graffiti,’ cool cars, Wolfman Jack and the tricks of time
DAVID TEMPLETON
On ‘American Graffiti,’ cool cars, Wolfman Jack and the tricks of time
https://static.ew.srp.navigacloud.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/7/2020/06/24034037/cropped-pac-favicon-32x32.png
Petaluma Argus-Courier
I was 13 years old when “American Graffiti” hit movie theaters in the summer of 1973.

A nerdy, awkward kid more in the mold of the movie’s Terry "The Toad" Fields than its more confident drag racing king John Milner, I was about to start eighth grade at a brand new school in Downey, California. I’d just relocated from Ontario, home of the motor speedway where motorcyclist Evil Knievel had jumped 19 cars two years previously.

I liked Evil Knievel. I liked cars, and assumed I’d eventually have one of my own. But beyond riding in cars with my parents and going to drive-in movies in cars to see things like “Planet of the Apes,” I had no real appreciation of automobiles yet, since I would not get my license for at least few more years.

Still, I do remember the posters for “American Graffiti” displayed on the outside of the local movie theater. They featured cartoony depictions of numerous cars along with colorful caricatures of the movie’s main characters. These included the aforementioned Terry the Toad (Charles Martin Smith) and John Milner (Paul LeMat), along with buttoned-up Curt Henderson (Richard Dreyfuss), the angsty-but-romantic would-be writer trapped between his dreams of leaving small-town life and his fear of the unknown. There are others: the super-popular Steve (Ron Howard), the precocious 12-year-old Carol (Mackenzie Phillips), and of course the elaborately beehived Debbie (Candy Clark).

To me, all of them looked so grownup – they looked so, you know, old.

When you are 13, almost everyone over 18 looks old. Proof, I guess, that time loves to play tricks on us, whether we are looking forwards or backwards.

I also remember the television commercials for “American Graffiti,” with Wolfman Jack’s iconic voice repeatedly asking, “Where were you in ’62?” as a stream of cars, at least 50 individual shots, flashed by to a soundtrack of “Rock Around the Clock.” There was a yellow 1932 Ford 5-window with a license plate saying “THX 1138,” which happens to be director George Lucas’ first feature film. Then came a classy 1956 Ford Thunderbird, a white 1958 Chevrolet Impala coupe, a chopped black 1951 Mercury coupe. There is a sleek black 1955 Chevrolet 150 driven by an as-yet-unknown Harrison Ford and, most memorably, a Ford Galaxie police car being vivisected by hoodlums in front of a movie theater, the marquee on which promises “Dementia 13,” the first film directed by "American Graffiti“ producer Francis Ford Coppola.

So anyway, there were a lot of cool cars.

In addition to the voice of the Wolfman, there is an overly exuberant announcer shouting, “Grab that special one and jump into your candy-colored custom or your screamin’ machine, cruise downtown and catch ‘American Graffiti!’ It’s one of those great old movies about romance, racin’ and rock ‘n roll!”

Now, I confess that at the time, I had little serious interest in “American Graffiti.” Caught, at age 13, in that weird developmental limbo-space between childhood and teenhood, “American Graffiti” promised a bit too much confusing grown-up stuff to capture my full attention. The movies I was most looking forward to at the time were Disney’s animated “Robin Hood,” the science-fiction thrillers “Westworld” and “Day of the Dolphin,” and the movie version of “Jesus Christ Superstar,” the latter because I loved the Original Cast album, to which I’d been introduced by Miss Tucker, my seventh grade Music Appreciation teacher, who looked a lot like Karen Carpenter, who I admit I had something of mild celebrity crush on.

By extension, I also had a bit of a crush on Miss Tucker, who had her own celebrity crush on Cat Stevens, a chest-baring poster of whom decorated the west wall of her classroom.

For what it’s worth, though I have no idea if Miss Tucker ever met Cat Stevens, I myself would one day meet Karen Carpenter, who also lived in Downey, and had even once attended the same high school I eventually graduated from.

It was 1977 and I was 17, and she was driving a sleek yellow Porsche. I worked at Robo Car Wash at the time, the same place where her brother Richard usually took the family’s many cars to be washed and waxed. It was the only time I ever saw Karen bring a car in, but I recognized her immediately. She rolled down the window, said, “Hello,” handed me a dollar bill and added, “Wax please. Have a nice day,” then rolled up the window.

And I washed her car.

Okay, okay. I know that isn’t the world’s most exciting meet-your-celebrity-crush story. But it’s true and it’s mine and I’m keeping it.

Anyway, back to 1973.

There was one element of “American Graffiti” that caught my attention, and made me at least grudgingly willing to see it of there were no better options. I’ve actually already mentioned it.

It was the involvement of Wolfman Jack.

As a kid from Southern California, I knew the voice of Wolfman Jack like I knew how fast ice cream melts on a summer day, like I knew the sound of the ocean and the smell of the Helm’s Bakery Truck after its driver stopped in front of the house and opened up the back to expose all those drawers and drawers filled with sliced bread, breakfast rolls and warm donuts. Whatever complex hint of seductively sexy danger and been-there-done-that freedom that Wolfman Jack’s growling-and-barking voice represented to the older teens of Los Angeles County, to nerdy kids like me, his appeal was simple.

He was kind of scary.

Not scary in the sense that he offered any real threat. Wolfman Jack was scary in a fun way, scary like the late-night monster movies hosted by the mysterious Seymour (Francis Fitzgerald "Larry" Vincent) on his weekly “Fright Night” TV broadcasts. He was scary like the Halloween haunted house run by the assistant minister in the basement of the Methodist Church, the one the older members silently disapproved of, but put up with because at least it meant that at least once a year young people wanted to come to church.

Like those things, Wolfman Jack was scary, but he was also funny – which made him cool.

In Lucas’ film, the mysterious DJ serves as the disembodied master-of-ceremonies for a long night of cruising, kissing, racing, drinking, obsessing, stressing, and love – both the falling-into kind and the falling-out-of kind.

In between spinning records, the Wolfman drops deliciously Sphinxian riddles and rock-tinged zen koans, gently mocking his listeners on as he also encourages them, takes their requests, offers advice and infuses over-the-top weather reports with gorgeously warped poetry.

When Curt ultimately visits the radio station, desperate to get a message out to the beautiful blonde woman he’s been seeing all night driving the aforementioned white Ford Thunderbird, he meets a Popsicle-crunching staffer who claims he only works for the Wolfman – but who is played by the actual Wolfman Jack.

It’s a great scene, and Robert Weston Smith/the Wolfman is quite good in it, making one wonder why he never developed into a true movie star. By 1973, 11 years after the events in the movie take place, he’d appeared in a few B-movies and television sitcoms, but “American Graffiti” was the closest he got to being in an A-film, and it was easily his best onscreen performance. He starts off as an intimidating presence, just that famous voice growling words into the airwaves, but when he finally appears, he’s just a guy in a hot radio studio, eating a Popsicle, claiming to be playing tapes of Wolfman Jack’s voice, ultimately offering Curt a piece of advice.

“If the Wolfman was here he'd tell you to get your ass in gear,” he says. “The Wolfman comes in here occasionally, bringing tapes, you know, to check up on me and whatnot, and the places he talks about that he's been, the things he's seen. It's a great big beautiful world out there.”

At the time, the world did indeed seem big to me, and just like in the film, the voice of Wolfman Jack – often on the radio in my Mom’s 1968 Plymouth Roadrunner – made it seem even bigger, wilder and maybe worth getting off one’s ass for.

“American Graffiti” was filmed on a budget of $750,000 and ended up earning $115 million at the box office, making it one of the most profitable movies of all time, instantly giving Lucas enough clout to make his next film, a little thing called “Star Wars.”

Eventually, largely due to Wolfman Jack’s involvement, I did see “American Graffiti,” though I think I might actually have been 14 by then. Eventually, I did get my license and my first car. It was a brown 1968 Ford Galaxie. A few years later I got a Ford Ranger pickup truck, and felt myself shifting from official Terry the Toad-status to, if not John Milner Racing King-status, at least angsty-but-romantic Curt Henderson-status. Over the years, I’ve seen “Graffiti” again and again, and each time I appreciate something new about it.

And now I live in the town where the movie was filmed.

And every year we celebrate by cheering on people who drive really cool cars.

Which I genuinely do appreciate, and I still enjoy listening to the radio while driving, though the Wolfman is sadly long gone from the airwaves, I am in the final days of being 62 years old – “Where were you at 62?” – and “American Graffiti” is about to turn 50 years old.

How did that happen?

Oh right. Time plays tricks. I keep finding new ways of learning that.

By the way, I now drive a Prius with 286,000 miles on the odometer. When I hit 300,000, I’m getting a new car. It will almost certainly be electric.

That would be cool.

David Templeton’s “Culture Junkie,” which was just awarded a prize in the category of best newspaper column by the California Newspaper Journalist Association, runs once a month or so in the Argus-Courier. He can be reached at david.templeton@argus-courier.com.