Jan Berry--Two Things for Which He Wanted to Be Remembered

There were few more popular rock & roll bands in the early-mid 1960s than the Southern CA duo of Jan & Dean. Both of them were graduates of University HS in West LA (Jan was born in April 1941 and Dean in March 1940), but Dean Torrence went into the service at Ford Ord in late Spring 1958, returning in Fall 1958, to discover that his high school buddy Jan Berry had recorded a top 10 hit ("Jenny Lee") with Arnie Ginsburg. But Ginsburg soon went off to the military himself, and Jan & Dean were "born" late in 1958, with their first top-ten hit following in 1959 ("Baby Talk"). For the next few years Jan would take the lead in their musical production, but they needed the help of more experienced hands, such as Lou Adler and Herb Alpert, to launch them on a national stage. Not until the duo signed with Liberty Records in 1962 did Jan come into his own as a musical technician par excellence.

One of the two things that Jan wanted to be remembered for was "as one of the best record producers of my generation." All who knew and worked with Jan recognized his genius at mastering the technology of production as well as giving leadership to musical groups, such as his own, who were experimenting with new "sounds."

The Really Important Thing

But it is the second thing for which Jan wanted most to be remembered that is the focus of this essay. Ironically enough, it is something for which he never planned to be remembered, and that was as a "high profile inspiration for survivors of traumatic brain injury." This resulted from his courageous, and difficult, attempt to deal with the partial paralysis, brain injury and resultant speech and memory defects arising out of his April 12, 1966 high speed auto accident. On that fateful day, as he was speeding down Whittier Ave. after turning right (south) off of Sunset Blvd., heading at an "excessive" rate of speed (I have seen figures that say as high as 90 mph) to a meeting at the Beverly Hilton on the 9800 block of Wilshire Blvd., he ran into a gardener's truck, totalling his Corvette Stingray and almost killing himself.

If there is one thing crystal clear from Jan's biography before this fateful accident, it is that he didn't have time for the accident. That is, there was no way that any such thing should have come into his life. He was an amazingly talented and bright young man, nearing the end of his 2nd year of medical school as well as putting out a string of five top 10 records in the previous two years. His take-charge personality, skill in building relationships (especially noteworthy was the collaborative effort with Bryan Wilson of the Beach Boys when both were putting out the "surfer" and "car" songs of 1963-64), technical skill, stunning good looks and international acclaim showed that life was moving along exactly as planned. As he says in an autobiographical statement completed shortly before his death in 2004,

"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...my future never looked brighter."

But there were other plans for Jan, just when things were falling neatly into place.

The Despair and the Darkness

After his debilitating accident, he lost use of his right arm, had difficulty remembering lyrics to their songs and only could speak in a slow/slurred fashion. The effect of all the loss he faced was devastating on him. As could be expected, his personality almost changed (with anger, intrusiveness and general pain-in-the-ass behavior), and he began to develop a drug dependency. One of the attractions of Jan & Dean prior to the 1966 accident was their innocent, and even naive, wholesomeness. That would irretrievably be shattered in the wake of Jan's accident.

But I am even more interested in the psychological toll that Jan's distress took on him. He talks about it as the coming of the darkness. After encouraging his readers never to give up with their own struggles, he says:

"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."

I think I would only change one word in his description of the debilitating power of the darkness--you have to be prepared to battle it on "its" on terms.

Conclusion

Two things that he never thought he would meet in the halcyon days of 1960-early 1966 were disability and depression. They didn't fit in the universe he was taming and defining. Yet, they came. And, the man whom most will agree was one of the most significant record producers of his day, now says that his role as an inspiration for others suffering from traumatic brain injury is the most important contribution he has made in life. Only something as powerful as the darkness, and something as gratifying as another brain-damaged person gripping his hand and weeping in gratitute to Jan, would convince him that his beloved music would come in second in importance in his life. The darkness can do that to you, especially if you vow never to let the darkness have the last word in your life.

[Next]

3632