Midnight Raiders
From my future Memoir "I Never Slept With the Band"
The night I raided the Raiders … not the football team. The Band.
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I ducked under Fang’s arm—Phil Volk of Paul Revere and the Raiders—as twenty screaming girls surged behind me. He sputtered in protest, but I pressed forward, claiming, “It’s my recorder!” Mitch Salazar, a DJ from El Paso, and Linda, my friend and his assistant, had already breezed past him with the reel‑to‑reel in hand, securing the interview. The door slammed shut behind me, muffling the chaos outside, and suddenly I was inside the Raiders’ world—not as a fan clawing for autographs, but as someone who had barged her way into the story.
It was July 31, 1966, and somehow the Raiders were playing Ruidoso—a sleepy New Mexico town that had managed to book them when El Paso, just down the road, hadn’t. Like the crowd of fans outside the motel room’s door, we’d learned where the band was staying.
To view a YouTube video of the Raiders doing Kicks, go to this link:
Inside, things calmed quickly. Mitch set up the recorder while I pulled out a notebook, still harboring dreams of becoming an entertainment reporter if I could ever afford college. My preference was the University of Arizona at Tucson, but for now I was a long‑distance operator at the phone company. I listened eagerly as Mitch handled the interview, hoping to learn something from his style.
Once Fang realized Linda and I weren’t there to swoon, he relaxed. After the promo was finished, he sat back and started chatting with us—asking about our jobs, laughing at the quirks of everyday life. It was refreshing for him, he said, to have a normal conversation on the road.
About thirty minutes later, Smitty—Mike Smith—came through the connecting door with a six‑pack of beer. The party was on. Fang offered me one, but I declined with a smile. “I’m the designated driver, and beer’s not my thing. I’ll take another soda.” He seemed amused but respected it.
The connecting door opened again, and Mark Lindsay appeared with Rose. Earlier that night, we’d stood outside his room with a crowd of screaming fans. His door had opened part way. A flashbulb had caught him half‑hidden, unclothed, and the door had slammed shut. Now he was fully dressed, scanning the crowd, and his eyes landed on Rose. With her tan skin and high cheekbones, she stood out in the cluster of surrounding girls.
Click below for the YouTube video of Just Like Me:
Mark pointed at her, and she glanced behind to see if it was someone else he’d indicated. Then she pointed to herself, and he nodded. “You. Come here,” he said, pulling her inside. Later, she and Mark rejoined us in Phil’s room, arm around his waist, looking chummy. I never asked what happened in Mark’s room, and she never volunteered.
Two six‑packs disappeared, and Fang asked if there was anywhere to buy more beer. I laughed. “Not in New Mexico on a Sunday. Blue Laws.”
Both he and Mark looked stunned.
“So how far is it to Texas?” Fang asked.
“El Paso’s about an hour and a half,” I replied, glancing at my watch. It was already after two, and Rose and I still had that drive ahead of us.
When I told Fang we had to leave, he looked disappointed. “Really? You can’t stay longer?” Work awaited, though, and responsibility trumped glamour.
Mitch and Linda were in a separate car. He clung to my recorder, promising to return it after transferring the interviews to the station deck. I hesitated—it wasn’t cheap—but agreed. He’d gotten great promos, and I figured he owed me one.
Rose and I slipped out, Mark’s arm sliding from her waist, while Fang lingered in the doorway.
“I can’t believe we’re walking away from Mark Lindsay and Fang when they wanted us to stay,” Rose said.
“Me, neither.” Damn if I wasn’t a poor excuse for a groupie. Too much of a good girl to actually do anything. But it had been a night to remember.
Amusingly, I never wrote the story of that night for a magazine. Never put it out anywhere until now… just one more great highlight from my life. No cell phones and I didn’t carry a camera back then, so no selfies, but I have vivid memories.
Afterword
I saw Paul Revere and the Raiders several times in Reno in the years that followed. By then, most of the original lineup had changed—only Paul remained, but still a fun act. Once, Mark Lindsay joined for a Reno gig, and it felt like a flicker of the old magic. Paul even had a teen club in town for a while. The music kept going, and so did the memories.
Note: My cohorts’ names have been changed to protect the guilty, but the rest of the story is entirely true.
Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this memory bubble of mine, please let me know.