By the mid-1970s, when I became the editor of Tracks, there were surf heroes for just about every taste and every occasion. As Cheech and Chong noted of women at about the same time, there was more than enough to satisfy every weirdness, every fetish.
The mighty MP was at the height of his powers, of course, stoned and shredding, and cool in every respect, despite the wife-beater and the bizarre velvet clothes. And Bugs was coming on right behind him, busting out the Jagger moves on land and the hands-behind-the-back at Kirra. Or you could go mysto with Wayne, although Lynchy was just about to come slithering out of the southern scrub to chase money at the Coke contest, or old school with Nat, who had already emerged from…
