1966 was a banner year for The Ford Mustang, Wilson Pickett, and me. I REALLY coveted that car; it was the creme de la creme of style. Sure, I was only 13, and didn’t have my driver’s license, but that car was a teen’s wet dream. I was just starting to be interested in girls, too. Kathy Washkevich lived across the development, and I would sneak out of the house after my parents went to bed and throw pebbles at her second floor window, (which was right above the ledge of the chimney.) She’d crawl out, and ease down on to my shoulders and we’d spend the night in each other’s arms.  

My ardor didn’t just begin and end with the females - there was my passion for music, too, and The Wicked Pickett stood front and center on my list of artists that I yearned to emulate. He had that raw, yet smooth growl which emanated from deep in the guts - and, I shredded my vocal chords trying to match it.  I was the lead singer of my middle school band, The Full House, and Mustang Sally and Midnight Hour were two of our barn burners. When I would cue the audience of YMCA kids to shout with me:  “Ride, Sally, Ride…” the surge of power that I felt was cataclysmic, the aftershocks of which have resonated throughout my life. 

Full disclosure: The Young Rascal’s was the first version I heard - Felix Cavaliere was my blue-eyed soul gateway drug - and he reports that they recorded it before Pickett, but Wilson’s is the definitive recording, and it stands, solidly thrilling, to this day.