"One take," Bob said. "I've got a melody. No words yet. Frankie, just scat. Nick, stay on the bass line. Tommy, you know the changes."
They played for three hours. No breaks. No arguing. No mention of Chuckles, or debts, or casinos. members of the four seasons (band)
Bob wrote the lyrics on a napkin. He called it "December, 1963 (Oh What a Night)." Except the demo they cut that night wasn't about a December night. It was about a February one—in a cold garage, with four men who had forgotten how to be a band, remembering that they had never really stopped. "One take," Bob said
The Four Seasons, officially, were a ghost. The name was still a trademark, a line item in a lawyer's folder, but the men who had once been Jersey street kids singing into snowball microphones had scattered like the ashes of a bad cigarette. Frankie, just scat
"It's missing something," he said.
"You'll feel them."