His name is Darryl Jones, you probably have never heard of him, and yet he is the Rolling Stones' bassist and has been for over 20 years. Famous bands swap out guys all the time -- Aerosmith's keyboardist in concerts is someone named Buck Johnson. It's even more complicated when a band's known lineup keeps changing (KISS has only two original members; Lynyrd Skynyrd, one). And then, with some bands, it gets weirder still.

Stuart Sevastos/Wiki Commons
Like Heart, Quiet Riot, or Gwar, who all boast a big fat zero.

Let me tell you now about Herman's Hermits. They formed in 1964 and are among the best-selling bands of all time. But most of the public knew precisely one guy: Peter "Herman" Noone. Publicity was all about him, to the point that when the label wanted the band to record new music, they just brought in Peter and hired anonymous musicians at random to do the other vocals and play instruments, correctly guessing that fans wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

Peter Noone left the band in 1973. Today, the rest of the band tours and performs as Herman's Hermits. And Peter Noone ... also performs as Herman's Hermits, except with a bunch of people he never played with in the '60s, and since he was the face and the voice of the band way back when, fans flock to see him.

Seen here resorting to putting his name in the set dressing.

That brings us to 2001, when I was playing with a jazz trio in Florida. During the break of one show, a guy asked if I'd like a job playing with Herman's Hermits (the one that actually had Herman). The next day, I agreed and he handed me a folder stuffed with sheet music. "There are 40 songs in here," he said. "You've got two weeks to learn them."

That seemed overwhelming. But once I got a look at them, I laughed -- they looked like something you'd give a kid to practice so that he'd one day be able to play the piano for real. Not that the band didn't realize this. One of the songs I'd be doing keyboards on was "Mrs. Brown, You've Got A Lovely Daughter" -- a song from a British TV play that they recorded jokingly with a parody Manchester accent (to American ears, it just sounds "British"). It debuted on the charts higher than any song ever not by the Beatles.

Another I did was "I'm Henry VIII, I Am." That one had been a 1910 music hall song in England (I guess the American equivalent would be "Old MacDonald"). When they recorded it, the band cringed at what England would think of them. In America, it went to number one and was, at the time, the fastest-selling song in history. Enjoy:

Just in case it still needed saying, tastes have sort of changed since 1965.

At my first show in Baltimore (my audition, actually), while fans lined up for memorabilia to be autographed, Peter turned to me and said, "You see that lady there carrying about 50 records? Yeah, you'll see her a lot." Over the next months, we would see her in line and be like, "Oh shit, her." But even though we dreaded them, Peter treated them with the same kindness he extended to all of his fans, spending hours over the autographs, all the while muttering to us, "I've signed this album like 10 times now, look at it!" And sure enough, there would be 70 or so signatures on the album, all of us band members through the years and also Peter's name around 10-15 times.

The old fans had their rituals, singing along with "Henry VIII" with such vigor that it felt like a fight song at a college football game, the rally song of the self-named "Noonatics." And, yes, at one point in every concert, someone would throw their panties onstage as a gag. Me and Peter stepped into one voluminous pair and posed for a photo:

Via Kevin Ducharme
That's Kevin on the left, presumably waving at a flirty, 16-foot Amazon.

We'd do a concert and then the venue manager would direct us to some party to unwind, at which point Peter would excuse himself and just go back to his hotel. He was getting on in years, of course, but also avoided all alcohol since joining AA a few decades ago. Sometimes I'd be the only one there -- someone would ask where the rest of the band was, and I'd have to shrug because they'd left or never even come. Imagine going back in time and telling the teenage version of the band that someday they'd still be out there playing these novelty hits but declining the after-party in favor of an earlier bedtime.

artefacti/iStock
"So when I'm a rock star I'm gonna drink and drop pills every night, right?!"
"Technically? Yes."

Once, Peter took us all out to a club and pointed to a table with four incredibly beautiful women, saying, "Okay, time to have fun." Out from his pocket came two pairs of goofy glasses, something like Mickey Rooney's "Chinese Glasses" from Breakfast At Tiffany's. He had the two of us put them on and ... all right, it doesn't sound very funny when I summarize it, but it was a way of breaking the ice and getting these fans to relax and giggle. Clearly an old trick of his.

Next he put on a wacky "redneck" voice and did a Johnny Cash impression -- rolling out all of these bits and pickup lines. He signed a few autographs and, just when you'd expect him to try to make off with one woman on each arm, said, "All right, Kevin. You got this, right?" And he said good night and left. Because he had been (and still is) happily married to the same woman since he was 21.

And singing at Disney World was work -- we did three shows a day (noon, then 2 p.m., then 4 p.m.) and then stuck around for hours until every single person in the park who wanted an autograph got it. That's how you survive as a band for six decades -- day by day, fan by fan, smiling as you sign the same album cover for the tenth time.

I reached my breaking point after we'd been on the road for almost 200 days solid. During an after-party, I found myself thinking, "I don't think I'm going to make it to tomorrow's show." I ended up out cold. They even came into my room to wake me up for the flight, but that wasn't happening.

So I woke up in South Carolina, in a hotel, a maid banging on the door, saying it was past my check-out time. A phone call later made it official -- I was out of the band.

Peter still keeps in touch with me now and then. And I check in on his website and the chat room (always greeted with, "Watch out, Kevin's here"). Peter heard that I was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's, so maybe he figures I wasn't just being a complete asshole when I decided touring was too much for me mentally.

Peter Noone
Turns out someone willing to sign the same album 15 times is a pretty patient guy.

The Alzheimer's is progressing and the time's going to come soon when I can't remember what happened yesterday. But I think I'm always going to remember playing "I'm Into Something Good" at the Staples Center with two cameramen sending my face onto the jumbotron, or performing at the World Trade Center three weeks before 9/11. I'm always going to remember wiping the sweat off my head while under blinding stage lights, and then seeing an entire front row of sexagenarians fighting over the dropped towel.

Kevin is now dealing with his early-onset Alzheimer's, and you can visit his GoFundMe page to help out. This article is dedicated to Peter, the "Banned" and all the Noonatics out there. Thanks for the great year! Ryan Menezes is on Twitter.

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