Fifty years of memories: A love letter to The City Magazine Since 1975

By Renae Brabham / Image by Renae Brabham

On a hot summer morning in 1975 you would find me stuffing my VW SuperBeetle with a friend or two, an ice-filled styrofoam cooler holding a six-pack of Tab and pimento cheese sandwiches. Destination — Folly Beach.

Happy 50th Anniversary,Charleston magazine.I took a little time travel back to 1975 with you. What was this “come ya” girl doing in Charleston in 1975? From what I can remember, it was a blast. I was doing the Crocodile Rock with Elton John, Olivia Newton-John was every high school boy’s dream girl singing “Have You Never Been Mellow,” Freddie Mercury was belting out “Bohemian Rhapsody” with Queen, and I was rocking with Donna Summer under a disco ball at Stonehenge on Rivers Avenue, singing “Love to Love You Baby.”

The ’70s were pretty chill — the hangover decade following the peace, love, sleep-in and smoke-out hippie era. Can’t say that I or my friends were hippies, but we were hippie-ish. As usual, fads that started in California took a while to reach South Carolina. Even longer in my case, because we only had two channels coming in through the rabbit ear antennas, and my dad claimed both. One was for the news, the other for Gunsmoke or Hee Haw.  

Happy Rain was the closest thing to a hippie I knew. It was rumored that there were real hippies in downtown Charleston, but they slept all day and only came out at night. It’s all well and good, though. My friends and I did our part to contribute to the vibe. We colored peace signs on our book covers and wore bell bottoms, hip huggers, halter tops, maxis, minis, embroidered and painted jeans, chevron shirts and dresses, floppy hats, sizzler dresses and clogs.

We thought we were “far out” and knew it all — until a stray moved to town from California and showed us what we were missing, like reciting Poe at parties.

As outliers living in Dorchester County, Charleston was our destination long before Condé Nast put it on the map. We’d feign fright at having to traverse the narrow Cooper River Bridge to get to one of our favorite date-night restaurants, The Trawler on Shem Creek. I can still taste the crab dip on club crackers they brought out with your drinks. 

On a hot summer morning in 1975, you’d find me stuffing my VW Super Beetle with a friend or two, an ice-filled Styrofoam cooler holding a six-pack of Tab and pimento cheese sandwiches. Destination: Folly Beach. After baking in the sun for four hours on a shiny aluminum beach blanket covered in baby oil, we’d head over to the Atlantic Restaurant for a beer. I always thought that place was going to fall right into the ocean with me in it. I swore I could feel it moving with the tide. The pier was still there then, but it was graffitied out and kind of sketchy. 

Some evenings caught us hunkered down behind a sand dune or in a cornfield, watching the sunset with a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine.

If our beach day was at Isle of Palms, we’d head to a gas station afterward to spit-shine ourselves off in the sink and spray down with Windsong perfume before heading over to the Windjammer to hear a band. I remember putting on my makeup in the mirror while customers banged on the door, threatening to get the manager if we didn’t come out. 

The Flying Dutchman on Dorchester Road was the best music venue around. I saw Lynyrd Skynyrd perform there in 1974 for $5. 

Mostly, we did a lot of “hanging out” in 1975 — Charleston, Folly Beach, Isle of Palms, parks, riverbanks, cooling off in or floating the Edisto, crabbing the creeks on Johns Island, fishing in country ponds until it got too hot to fish, then peeling off our clothes to go swimming. Some evenings caught us hunkered down behind a sand dune or in a cornfield, watching the sunset with a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine. 

The ride to our Charleston destinations was half the fun. We’d fumble through what looked like a tackle box of 8-track cassettes to find a selection we could sing to. Sometimes the tape would break, which induced baby boomer road rage. I’ve seen a tenth of a mile of cassette tape strung out on I-26 before the plastic casing was released.

Thanks for the road trip, Charleston magazine. I’m glad we could “hang out” together. I wish I could provide pics of the era, but only a few of us had cameras back then. THANK GOD!

No pictures of my 8-track cassettes. Mine are part of I-26 now. lol.