Members Of The Four Seasons (band) __top__ [ Must Watch ]

They started. It was rusty, clumsy—Nick missed a cue, Frankie cracked on the high note, Tommy's fingers fumbled the first chord like he'd forgotten how to touch strings. But then something happened. Bob played a descending progression, a minor key that walked down a staircase into a basement with no lights. Frankie caught it. He opened his mouth, and out came a sound that wasn't the Four Seasons. It was something older. A man in a diner at 2 AM, watching his coffee go cold. A woman walking away in a coat that used to be his.

It was a Thursday when Frankie’s phone rang at 3:17 AM. He almost didn’t answer. He was lying awake anyway, counting the water stains on the ceiling of his suite, thinking about the way his voice felt now—gravelly, frayed at the edges, nothing like the angelic tenor that had sliced through "Sherry."

"You'll feel them."

Bob answered on the first ring, which meant he hadn't been sleeping either. "I know," Bob said before Frankie could speak. "Nick called me, too. He's already halfway to Buffalo." The next evening, they assembled in a cinder-block garage behind a shuttered pizzeria in Newark. The place smelled of old grease and regret. Tommy arrived last, his leather jacket too thin for the cold, his hands shaking. Not from fear—from withdrawal. He hadn't had a drink in 36 hours.

Bob set up a portable keyboard on an overturned milk crate. Nick tuned Tommy's guitar by ear, the same way he'd done a thousand times before. Frankie tapped the microphone—a beat-up Shure 55SH, the kind they'd used at the Steel Pier. members of the four seasons (band)

At 11:47 PM, Frankie set down the mic. "That's the one," he said.

Frankie looked at the phone. Then he looked at the snow outside. Then he dialed Bob Gaudio's number in L.A. They started

"He called me," Nick said, his voice flat as a frozen lake. "He didn't call Bob. He didn't call you. He called me. Because I'm the one who used to bail him out of the drunk tank."