Bay City — It started as a joke.
I was flipping through the vinyl bins at the Bay City Goodwill, not looking for anything in particular—maybe something soulful, maybe something strange. Between a Jim Croce greatest hits and a cluster of polka records, I spotted it: three albums by the Bay City Rollers. The sleeves were faded, the tartan outfits unmistakable. They were $2 apiece.
I laughed out loud. The coincidence was too perfect. A Scottish boy band from the ’70s with our city’s name, tucked away in a Midwestern thrift store? I bought all three, thinking they’d be a funny prop. Something to lean on the mantle and point to during house parties.
But something shifted when I got home and started reading. What began as a throwaway punchline turned into a rabbit hole. The more I learned about the Bay City Rollers—their bizarre rise, their chaotic fame, and their strangely sincere impact—the more it started to feel personal.
Once I looked past the tartan and teen hysteria, I realized I’d stumbled onto a piece of local history that wasn’t local at all. And yet, somehow, felt like it was.
Even though the Bay City Rollers had no real connection to Bay City, Michigan, in a strange way, they became ours.
The Bay City Rollers were a Scottish band from Edinburgh. They broke through in the 1970s with glam-pop hits like “Saturday Night,” “Bye Bye Baby,” and “Shang-a-Lang.” For a brief, wild moment, they were massive, dubbed “the next Beatles” by the press and chased by screaming fans across two continents.
Before the fame, though, they were just a local band looking for a gimmick to help crack the U.S. market. Their manager suggested they pick an American-sounding name. According to the band’s own telling, drummer Derek Longmuir threw a dart at a map of the United States. The first dart landed on Arkansas, which didn’t get much enthusiasm, so he threw again.
It landed on Bay City, Michigan.
That was it. No tour history. No label deal in the Midwest. Just a random pick (or two).
The band agreed it sounded right—American enough to work—and the Bay City Rollers were born.
The band’s classic lineup featured five members who each played a distinct role in shaping their sound and image. Co-founders Alan and Derek Longmuir laid the foundation, Alan on bass and Derek on drums. Lead guitarist Eric Faulkner and rhythm guitarist Stuart “Woody” Wood added musical range and harmonies.
And frontman Les McKeown, with his confident vocals and energy, gave the Rollers their voice during their meteoric rise. Together, they created a new brand of glam-pop.
You might expect Bay City to roll its eyes at a Scottish band co-opting its name. Instead, the city leaned in.
In the mid-’70s, when “Saturday Night” hit No. 1 on the charts, the city council sent the band keys to the city, and fans pushed for a formal visit.
The connection deepened on August 24, 1977, when Bay City declared it “Bay City Rollers Day.”
The mural, once located near the downtown center, has since been painted over. Its legacy now mostly kept alive through stories and old photos. For fans, it’s a small but bittersweet reminder that even cherished moments can quietly fade.
The street sign, on the other hand, still stands. A little faded, but intact. For passersby who notice, it’s a quirky echo of a time when Bay City got to feel famous, even if only for a moment.
One longtime resident recalled being a teenager when the band broke out: “I just liked that they had our name. It felt like they were ours.”
When one of the original members passed away in 2018, major news outlets ran obituaries. Bay City noticed too. Locals posted tributes. Some dusted off old records.
It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was a reminder of a quirky, unearned connection that had somehow endured.
In post-industrial towns like Bay City, these kinds of stories stick. They become cultural glue. They gave the city a pop-cultural anchor when a lot of other anchors were disappearing.
It doesn’t matter that the band never played here. Or that the name was chosen by chance. What matters is that Bay City chose to care—and still sort of does.
I bought those records thinking they’d be a punchline. But they weren’t.
They’re a reminder that meaning doesn’t always come from effort. Sometimes it grows from memory, repetition, and pride, even when the origin is just a lucky stab at a map.
The Bay City Rollers had nothing to do with Bay City. But they still mattered here.
And in a place that knows what it feels like to be forgotten, that kind of accidental belonging goes a long way.
Landen Taylor is a musician and explorer living in Bay City. Follow him on Instagram @landoisliving.
