KIDS THESE DAYS:

Last Friday afternoon, I was working at home when I received an online headline alert that a fellow named Kevin DuBrow had been found dead in his home in Las Vegas. According to the report, he had been dead for six days before his body was found.

A few readers may recognize the name, but most will not know DuBrow as one of the pioneers of a second generation of American heavy metal through his band Quiet Riot. For those unfamiliar with the term or music, heavy metal describes a loud, often incomprehensible collection of guitars, drums and voices. For a brief time, Quiet Riot was a famous band. And they had a hit in 1983 with “Cum on Feel the Noize.”

The image of the crowd that relishes heavy metal is likely to be the partying, tattooed, drug-taking, anti-social group one would expect.

But that is not how I remember Kevin “Butch” DuBrow as my very good friend of 40 years ago.

I’m not sure where Kevin came from or why we were friends after we met at Laurel Elementary School in Hollywood. All I know is that he was a really nice guy. And if my brother-in-law, Bud West, a teacher and school principal for more than 20 years is correct that one’s personality is cemented by the time we are 6 years old, Kevin was probably a really nice adult, too.

For the record, it should be noted that I knew Kevin for only a year or two, but in that time, I achieved a level of status in his life: I was the lead singer in Kevin’s first band.

Yes, that’s true. But it’s also true that this band of 11-year-olds played only one gig, to an audience of senior citizens that appreciated the Rolling Stones songs we covered as much as they appreciated arthritis.

When I knew Kevin, he lived with his mother and brother in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles where we both grew up. His mother was divorced and I remember her as both very pretty and very nice.

Because of the chaos in my own home, I could not invite Kevin or my other friends over so I spent time with him in his room listening to the “B” sides of 45 rpm records. That was in 1966 when the British invasion was in full force. Kevin and I sang along with the records and tried to imitate their accents, wondering, as do many people still, why the Brits don’t seem to sing with the same accents with which they speak.

I was no reluctant member of the band but Kevin was clearly the brains behind the operation.

When I saw Kevin on an album cover in the 1980s, I realized he had achieved something he’d wanted since we were kids: Kevin had become a rock star.

I don’t remember the rock star, I just remember my good friend Butch.

I can’t say that I miss him because he was not a part of my life. I can say, however, that I never forgot him.

An employee at the Clark County Coroner’s office in Las Vegas told me a final cause of death had not yet been determined and there was no information on a memorial. But I was told my message would be passed on to his family. It was reported Monday Kevin’s death has been ruled an accidental cocaine overdose.

Then I read a blog by a former band member that indicated a service would take place in Corona del Mar and that he would be buried next to his stepfather. Since Pacific View is the only cemetery in Corona del Mar, it was not hard to figure out where I should be.

But when I got to Pacific View, they refused to tell me where he was buried or even if he was buried there, even though all I wanted to do was leave my flowers and say goodbye to my old friend.

“I know where he’s buried here,” I told the rude, insensitive person at the desk, “I found it on the Internet. All I want is a map.”

She left for several minutes, then returned and refused to give me a map.

So I wandered around the large cemetery, looking for the Garden of David mentioned on the website findagrave.com. After about 30 minutes, I found it. Now, it was a matter of locating his marker in the large, grassy area overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

“You won’t find it,” said a woman who asked who I was looking for.

“Jews don’t allow headstones or markers until a year after death,” she said.

She was there for a graveside memorial led by a rabbi for someone who had passed away awhile back.

She told the rabbi my story and he approached me and said he was the rabbi who had presided over Kevin’s service Dec. 1. So, I missed his service, that much I now knew.

“I just want to leave these and say a few words to him,” I said, holding up my flowers. “And I know he is buried next to his stepfather, but I don’t know his name.”

The rabbi tool a long look at me — several seconds — and said, “Hank Mandell.”

“Thank you very much,” I replied.

The only place I had not looked was the area around where the rabbi and the relatives were standing.

So I waited for them to finish and wandered over. Sure enough, there was a marker for “Harold Mandell.” Next to it was a freshly dug plot.

It was a very clear but windy morning, and I did my best to secure my flowers in dirt so they did not blow away.

I did not know what to say so I just said, “Hi, Butch.” Then I remembered something I’d seen on a bench during the time I’d been wandering around Pacific View.

“Rest easy.”

STEVE SMITH is a Costa Mesa resident and a freelance writer. Send story ideas to dailypilot@latimes.com.