Maybe Baby (or, You Know That It Would Be Untrue)

And in the End…Maybe Baby Says Goodbye

2011-07-29T05:29:00.000-07:00

In 52 stories, over two years, Maybe Baby has brought you its own version of rock and roll history, hitting the near-misses, breathing life into the accidental deaths and repaving the roads not taken. Partly truth, partly fiction, we hope you’ve found them as fun to read as they were to write.

With over 1,500 fans on Facebook, and countless more via constant reposting from readers and links from band sites, Maybe Baby has been read by many. Though the new stories are over (for now), we will stay alive through daily Twitter and Facebook updates and links to past stories. And someday, maybe, who knows, baby, we’ll come back in book form!

So my great thanks to you all, and lots of love.

Goodnight everybody, everybody everywhere.

Jeff Katz

Meanwhile at the Stupid Club

2011-07-21T06:38:00.000-07:00

“We were in, I think we were in Ames, Iowa and I asked this kid, his name was Freddy and he played bass in the band that opened for us. They were like, they were, I think the best band in Ames, Iowa, right? So I said to Freddy, ‘Hey Man, you’re hip to the scene, where’s the action around here and…”

“Oh baby, you are crazy, I just love you man!” yelled Janis. She sat down on Jim’s lap, leaned in and plunged her tongue into his mouth. Jim crossed his eyes and made a face that screamed “not interested.”

“Aw, listen honey, this is my heaven too and if I wanna ball then you’re gonna ball!” Janis tugged on Jim’s left shoulder, hard, until she pulled from him another Jim Morrison. She grabbed the new Jim’s hand and led him away. The real Jim continued babbling.

“…and I met this blonde, she was like a farmer’s daughter or something, you know, a stone fox.”

“Oh, I know that kinda chick, man. Hey I wrote ‘Foxey Lady’ so I know what I’m talking about.” Jimi played the riff – wooo woo, wooo woo – on Charlie Christian’s Gibson ES-150 electric guitar – and let out a guffaw so loud that Sid was stunned awake.

“What? Where?” he spluttered in confusion. He turned his head from left to right in quick motion, soaking in his surroundings. “Oh yeah, I remember” and he free fell backwards into his beanbag cloud. Suddenly, a spike appeared in his arm and the plunger went down. As he drew it in, a figure appeared in the distance and Sid squinted to get a better look. Jim followed his gaze.

“Oh, I know that guy. Good band; they had like two or three albums. You know, they don’t make records anymore, it’s like a little silver disc from space and…”

“Oi! What ya doin’ mate,” Sid called cheerily. “I like your ripped jeans, but, what’s that then, your grandma’s cardigan?” His top lip curled up as he bent over and slapped his knees.

Kurt was a frightened sheep, his scared eyes darting back and forth. They were all here, all his rock heroes – Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Sid Vicious. Was that Janis Joplin straddling Jim Morrison? But Jim is here and he’s talking, but…

“I’m comin’ baby, hold on,” Janis whooped.

“Hey, I ‘eard you used to use my name down there you wanker, signing into hotels as Mr. and Mrs. Simon Ritchie with that slag of yours. I got a right bollocking from St. Peter, he of the pearly gates: ‘Were you down there again Sidney,’ and I was like, ‘Fuck you, you twat!’ Gave him the finger too!” Sid cackled louder than before.

Kurt was nervous as Sid approached.

“Ah, just taken the piss mate,” he grinned as he cuffed Kurt on the head, sending his dirty blonde hair over his eyes.

"Am I where I think I am?” asked Kurt quietly. A minute ago he was sitting in the room above his garage, a needle in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

Jimi spoke. “Yeah baby, this is heaven alright. Nice to have a brother from Seattle up here. How are things down in my old hometown? You know, I skipped out soon after ‘Louie, Louie,’ you know. But up here, everything you want. You just gotta think it.”

“Think it?”

“Yeah, you wanna play the hottest guitar, like this one, you just think it and it appears. You want the sweetest smack you ever shot up? Look at Sid. It just happens. It’s sooo warm. And you never run out of bread so you always get to use the best stuff. You wanna fuck Cleopatra, you just…”

In a long golden gown and tiara, Cleopatra appeared behind Jimi’s celestial throne. He looked over his shoulder. “Baby, it was just an example.” As she began to fade Jimi thought again.

“Wait, sugar. Jimi’s gonna need you in about 15 minutes. Don’t go away now.”

Kurt looked as Sid stirred. He was off on an even higher plane. Suddenly, Sid twitched and tossed a full beer bottle Kurt’s way. It flew over his head and descended through the clouds, landing in Pittsburgh.

“Stevie Winwood was wrong baby," Jimi said. "Heaven ain’t just in your mind. It’s the real deal.”

Kurt rubbed his eyes, holding the stretched out sweater sleeves in his palm. “Heaven,” he thought as he jumped backwards onto a cotton ball cloud. Kurt put his hands behind his head and stared up at the brilliant blue sky; the sky stared back at his brilliant blues eyes. He closed them and smiled.

His nose involuntarily wrinkled as it got a strong whiff of cheap scotch. He opened them and saw Janis up close, her face nearly touching his.

“Hey baby, you’re new here, right?”

Kurt nodded his head.

“Wanna ball?” she asked plaintively.

Kurt shook his head.

“Aw, listen honey, this is my heaven too and if I wanna ball then you’re gonna ball!” Janis tugged on Kurt’s right shoulder, hard, until she pulled another Kurt Cobain from the original model. It didn’t hurt. She led the new Kurt off.

Kurt looked over and watched Janis Joplin fucking his other self. He laughed and looked back at the sky. This was good, very good.

Ah, Nirvana.

Jimi Hendrix died on September 18, 1970. Janis Joplin died on October 4, 1970. Jim Morrison died July 3, 1971. Sid Vicious (born John Simon Ritchie) died February 2, 1979. Kurt Cobain died April 5, 1994.

When Kurt’s mother Wendy Cobain spoke to a reporter after her son’s suicide by shotgun blast, she sadly said of her son “Now he’s gone and joined that stupid club.”

“And so dear friends, you’ll just have to carry on. The dream is over.” – John Lennon

My Friends Came to Me

2011-07-07T07:11:00.000-07:00

With the comfort of Pete Ham at his right, George picked the opening notes to “Here Comes the Sun.” The crowd roared approval and George let loose a sly smile before returning to his terrified gaze. An hour into the concert, he still had a bit of nerves and though he had Badfinger with him now, and a horde of friends throughout, he was consumed with worry and deep blue thoughts.

So far, so good. It was happening, this Concert for Bangladesh, by all standards a huge success. He was front and center for the first time, his shoulder length hair spilling onto his burnt orange shirt, the white coat of his gleaming suit discarded. George’s serious demeanor, coupled with his long Egyptian pharaoh beard, made him look well beyond his 28 years. He stared out, thinking.

Would Bob show?

It was difficult for George to behave normally around Dylan; he worshipped the man and the man didn’t make it easy on George. Dylan wouldn’t commit. Oh, he had lots of reasons, most circling around his almost absolute disappearance from the stage these last five years.

“Hey man, you know this isn’t my scene,” Bob drawled laconically.

George was near breaking point from the gaggle of lawyers, record executives and accountants who circled like vultures, looking to pick the charity carcass clean. Bob was an idol and friend, but at this moment of great human suffering, he was acting selfishly. There was a higher purpose here.

“Look, it’s not my scene either. At least you’ve played on your own in front of a crowd before. I’ve never done that.” Never. He’d always been comfortable in the back. “The Quiet Beatle?” There was something to it. He didn’t want to be the focus, but that was the way God planned it.

Would John come?

John owed him. George had been willing to play with John and Yoko when others in the band wouldn’t. Avant-garde? That’s French for bullshit, but George was a dutiful friend. He’d played vicious slide guitar on John’s anti-Paul vendetta “How Do You Sleep?” George had played the dutiful follower but now he’d grown up and John was confused, lost in maya, apart from true love and unity.

He’d agreed though, at first. Even when George put his foot down and told him “No Yoko,” John was still ready to play. The last few days brought silence. George knew that for all John’s “peace and love” crap, he was a competitive bugger and was consumed by jealousy as George went to the top of the charts and sold millions of records. Little George as charitable hero? Well, that was too much for John to take.

George needed John’s help and knew he deserved it.

Would Paul come?

Ah, Paul. The yin and yang of Mr. McCartney. There’s love there and hate, friendship and spite. Hare Krishna. There was no surprise when Paul answered the request with a demand to end the Beatles’ legal partnership. He’s deep into the material world, and should see this concert serves the Lord; it’s not simply a matter of money and paper. But Paul is Paul and he behaves in a way that causes him to stand alone sometimes. It’s why George was surrounded by friends and Paul worked with his wife.

What does Bob say? “I waited for you when I was half sick; I waited for you when you hated me.” “I’ll wait still. These are my brothers,” George thought as he picked the notes at the end of “Here Comes the Sun,” and felt panic creep. With the song over, he grabbed a drink from atop an amp and began pacing, unsure, as he looked to his left. He’d written “Bob” on the set list, and if Dylan didn’t show what came next?

When he saw a dim figure in blue denim and tight curls, George relaxed. But when he saw another figure in denim and granny glasses, he was elated. It was John!

George stood behind the microphone.

“Like to bring out a friend of us all, Mr. Bob Dylan.”

Madison Square Garden exploded. The crowd saw John before George had the chance to announce him. John strutted on and did his spastic walk and retarded clapping. For all his reputation, John was a cruel bastard and not above making fun of the afflicted. But it was funny. George laughed; John always did that when he was nervous. When John stopped and beckoned offstage, George panicked. He brought Yoko!

But it was Paul.

Paul sauntered on stage, cooler than John, exuding Vegas-y confidence, a real rock star.

Dylan gave George a nod of the head. John came close, grinning broadly as he patted George lovingly on his hairy cheek. George bowed imperceptibly. Paul gave him a brotherly hug, tight and warm. Both John and Paul turned to Ringo, already onstage, and gave a bow. The band – Klaus Voorman, Jesse Ed Davis, Leon Russell, Eric Clapton - stood at the margin of history and cheered.

That was it. George thought back to the happy moments recording Abbey Road, even when it was clear they were coming to the end of the road. It was great fun to work on his own, but he never wanted to see the end of The Beatles, at least not the Beatles as he saw them.

People had imagined The Beatles as something else entirely, but the four of them were the only ones who knew what it was like. Now, nearly two years since the breakup and speculation over what was happening, separating what was real from what wasn't, what could have happened from what wouldn't, it was all over.

Just like that.

After Ravi Shankar asked George Harrison to do something for the ravaged people of Bangladesh, George put together The Concert for Bangladesh, a charitable event. Bob Dylan refused to commit and George was unsure whether the elusive Dylan would show until the very moment he walked on.

John Lennon had initially agreed, though he was skeptical of benefit concerts. Though George had refused to allow Yoko Ono to appear, John didn’t seem to mind but as the date grew near he grew uncomfortable without Yoko. On the eve of the August 1, 1971 show, John bowed out and flew to Paris. Paul McCartney agreed to appear, but only if George would help dissolve the Beatles legal partnership. George refused. Ringo Starr, of course, immediately agreed to play.

My Back Up Against the Wall

2011-06-23T06:50:00.000-07:00

“Paul, have you cleaned up your room?”

There he goes again, the stern voice from beyond my bedroom door. He’s a bright fella, my Pa, self-taught and all that, but, on his own, Bob was a bit lost, a bit too rigid. Clearly he misses my Ma, but she’s dead, right, and we all have to go on the best we can. For me, that means carrying on with no rules.

Not so for our Bob, who must be obeyed. I can’t believe his views. Today, he showed Norman and me his new system. A list of who would be responsible for which chore. Do the beds, vacuum the floor, mind the washing. And all pinned on a note to the kitchen door. He was no Martin Luther, I can tell you that. Pa’s 95 Theses were about doing the bloody laundry.

And Norman was right with him, my big brother trying to be a big man. Who’s he to boss me around? I’m already 14. It’s too bad I missed him when I threw the kitchen knife at him.

The door swung open.

“Paul, did you buy the dinner like I asked you?” Pa was steaming; he didn’t even knock before he entered my cupboard sized box-room.

“Could you knock first? I could be busy, you know?” That’s not how to talk to the old man; I know that, but what of it? Who was he after all? A postal clerk who didn’t listen anyway. Oh, he’d go on about “Gerry this and Gerry that” from the office, but if I had something to say, something important, he was a brick wall. And if I talked back, he’d erupt, like the time I was ten and he locked me in my room. He could be an ass, for sure.

“It’s my house and as long as that is the case, I have no need of knocking.”

OK, fine, it was going to be that way. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking his way. Instead, I faced the floor, running my hands through my hair. If I closed my eyes could I make him go away?

“Paul, I know it’s been difficult for you since your Ma passed, difficult for all of us, but we need to come together as a family and you are not doing your part to help. Your brother Norman is working, I’m working and you need to care for the house. We’re….”

Ah, he keeps prattling on. I tuned him out. What a bore. Just like a Catholic, with their arbitrary rules and orders and guilt. Why’d a nice Church of Ireland girl marry a Papist and endure the wrath of her family and mates? My Ma was so sweet and gentle. She deserved so much better than Bob. Though Dublin’s no Belfast, it didn’t do me any good to come from a mixed marriage like that. I’m glad she brought me up the way she did. Let Bob Hewson go to Mass alone. He deserved it. Ma’s death was a punch in the gut and, when I gulped for air, my eyes widened and saw everything clearly. For the first time really.

“ARE YOU LISTENING TO A WORD I’M SAYING?”

“Will you just shut up, you bloody Fenian.” The words just came out. Not loud, not screaming. Cold and calm.

My Pa turned white as a sheet, though I hadn’t seen a clean sheet in weeks. Laundry was another one of my chores.

“What did you call me?” Oh, he heard me loud and clear and didn’t like it.

“Fenian. Well, you are aren’t you?”

Bob went from pale to scarlet in a flash.

“Listen you little whelp. Iris and I suffered enough at the hands of our parents and so-called friends when we married. I will not hear it from a snot-nosed little boy, even if that boy happens to be my son.”

I never thought about their struggles, not once, but I saw in the moment that my mother was wrong to marry a Catholic, that the troubles outside raging were the fault of Catholics looking to overthrow the rightful government in the north. And old Bob Hewson, my Da, he was one of them. I’d had enough of it.

“Ma was right to bring us up Anglican. That’s who she was and that’s who I am.” It was time for my own Reformation. “The Protestant Ulstermen are right.”

Pa’s ruddy face blanched. He seemed to shrink a tad.

“You’re part me, you may have noticed,” he put forth without passion.

I thought on that a moment. He was wrong.

“Nah, not really. I can’t imagine the life of a postman, shuffling papers and waiting to have a pint and a singsong with my mates on Friday night. There are big things out there, big causes, and I’m going to find them out.” I stood up and there you have it.

“You’re a 14-year-old schoolboy. I forbid you to leave this house.”

I surprised myself when I pushed him aside from the doorway he blocked. I’d read about the Ulster Young Militants, the youth wing of the Ulster Defence Association. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d find my way North and, even if I got there, how I’d find the loyalist sons of the land.

“You’ll regret this son. I swear on your Mother’s memory that you’ll be back. And when the day’s come that you return, don’t be so sure you’ll be welcomed with open arms.” That was my Pa, strict and cocksure, to the very end.

“You’re wrong there,” I answered, giving him a steely look. “Someday, Bobby, someday, you’ll get yours.”

He was dead silent as I brushed by him. My new passion overcame me and I spun around, fist upraised.

“No fockin’ surrender! Remember 1690!” And I was gone.

Paul Hewson, the youngest son of Bob and Iris Hewson, grew up in Dublin, the child of a mixed marriage. Though Dublin wasn’t victimized by the religious violence of the Northern “Troubles,” his parents mixed marriage (Bob was Catholic and Iris was Protestant), caused young Paul much uncertainty and confusion. After the sudden death of his mother in September 1974, Paul rebelled against father. Though Iris had taken Paul and his older brother Norman to Church of Ireland services, Paul had no religious affinity as a result of his parents differing religions. Soon after his mother’s death, Paul found a religious awakening in the early “Charismatic” movement at Mount Temple School. Now known around school as Bono Vox, Paul answered a note posted at school by Larry Mullen, looking for kids who wanted to start a band. David Evans (The Edge) and Adam Clayton also responded to the post and in the fall of 1976, these schoolboys were on their road to becoming U2.

2000 Light Years from Home

2011-06-09T05:39:00.000-07:00

Like a sunrise, the top of Brian’s strawberry-blonde head peeked out over the black and white issue of Rolling Stone. Sunken into the couch, surrounded by Moroccan cushions, he was almost invisible but for his hair and hands. The long lounge room was still until Keith shattered the quiet.

“What does it say?” At the other end of the sofa, Keith stared intently at the cover, four headlines straight down the center screaming in capital letters about Pigpen, The Beatles, Monterey and The Doors. Framing the stories were photos of Jim Morrison.

“Well, he writes that our status is in jeopardy. That it’s an insecure album with poor production. Let’s see, ‘amorphous, aimless.’ We mistook the new for the advanced. And Mick can’t sing consistently well.” Brian hissed his “S’s” slightly, and lowered the magazine slowly to reveal a devilish grin. He relished a good poke at Mick.

“What’s that ‘amorphous’ bit mean?” asked Keith, his dark brows knitted with confusion.

From his spot alone on the hearth, Mick snidely commented. “It means without form. No substance.” He stood to remove his green velvet jacket.

Keith, his hair a wild, angry mass of strands attempting to escape from their roots in every which direction, turned to face Mick.

“I bloody well told you we shouldn’t have done it! I knew we couldn’t pull it off. The Rolling Stones? Flower power? Nobody would believe we love anyone! ‘We love you.’ Bah!”

“Look, Keith,” Mick spoke coolly, calmly and collected, as if addressing a dim schoolboy, “I told you that psychedelic music is where the money is at,” Mick said condescendingly, shaking his shoulder length hair. “Their Satanic Majesties Request is selling, isn’t it?”

“I don’t give a fuck about that, man. You’re not at the London School of Economics anymore. We ain’t the Beatles, baby. You have Beatles on the brain.”

“What of it? We haven’t gone very wrong following them, have we? They took from America, we took. They sold a lot of records, we sold a lot of records. They got into drugs, we got into drugs. Now they’re into peace and love and so are we. It’s not so very complicated.”

“None of that means monkeys to me,” Keith snarled. “You’re not a poet, you’re not John Lennon. You’re a middle class bloke from Dartford, a white blues singer. And not a very good one based on what Brian just read us.” Keith looked back at Brian and they shared a giggle.

“Well, Sgt. Pepper was a gas. I never said I liked what we recorded, it just made sense to go with the flow.” Mick protested mildly.

“That’s a lie. You said you loved it, that you were happy with it,” countered Keith.

Brian jumped up, mouth opened wide, pointing. “You did say that! You did!” He turned to Keith. “He did say that.” Then he fell back into the warmth of the pillows, pulled his fur-collared Afghan coat tightly around his chin and closed his eyes.

“And now we are right fucked.” Keith picked up a stack of papers and read the quotes.

“Disastrous.” He dropped the tabloid to the fur-carpeted floor.

“As unfortunate a recording as any for any group in the world.” Splat.

“Pretentious, non-musical, boring, insignificant, self-conscious, worthless.” Another fell on the pile.

“Junk masquerading as meaningful.” The last one fluttered to earth. Keith glared at Mick, the heat from his stare scorching Mick like the fire from behind.

“You led us into a little Sgt. Pepper trap, didn’t you,” Keith spat. He bent over to grab a review. “Look at this one, ‘concepts too large and too advanced for them.’ We’re bloody fools.”

“Well, I hated it. I told you it would bomb,” Brian chirped.

Mick would have none of it. True, he did like the songs, though he didn’t think they were much good. The effects, the electronics, it all made for a pleasant sound experience. And it was where the cash was.

Mick spoke soothingly. “We’re progressing. We’re just changing.”

“NO!” Keith yelled. “We don’t progress, we don’t change. We’re The Rolling Stones! We play rock, we play blues, and we don’t make ‘art.’” Keith dripped sarcasm. “I didn’t fancy art school when I was there, you know.”

Mick thought on it for a second. “Well, what shall we do about it then? Are we going to be a bunch of London wankers playing old Chicago blues songs ‘til we’re 70 years old, or a hugely successful pop group that changes based on what’s happening all around us?”

“Ooh, wait, he wrote about that,” Brian interrupted as he thumbed through the Rolling Stone. “Yes, here it is. ‘An identity crisis of the first order and it is one that will have to be resolved.’”

“How shall we resolve it then?” intoned Mick, the hand of fate holding each word. He’d known Keith for years, since they were kids, and knew it was impossible to win him back after he’d made up his mind. There was a chill in the room, like the February cold outside.

Keith felt it too. He picked up the new album and stared at the eye-bending 3D cover. It was atrocious, a contrived bit of gaudy self-mockery. Look at me, he thought, a clown in a floppy hat holding a lute, or something. And Mick, a bloody wizard! A clown, taken in by Mick’s greedy logic. It won’t happen again. Not to me.

“Sorry mate, back to basics for me, Chuck Berry, Elmore James.” Keith faced Brian. Remember when we met you at the Ealing Club? You were playing slide guitar. Never saw anything like it before. It knocked me out.”

Brian rubbed his face, smoothing out the bags that hung deeply. “Ah, those were fun days. I’d like to get back to that, play the blues, Chuck Berry, those blokes.”

Keith and Brian chatted about the old days, as if they were decades passed, not six years earlier. But it felt like so long ago, before the fame, the girls, the drugs, the harassment from the law. They were oblivious to Mick’s presence. As they reconnected, Mick stood by the fire, the flames burning his ass.

As he left without a word, he could hear an old bit of music where Brian and Keith play seamlessly together, as if they were one. He chuckled to himself as the ending strains of “It’s All Over Now” ran through his head.

Brian Jones hated the Rolling Stones’ entry into psychedelic music. Though Their Satanic Majesties Request would “ship gold” upon its December 1967 release and make its way to #2 on the US album charts, it was the most critically savaged record of the Stones’ career and led to a crisis for the band. That year saw the potential end of the group with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards’ arrest following a drug raid at Richards’ Redlands home. Mick would spend two nights in jail. In a separate case, Jones pled guilty to smoking pot and was remanded to Wormwood Scrubs.

The Stones rebounded in 1968 with Beggars Banquet and survived well past Jones’ 1969 death. Mick and Keith would eventually break up the band during the second half of the 1980’s, before reuniting.

The Promised Land Callin’

2011-05-26T05:42:00.000-07:00

“What are you doing Brother Berry?”

Well, any fool could see what I was doing. I was mopping up the damn mess hall floor. But I wasn’t about to go off on Big Earl Little. No doubt, Earl was the biggest, baddest man locked up at the Federal Medical Center in Springfield, MO.

“Just mopping the floor, Earl, minding my own business.” Didn’t matter that I answered politely, he got angry all the same.

“I can see what you’re doing right now. I’m not a blind man,” he hissed from behind clenched teeth. “What are you doing with your life?”

A lot. I’d been studying some business management, some law, and a lot of history. I loved reading about American history, but world history, you could take that. I hated it. I figured while I was doing my stretch of time I could get my diploma. I always felt embarrassed about not graduating high school.

“Oh, nothing much. Writing some songs, working in the kitchen, doing half-assed jobs to make the time go by. I’m studying for my high school diploma and –"

“Now why you doing that? For the white man’s stamp of approval? You need the white devil to tell you you’re qualified? That you rate? That’s not where it’s at brother.”

I stopped mopping and leaned my chin on the handle. Is that why I was doing it? I didn’t think so. The Man was never going to give me his blessing. That was sure enough. What’s it been, five years, since the law got on my tail, starting in June of ’58 when a tire blew out on the way home from Topeka? Joan was in the car, a fine young thing, when that flat-top stopped and the state patrol officer got out.

“What’s the trouble, boy?”

Not that boy shit. I got all humble and sweet.

“Just fixing my tire officer. Then I’m on my way home to St. Looie.”

It wasn’t long before he searched my peach Cadillac and found a week’s pay, almost $2000, and my revolver, which I always took for safety on those long car rides after a gig. He didn’t ask me no questions, just slapped on the cuffs and brought me to the station. Possession of a concealed weapon. I signed my own bond and got out of there pronto, but they kept my money, and my gun. Joan was escorted home.

“I don’t see it that way Earl. Just trying to better myself.”

Earl clucked his tongue.

“Have you heard of The Honorable Elijah Muhammad, The Messenger of Allah?”

I shook my head.

“He’s a black man, like us, and a great teacher. Do you know the true knowledge of the black man? We are the original men, raped, murdered and exploited by the devil white race. Just look at what they did to you.”

December 1959. Two black plain clothes cops came down the stairs at Club Bandstand, my club.

“Do you know Janice Escalante?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring her from Yuma, Arizona?”

“No sir, from El Paso.”

“Do you want to make a phone call?”

That was it. Charged with white slavery, but made bail again. She said she was 21, but I didn’t know that for sure. Find ‘em, fuck ‘em, forget ‘em. I forgot that last one when I hired Janice to be a hostess, dressed as a squaw. After all, she was an Apache Indian.

“The Honorable Elijah Muhammad has said that black prisoners are the symbol of white society’s crime of keeping the black man oppressed and turning them into criminals. The true history of the world has been whitened. Blacks have been brainwashed for hundreds of years, told they are worth less than the white man, especially in this country, a country that made us slaves and cut us off from our African history. We have no knowledge of our true identity Brother Berry.”

I was listening; maybe this Elijah fellow was onto something.

“The Negro,” he spat out the word like something foul in his mouth, “was beaten into worshipping a blond, blue-eyed, golden haired god. They turned the Negro against himself, taught him that black is a curse, and the Negroes learned to turn the other cheek, grin, bow, shuffle, sing the devil’s music and prance around for the amusement of white society.”

I thought of my eye-rolling and duck-walking and a wave of shame swept over me. I was an entertainer, a clown, a joker and a minstrel for the white man. I was left wide open to take in his words, words that seared my soul.

“Once there was a paradise on earth, a blissful world of black men and women. The moon separated from the earth, then the original men came and Mecca was founded. But there was one man, Mr. Yacub, who preached angry words in Mecca and was exiled. He put a curse to create a bleached out person as revenge on Allah. It took centuries and centuries to make the devil whites dominant. When it happened, the devil race turned our heaven into their hell.”

My hell began in January of 1960. They said I violated the Mann Act, that Joan was underage when I took her across state lines. Then, in March, I appeared before a cracker judge, again charged with violating the Mann Act. This time they said Janice was only 14. They had no proof, but all you had to do was look at that girl to know they were wrong. No way she was 14!

Two weeks later I was found guilty, sentenced to five years behind bars and fined $5,000. I won an appeal, and then the Joan case was dismissed in June. But they weren’t going to let me off that easily. Not the racist white judge, not my Jew lawyer who started by begging for mercy, not even trying to show I was innocent. It made me sick to my stomach. Three years, $10,000 fine. That’s why I’m here, 35 years old, in prison clothes, a black man who never stood a chance. I saw that as clear as day now that Earl explained it to me.

I was deep in thought when I realized Earl was still talking.

“Muslims do not defile their bodies with narcotics, tobacco or liquor. A Muslim does not eat pork, a filthy creature that bathes in its own excrement. The key to being a Muslim is submission, reaching toward Allah. Brother, could you bend your knees and pray with me?”

It was hard to kneel in prayer. Why? I’ve bowed and stooped and strutted and walked like a beast for the amusement of the white world that only responded with scorn, prejudice and violence. Why couldn’t I bow to Allah?

As if he heard my thoughts, Earl said, “You’ve bent down for shameful reasons. Do it now for exalted ones.”

My knees hit the hard floor. From that position there was nowhere to go but up.

“You are lost Brother Berry. Are you willing to be found? Are you willing to join your brothers and sisters in the Nation of Islam?”

I would be getting out in October, again a free man. But now, with the things I’ve learned, I’m already there. Sorry great white father. You can’t imprison my soul.

Chuck Berry’s legal troubles began in June 1958, charged with possession of a concealed weapon on his way home from Topeka with Joan Mathis. The following December he met Janice Escalante in Juarez, Mexico and hired her to work at his club. Berry was arrested on white slavery charges at the end of the month. The Mathis trial began on January 25, 1960 and was dismissed on June 2. The Escalante trial started on March 12. Two weeks later Berry was found guilty but won on appeal. In October 1961, he was found guilty and sent to prison. Berry wrote “No Particular Place to Go,” “Nadine,” “You Never Can Tell” and “Promised Land” while in Springfield. Chuck Berry was released on October 18, 1963.

Twentieth Century Fox

2011-05-13T10:30:00.000-07:00

All the colors faded to black and white before they returned, brighter and more brilliant than before. From the floor came a voice.

“Ray, you’ve seen The Wizard of Oz, haven’t you?” asked Jim, an earthen vision in brown corduroys and t-shirt.

Ray thought he heard someone speak in a muffled walrus sound. He sat on the couch, under an Indian bedspread, unmoving. Time had stopped.

“Whoa. Do you feel it Jim?” Ray spoke, starting his own conversation. “This is great shit.”

“Where did you get it?”

“World’s Biggest Drug Store!” They erupted into a paroxysm of laughter, reveling in the reference to Huxley.

Jim returned to his own line of thought. “Well, you remember how it all starts in black and white, maybe sepia, I don’t know. Then, but then, when Dorothy’s house crashes and she opens the door, everything is incredible, the colors, like, they jump out of the screen.”

Ray wasn’t listening, stuck in his own head. “It’s like the end of 400 Blows, you know. When Doinel is at the beach, locked in the frame, frozen for all time.” It had been four hours since Ray had sucked his LSD-laced sugar cube until it dissolved and he was so tired.

Jim was anything but lethargic. His energy was without bounds, and when he talked about movies, or literature, there was no stopping him.

“Do you think everything was in black and white back then? It’s like, you know, you never see things in color from 30 years ago?” Jim was sprawled out on the Oriental rug, looking off into space beyond the ceiling, some of Ray’s film magazines strewn at his side.

He’s an interesting cat, I gotta give him that, thought Ray. Ever since the two met at UCLA, both enrolled in film school, sharing classes, he was intrigued. The guy was smart, though strange. He knew every book he’d read by heart, wrote poetry, made movies, had wild ideas.

“I’m pretty sure things have been in color forever, but I never thought about it.” Jim could be right, couldn’t he?

“When I was back in Florida, there was a person there who put me in a movie for Florida State. It was a gas. I had to walk to the mailbox, and read a rejection letter. I had a scene with some old square. I had to ask him, uh, ‘What happened? How come my parents didn’t look ahead?” Jim emitted a snide chuckle.

“Is that why you decided to study film?”

“Ah, no, man. That wasn’t a movie, it was a commercial, man, a warning. I wanted to make movies, movies that say something, you know.”

Ray had seen Jim’s student film. It was crazy, man, wild. It had no plot, something about a stag film, and hand puppets. There were Nazi storm troopers, some broad’s ass jiggling as she walked, the sounds of balling and kids chanting in the background. Oh man, the professors hated it. Everyone hated it. Ray thought it was pretty good, though it was clear Jim knew nothing about editing or camera work.

“Film is where it’s at, Ray. You know that - Kurosawa, Fellini, Truffaut. They’re for real. They know, man, they know what’s going on. Even tripping we were both thinking of movie scenes. It doesn’t get more real than that.”

“Hey, did I tell you about this cat I met at my meditation class?” Ray and his girlfriend Dorothy were hip to the TM scene, attended talks by the Maharishi himself. “I was talking to this guy, John, he’s a pretty good drummer, and I mentioned the 400 Blows. He cracked up, man, thought it was about blow jobs or something.” Ray laughed; Jim didn’t.

“I’ve been thinking about a film I’d like to make. It starts with me swimming in a quarry, waterfalls surround me. I get out of the water and dress, and, I’m walking alone. It’s very quiet and I’m walking through jagged stones, desolate, immaculate. Then I’m hitchhiking in the desert but no one will give me a ride.”

It didn’t sound like much of a movie to Ray. Where was the story? Jim was in a trance-like state, watching the weird scenes playing in his head.

“Then I talk about the Indian workers, you know, from that truck accident. I’ve told you that story, about the Indians scattered all over the highway, bleeding. I must’ve been around four years old, I think, looking out the window my parents’ car, redskins lying all over the highway. I felt like the soul of an Indian, leapt into me while I was locked in the car.” Jim paused dramatically. “I tasted fear man, for the first time.”

Jim went on.

“Then there’s an old junked car half-buried in the sand and, and, I come out of it. Finally a car pulls over to pick me up, but, this’ll blow your mind, there’s no driver. I’m the driver! You get it? And, and I’m driving down the highway, just me, no one else for miles around, only desert and mountains.”

Ray didn’t get it. “I don’t see the point. I don’t know, it sounds kinda boring to me.”

“Oh, no, it’s not boring, not boring at all,” Jim was on a different plateau now.

“Well, it’s, you know, come on, it’s obvious. Then I’m at a service station, or a truck stop, looking at the magazines, spinning the paperback book rack, around and around. There’s a dog bleeding on the highway, wailing a sad mournful cry. But I’m back in the car, bopping along, screaming for it to stop, you know. It’s in my soul, it takes me over. So, OK, so then, I drive the car in circles, spinning the tires, kicking up dust. Then I’m jumping up and down with these kids, but I’m really in the car, driving. It was like, it was a vision. Then it’s night and I’m reading a map by headlight, trying to figure out where to go.”

“Where?” asked Ray, hoping this would lead to something interesting.

“I don’t know that’s not important. I’m searching, you know, on a quest. Next scene, it’s morning, and I need gas. You know where I’m headed? Joshua Tree. That’s what the attendant says. You see?” Jim points to his temples.

Ray lit up a joint and took a long drag. He said nothing.

“But I don’t go there. Now I’m headed into L.A. through different neighborhoods, Chicano, white, black. Lots of cars, a long way from the desert, right. Houses and palm trees, like a dream. I go to Venice, lots of freaks and old people. Then to Hollywood, the Strip. Gradually day destroys the night, but it’s not like night in the desert, when I was reading the map. Oh no. It’s noisy, horns honking, traffic rushing by, music in the air. I’m in a phone booth, telling someone I’m back in town from the desert. Just a regular conversation, as if nothing happened.”

“But nothing did happen.” Ray was lost. Or Jim was crazy.

Now Jim sat up and stared deeply at Ray. He began to yell.

“Listen man, you got a problem? Don’t you see? It’s spiritual, it’s deep. I killed someone out in the desert! And I don’t care. It was the guy who gave me the ride. I wasted him. That’s why you didn’t see him. I walk the streets; no one knows my terrible secret. I ask a guy outside a club if there’s any pussy, or LSD, trying to provoke him. Last thing you hear are sirens and gun shots and alarms and, so, they catch caught me, see?”

Jim exhaled, instantly calm. A beatific smile played on his lips.

“That’s the kind of movie I want to make. Beautiful, spiritual. It speaks to the human experience. We’re all killers.”

Ray didn’t know what to say. It was ridiculous, valueless. Ray switched the subject.

“What about music?” Ray started seeing glowing colors, the weed kicking his waning trip up one last notch. He pulled off his frameless glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“What about it?” Jim replied crisply, annoyed that Ray was disinterested in his epic.”Film is the great art form of the twentieth century. There are no rules. I like that.”

“OK, but remember we talked about starting a band? I could ask John if he’s interested and if he knows anyone who would want to join. We could be the American Rolling Stones!” Ray chuckled. He knew Jim loved the Stones; they really blew his mind. Not now though. When Jimbo got angry, he didn’t let go.

“You really think The Rolling Stones are gonna last forever? The Beatles? Come on. Film is where it’s at, eternal. Remember that class we took with von Sternberg? I mean, his movies are like 40 years old and they’re still important, dark, mysterious; they still survive. I didn’t start living until I began to study film. I’m not ready to stop now. I want to live forever man, immortal.”

“Poets live forever. Your poetry makes for great lyrics, great songs. They’ll last. And songs are only three minutes long.”

“I’m no singer. You think I want to be the next Fabian?” Jim snapped. “That’s not my bag. Rock and roll is for teenyboppers and little girls, man, it’s not serious.”

Ray was taking another drag when Jim ripped apart his future plans.

“Anyway, I’m going to New York, that’s where the real film culture is, not Hollywood, not plastic L. A.”

Ray knew that when Jim left he’d never see him again. Jim wasn’t much on staying in touch. He didn’t talk to his own family. There was only one thing to do.

“Want some more?” Ray offered another sugar cube.

Jim smiled, an inscrutable smile of innocence and deviltry, as on his knees, he leaned forward, mouth open.

The ceremony was about to begin.

Ray Manzarek met Jim Morrison at UCLA, where they were enrolled in the film school. Both graduated in May 1965, Jim with a B.A. in film, Ray with a Master’s. After talking about music while walking Venice Beach in July, they formed The Doors (taken from Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception). The group, which included Ray’s friend John Densmore from his meditation class, and John’s friend Robbie Krieger, made a demo in September. Signed to Elektra, they finished their first album in the fall of 1966, though it wouldn’t be released until January 1967.

Jim maintained his interest in film, directing promos for “Break on Through” and “Unknown Soldier,” as well as a 51 minute movie entitled HWY- An American Pastoral (1969), described by Jim in the story above. At the time of his death, Morrison was rumored to be working on a feature film project.

Eyes Wide Open All the Time

2011-04-21T07:55:00.000-07:00

As a freshman at Berkeley, I joined the staff of The Daily Cal, the student run newspaper. On February 24, 1969, I was given a plum assignment - cover Johnny Cash, in concert, at San Quentin Prison. Here’s what I wrote. Not sure I need permission of the school to reprint this; I’ll just let ‘er rip!

Approaching the towering concrete walls of San Quentin, mist descending, clouds giving the moon behind them a spectral glow, I was reminded of the castle on the hill in Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman. Remember that movie? It’s the one that ends with the dam blowing up and the monsters fighting, and dying, as the rampaging waters tear apart the castle. I love those old Universal horror flicks. But I digress.

I entered through a doorway and was met by a kindly old guard, who asked for ID. As he perused my papers, I gazed at the concrete and steel that surrounded me. A regular fortress, with the echo of slamming doors a constant sound. Having made it through Checkpoint Charlie, I was led, via a huge expanse of yard, to the mess hall, where Johnny Cash and his band were to play. The heat of the room, packed with 1,400 hardened criminals in blue and gray denim, was hellish. The white glare of the overhead fluorescents laid bare the barred archways, men peering through, men on metal steps and guards by the door and on the catwalks above. There weren’t that many men in uniform, at least not in comparison to the horde of prisoners in the room. If there were 100 guards it wasn’t enough; another 100 wouldn’t have been enough either.

When I passed through the mess hall, I couldn’t help noticing a fork, with old spaghetti dangling, stuck in wall. How hard do you have to throw that to make it stick? I admit it scared the shit out of me. So I took a place at the side of the stage, surrounding myself in a blanket of armed men. On the wall behind the drums, a wall painted red with the greeting “San Quentin Welcomes Cash.” This howdy was scrawled, graffiti-style, complete with the “s” in Cash made into a dollar sign (clever, Cash = Cash). There was even a healthy use of glitter. A bulletin board project made by a class of evil kindergartners. This wasn’t the Fillmore, I can tell you!

The crowd erupted, a spurt of applause that echoed through the cavernous room as Cash, already sweating, in high button black shoes, prison grey slacks, blue open collar shirt and a long black coat, made his way on stage. Rows and rows of vicious men, powerful men, mean looking men with giant heads, their piercing gaze looking for an opening, clapped in eager anticipation. These guys were served by weaker prisoners, “bitches” at their beck and call. It was surreal; Owsley himself couldn’t have cooked up a batch of acid to produce a weirder scene.

The band was already off to the races on “Big River.” Man, those guys cook! Carl “Mr. Blue Suede Shoes” Perkins was blazing. Johnny’s old guitar player, Luther Perkins (no relation to Carl) died last August in an inferno caused by a dropped cigarette. Is that enough fire imagery for you?

Cash had his (literally) captive audience in the palm of his hands as he tore through some old favorites. Knowing that there were some fellow Southerners in the crowd, Cash made his seeming connection plain and simple. His image is based, at least in part, on the idea that he’s a real rebel, a fellow outsider. But does he really know what it’s like to have to find something to eat? Come on, it’s a bit of a put on. And when he told the crowd, if people put the screws on him he’d screw right out from under you, well, I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

One thing I did get was that every time Johnny said “shit” a wild response was sure to follow. That’s pretty easy pickings, even for an old Arkansas farm boy. It was all innocent enough, down to his sort of tough stand against Grenada, the British TV channel filming the show.

“They said, ‘you gotta do this song, you gotta do that song, you gotta stand like this, you gotta act like this,’” Johnny drawled. “I just don’t get it. I’m here to do what you want me to and what I want me to. So, whaddaya wanna hear? All right – ‘I Walk the Line.’” And that’s what he played, as if it wasn’t on his set list anyway.

After that, Cash gave the inmates advance notice of a song he’d do later, a new tune he’d written about San Quentin. This was Cash fourth time around behind the thick walls, and he was ready to unveil his own feelings about it. The response to the tease was deafening.

The prisoners snapped to attention with the introduction of Cash’s wife, June Carter. As the pair launched into their version of The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Darlin’ Companion,” things began to spiral out of control. A woman! The looks on the incarcerated faces was pure desire, the catcalls vocal incarnations of the lust they held in their hearts.

June looked nervous, yet stirred the already boiling emotions. In her frilly, virginal white skirt, just above her knees, she put her left hand on her hip and did a little shake. Tease that crowd? Oh, man, that was dangerous. She snapped her fingers, lifted her skirt a bit higher as she thrust her hips. It was a slight move, but too much for these men. Maybe she felt safe next to Johnny, but acting the way she did while singing these lines:

Oh, a little saucy mare like you should have a steed.

Oh, a little bridlin' down from you is what I need.

had these womanless men licking their lips, hungry for some female company. And here were four, June out front, her two sisters and Mother Maybelle on either side of the drum kit in back. Each had a look of terror, for fear that, with the flick of a switch they could be in real danger. They stared far away, as if a closer look would bring them face to face with a scene of too ugly to consider, hundreds of vermin smothering a delicious find of pure honey.

Cash had a clear affinity with these caged men. You know his song “Starkville City Jail?” It’s a jokey tune about Cash’s arrest for picking flowers. That’s what gives him, he thinks, the currency to call himself a fellow rebel, an outsider.

But is he, really? Johnny was jailed for disturbing the peace. San Quentin is filled with murderers, rapists, pedophiles, and stranglers. I even heard the story of a guy who beat someone to death with a baseball bat. These dudes are badass. There’s always the potential for violence. They may be a Johnny Cash fan one moment, and be happy to take a knife and cut him all to hell the next. And Cash thinks paying a $36 fine and spending one night in jail makes him a brother? When he tells the crowd, “You can’t hardly win,” he ain’t talkin’ their language.

All that exploded into the obvious when Cash introduced “San Quentin,” the song he’d promised to play. “I was thinking about you guys yesterday and I think I understand a little bit about how you feel about some things, none of my business how you feel about some other things, and I don’t give a damn how you feel about some other things, but, anyway, I tried to put myself in your place and I believe that this is how I would feel about San Quentin.”

Perkins’ fuzzy, angry guitar was the shot heard ‘round the hall, and, with that, the war was begun. There was shock when Cash sang “San Quentin, you’ve been livin’ hell to me.” “San Quentin I hate every inch of you,” caused an eruption. “San Quentin, may you rot and burn in hell,” caused an overflow. I could feel the guards around me getting antsy.

Cash’s eyes were burning, his jaw tight, as he scowled at the guards to his left. He wasn’t about to pull back on the emotions he’d just stirred up. With a sinister smile on his lips, he asked for a glass of water, then, after his first sip, flung something on the floor, as if there was something other than agua in his tin cup. Was it real? Was it a stunt? The guard smiled nervously as the prisoners hooted, stomping their boots on the concrete floor. It was a scene out of a Cagney movie. I love those old prison pictures, like White Heat and Brute Force, but I digress.

And then he sang “San Quentin” again!

This time it was more furious, more edgy, Carl’s guitar a veritable Tommy Gun spraying notes throughout the room. Almost eight minutes worth of provocation was too much and the prisoners went nuts. So did Cash. Something snapped in him, you could see it. He’d been holding that crowd by the thinnest of threads, and it tore.

“The time is now!” he yelled.

The mob cheered as they pounded on the tables. They remained seated, assuming this was all part of the act.

“Break! Take over!” He was serious.

And with that, the riot began. The men all got up; they were ready. The prisoners scattered every which way, some standing on tables, some raising their fists in the black power salute. The cameramen took cover. The guards, though overmatched, clicked their guns and got ready to fire, but the swarm overtook them. Cash smiled, he thought this was funny, until it became clear to him it was out of his control.

A few guards went for Cash, grabbed him by the shoulders and began shoving him towards the door to escape. Sure, they were plenty angry, but they knew he had to be saved. I forced my way into that mass, knowing it was my ticket to safety.

I’ll never forget the piercing shriek of the women. In the chaos, it was every man for himself, and, for a moment, even Johnny lost his head. When he heard June’s scream for help, he tried to wrangle his way out from the men who held him, but it was no use. He was helpless. So were June and the girls. My last glimpse of them was horrible. Two were bracing themselves against the blood red walls. The other two, well, I could see their arms and some tattered clothes being thrown into the air above the scrum.

And that’s where it stands right now. I’m back at The Daily Cal office writing and the prisoners have taken over San Quentin. The women? No one knows. Johnny Cash? A well-meaning man who thought he was one of the inmates, and found out the hard way that he wasn’t. Now we wait. Down, down, down, indeed.

On February 24, 1969, Johnny Cash and his band played San Quentin prison. The inmates went wild for Johnny’s music and outlaw persona. Years later, Cash confessed that in pursuit of some excitement, he was tempted to tell the prisoners to revolt. He believed if he yelled “Break, take over,” they would have risen up. It was only after thinking of June and the Carter women that he controlled himself. June was terrified that the prisoners would “jump my bones” and those of her beautiful mother and sisters. Producer Bob Johnston commented that had a riot broke out, Cash and his family would have been killed.

Ain’t No Crazy Dream

2011-04-07T11:29:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Lee Lewis (as told to Jeff Katz)

Let me tell you, I remember that day like it was just yesterday. Boy, you don’t forget a day that changed your life, I can tell you.

We were at Sun Studios. Man, I loved that little place. It had such a good feeling, a real special feeling. That’s why those Sun records still sound different today. Let’s see, James Van Eaton was there on drums. J. W. wasn’t there yet.

We were goofing off a little, then I got something into my head. I started pounding out a boogie woogie beat on the piano and began a little ditty I’d just thought up.

I got a girl, her name is Myra Brown

She has got the cutest ass in town

When I see her, I’ll pull her panties down.

Yeah I got a girl, her name is Myra Brown.

Van Eaton laughed and got up from behind his drum kit. He perched himself against the acoustic-tiled wall, put his right foot on the piano bench and leaned forward a bit.

“Oh Killer, you are too much.” Jimmy was having a ball, thumping out a beat on his knee. I was too much back then, a real tornado. It was a funny little tune, and I was getting into it myself.

Up in the booth, I saw Sam Phillips shaking his head. He didn’t like it when I got a little rude, but I’m pretty sure I saw him smiling. I saw him bend down to the microphone near the console. Then I heard his voice.

“Now, Jerry,” he said, scolding me like an old schoolmarm. “That’s not very nice.”

“Just havin’ a little a little fun, Mr. Phillips.”

I got a girl, her name is Myra Brown

She’s the greatest piece of tail around

I was wailing now. Almost knocked Van Eaton over when I stood up and sent the piano bench sailing. My hair was flying. No greasy kid stuff could hold it down now. I felt it as it shot up and down atop my head like a piston, some of it falling like snakes before my eyes. I tossed it back and noticed that Jimmy was shifting his eyes to the side, signaling to me without words that I’d better take a look around. I didn’t take the hint.

Yeah, I got a girl –

Except for me, it got real quiet. I didn’t hear the front door open and shut, didn’t hear the “How are you today Marion?” greeting out in the reception area. I didn’t know that J.W. was standing at the front of the studio, listening to every word I sang.

“Uh, I’m going next door to Taylor’s,” spluttered Van Eaton. “Anyone want a cup of coffee?” You could hear a pin drop.

Now, let me tell you a little about J.W. J. W. was a second cousin of mine, and played a solid-body bass guitar in my band. He was good kin. He and his wife Lois let me and mine move into their house. Jane and I were having lots of trouble back then. She was a hellcat! Always sneaking out to see other fellas. And with a baby at home too! What kind of a woman does that?

The Browns were very kind to us. And their 13-year-old daughter babysat Jerry Lee Jr. Yup, that’s Myra Brown. That’s the girl I was singing about.

“Jerry Lee Lewis, why the hell are you singing about my little girl that way?” Oh, he was spitting fire!

You see, Myra had had a big crush on me then, ever since we moved in. I was mighty fine then too. Crazy blonde hair, cool clothes, fancy shoes. Who could blame her, right?

Yeah, she was 13 all right, but she was all woman, responsible, kind. I wanted her too. Just the thought of her drove me wild.

“J.W., how’re you doin’?’ He wasn’t in the mood for any Sunday pleasantries.

“Did you not hear me, Jerry Lee? Why are you disrespecting my daughter that way?”

“Cousin, I guess it’s time for me to come clean with you. You see, Myra and I have a little thing goin’ on. I love her J.W. I look at her, I smell her, I mean, I just go wild, man, just wild!”

J. W. started to move closer to me. “You serpent! You snake in the grass! We took you in, took in your whole damn family, and this is how you repay us for our kindness. I’m gonna skin you alive, Jerry Lee Lewis!” I admit I was getting scared the closer he got to the piano. I hadn’t moved.

Lucky for me, Lois walked in.

“J.W., why are you yelling at Jerry Lee?” she asked, confused.

J.W. turned to face his wife.

“This man,” he pointed to me. “This man is in love with our daughter. She drives him wild, he says. Our baby girl, his cousin. That’s who he wants to be with.”

Lois screamed bloody murder. “Lord help me!”

“He was singin’ a smutty song about our Myra, singin’ about pulling her panties down, can you imagine?”

“Jerry Lee Lewis, you are the devil himself, playing the Devil’s music!” yelled Lois. Then, just like that, she fainted. Fell right to the floor like a tree struck by lightning J. W. rushed to her side. I was glad to see him move away from me, sure enough.

J.W. kneeled beside his wife and looked up at me.

“Is this why Myra dropped out of the eighth grade?” J.W. asked, quieting down some. Not much, some. I nodded my head. “Yes sir, that’s why. We’ve been talking some about getting married.”

“Married, she’s a child!”

“Not to me she isn’t. Myra even said to me a person could get married at 10 years old if they could find the right husband. And she found me all right.”

Mr. Phillips had been listening the whole time. He finally descended from the booth and calmly walked to the center of the room, moving a microphone aside as he passed. He was right between me and J.W. when he spoke, first to me.

“Jerry Lee. You listen to me. This is not acceptable. Not one bit.”

I was about to interrupt, but the look on his face, a dark scowl under arched eyebrows, made me bite my tongue.

“I can’t believe I have to explain why it’s wrong to marry a 13-year-old girl when you’re how old, 22, but to do this to J.W. and Lois, who brought you in to their home and treated you with love and respect, is an abomination.”

I’ll say this about Sam Phillips, when he spoke, he spoke with authority. He could be a little scary too. I bowed my head and said, nothing, thinking over his words.

He turned to J.W. “J.W. I know this is a shock to you, but we’re all family here. Jerry Lee will no longer see Myra, not in that way, and we can all go back to what we do best, making music. We have records to make, records to sell, careers to look out for.”

J. W. nodded his head and looked back at Lois, still out cold.

“Now you two shake hands on this and let’s get back to work.” Mr. Phillips didn’t wait to see what we’d do. He walked back up to his seat in front of the console.

I walked over to J.W. and put out my right hand.

“I’m sorry, boy, really. I was out of my head for a while. It won’t happen again.”

So, what would’ve happened to me if I had married Myra, a 13-year-old girl, a cousin? Well, sir, I can’t really say. All I know is it feels like I missed one big ol’ disaster. Thanks, Mr. Phillips. You saved my hide.

After filing for divorce from his second wife Jane in September, Jerry Lee Lewis continued to live at his cousin and bassist J.W. Brown’s home on East Shore Drive in Memphis, spending all his time with the Brown’s daughter Myra Gale. Jerry Lee and 13-year-old Myra married on December 12, 1957, lying to her parents they were going to see Lewis in the new movie Jamboree. Problem was, Jerry and Jane’s divorce would not become final until May 1958.

That same month, The Browns accompanied Lewis on a tour of England. Despite Sam Phillips’ wishes, Jerry Lee announced to the British press that he and Myra were married. The tour collapsed as crowds were hostile to Lewis and his child bride scandal. The news so offended English sensibilities that questions were raised in Parliament. To make their situation legal, Jerry and Myra were remarried in June. Jerry Lee Lewis’ career was never the same afterwards, though he forged a comeback as a country music star in the 1960’s.

You Send Me

2011-03-24T07:22:00.000-07:00

Aretha was shaken. The fervent applause of the Apollo audience did nothing to convince her that she’d done well, that her nervousness wasn’t on display for all to see. Oh, she could sing, she knew that alright, but moving around the stage, that was beyond her. Standing alone, off-stage, Aretha put her head down, a picture of low self-esteem and fear. She was 18.

“What’s the matter with you girl? You did fine.”

Aretha looked up to see Sam Cooke, her co-star, family friend, idol and love. She adored Sam from the first time she’d met him, when she was seven years old and Sam visited her family’s home. He was beautiful back then; still was. His soft eyes made her melt; his close cut natural framed his handsome face. And that smile, so warm, so inviting. Man, he just wore her out!

And who was she? A preacher’s daughter. A short, teenage ugly duckling who loved to cook and eat. Food was her constant friend, her constant foe. Aretha’s face was a round, chubby juxtaposition of baby fat and sadness, her deep-set dark eyes mournful.

“Oh Sam, I didn’t know what I was doing out there. How’d you learn to move like you do? I felt like I was falling over logs.” It was true enough. Her voice carried the crowd, but her awkwardness was apparent. The gawkier her moves, the more self-conscious she got and stiffened up.

She knew Sam could help her. He’d gone through the same thing when he gave up gospel singing for pop and learned how much to give an audience, how to stand, how to phrase, how to sell a song. Aretha had studied his show but could never figure it out.

“How’d you do it Sam? How’d you get so smooth?” she begged.

“Simple, baby, you gotta make that crowd feel good. Don’t fight it, feel it.”

Aretha knew she couldn’t do that. She reached into her purse for a cigarette.

“When did you start smoking Kents?” laughed Sam. “Let me have one of those.”

She handed one over and gave him a light. She’d given up her Kools for Kents. After all, that’s what Sam smoked, wasn’t it? Ever since she’d heard Sam’s “Nearer to Thee,” she’d fallen head over heels for the man, worshipped the ground he walked on, would do whatever he asked of her. Sam stood out, he was special. From that point on, Aretha kept scrapbooks of Sam and even saved a crushed cigarette package of his that he’d left behind.

“Girl, do you remember the first time I met you?” Sam smiled as he spoke.

“Oh yes. You sang with the Highway QCs in Detroit and came over to my daddy’s house after the show.” Aretha’s eyes twinkled as she thought back on her little girl self, staring moony-eyed at the fine 18-year-old lead singer right there in the living room of her mind. “What did that QC stand for?”

Sam laughed. “We never did get that figured. Nobody knows. We planned to come up with some words but once we started singing we forgot about it.”

“That was when my daddy first heard you. I remember he went on and on, ‘Sam Cooke this, Sam Cooke that.’”

“C.L. is something. I never met a man like that, so strong-willed, so powerful.” Sam wondered if C.L. Franklin had done right by his daughter. C.L. had gone from a young Baptist preacher to a money raising powerhouse, his New Bethel Church a gospel mecca. But now, in early 1961, he had big plans for his daughter. C.L. was a hustler, a real sharpie, always on the lookout for a buck. His influence on his daughter was too much, too strong.

Aretha toured with her daddy starting in 1957, hitting the gospel road as the “World’s Youngest National Gospel Singer.” On the road, 14-year-old Aretha searched for news of Sam Cooke and, when “Lovable” was released, and Sam became a pop star, she had her heart set on joining him. Sam had the same idea, and tried to talk her into doing duets, but C.L. laid down the law. It was strictly gospel for his girl until she turned 18. Then she could become a hit maker, but only to make records for a major label. She was her father’s plaything; not flesh and blood.

But Aretha was crazy for Sam and wanted to sign up with his SAR label. Daddy wouldn’t have it, especially when Motown, RCA and Columbia came calling. Aretha signed with Columbia, just like C.L. wanted, right after her birthday. Now she was on the road, not sure what to do, how to act, how to sing. She missed the church, the old time spirituals that had uplifted her heart. Singing "Rock-A-Bye Your Baby with a Dixie Melody” had no meaning for her, held no place in her soul. Had she made a mistake? Was the pop world right for her? She was already a mother of two. The road was no place to be.

She looked straight into Sam’s doe eyes. “Tell me, am I doing the right thing?”

“Have mercy, child, you’re a star! You’re doin’ fine, but you gotta remember this. If it don’t make you feel good, don’t do it.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam realized Aretha didn’t feel good about it at all, that this wasn’t the life for her. He knew Aretha admired him and as she sighed, he knew what to say.

Sam reached out for Aretha’s hands. “Honey, don’t do it. This life isn’t for you.”

“But Sam, daddy would be so angry.”

Forget C.L. Unlike her own daddy, Sam had always treated Aretha with consideration and respect.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Sam spoke strongly.

“Money is my God now. You should stay with the Lord.” As he spoke, Sam realized how much he’d changed since he left the gospel world. “Baby, I’m lost. I can’t find my way back. I won’t let that happen to you.”

Aretha smiled, for the first time in a long while.

“Really, Sam, do you think I should?”

Sam nodded. “I’m sure. Don’t you believe me baby?”

“I do Sam, I do. You’ve always done right by me.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the star of our show,” shouted the MC from on stage. “Please welcome 'Mr. Soul' himself! How ‘bout it for Sam Cooke!”

Sam gave Aretha a peck on the cheek and strolled out.

“How you doin’ out there?” Sam squinted through the white hot spotlight and looked out to the crowd, a writhing, shrieking mass. “I said, how you doin’ out there? Is everyone doin’ all right?”

From off stage, Aretha Franklin smiled. She was doing just fine.

Aretha Franklin first met Sam Cooke in February 1949 after a gospel program in Detroit. Her father C.L. Franklin was a young Baptist preacher at the New Bethel Church. C.L. had big dreams and became a skilled fund-raiser and self-promoter, making several spoken word records before turning his attention and ambition to his talented daughter. Aretha signed a pop contract with Columbia and legendary producer John Hammond in the spring of 1960. Her career drifted aimlessly until her 1967 move to Atlantic records and her breakout album I Never Loved A Man The Way I Loved You.

Sam Cooke was shot to death by the manager of the Hacienda Motel on December 11, 1964. Cooke, drunk and distressed, wearing only a jacket and shoes, had checked in with a woman (later picked up for prostitution) who may have robbed him. Cooke stormed into the manager’s office in a rage and was killed, a casualty of the rock and roll lifestyle.

Heading Back to Old Familiar Places

2011-03-10T07:15:00.000-08:00

“It’s D-minor, E, A-minor. Christ!” Jimmy was furious. “Medicine Jar” was his, the one track Mr. McCartney allowed him on the new Wings album and, as usual, Macca’s wife was cocking it up. As usual, Jimmy flew into a rage.

“I’m sorry, luv, but I am trying,” Linda responded, lips quivering a bit as she tried to hold it together.

“You are trying, that’s for sure. Let’s have another bash, luv, and try to get the fucking chords right,” McCulloch replied venomously, mocking the oh-so-proper British accent that ex-New Yorker sported upon marrying Paul.

Linda struggled mightily to hold her own with her band mates, but the pressure was constant, relentless. It turned out that marrying a Beatle wasn’t so easy.

“Lay off, Jimmy.” Denny, not Paul, rose to Linda’s defense.

“Piss off. Why don’t you mind your own tuning instead of helping the boss’s wife? You sound horrible.” A 22 year old guitar prodigy with a massive ego and a bigger heroin problem, Jimmy was strung out, abusive.

“Fine. It’s your song. Do it your way.” Denny put down his double necked Ibanez and stormed out of the studio.

“Jimmy, can we please get on with it?”

Finally, Paul spoke up and when Mr. McCartney chimed in it was time to get back to work. Paul tried his best to make Wings a real band, letting any member record, mix, and even write songs. There was great freedom there, but it didn’t seem to be working out.

Jimmy relaxed a bit.

“Sure, Paul, just give me a minute. I’ll be right back.” Jimmy headed out of Sea-Saint studio for his midday fix.

Paul looked to the vacant black padded stool behind the bass drum. Once again, Wings was going through a change in personnel. Geoff Britton hadn’t worked out. Another firing, but it was clear Geoff couldn’t get along with Jimmy and Denny (who could?) and that he was dreading the trip to New Orleans. Paul caught wind of Joe English, dug his playing and asked him to give it a try, but Joe was about to go out on tour with Bonnie Bramlett and needed some time to find his replacement before he set out for the Venus and Mars sessions in New Orleans.

Softly strumming the melody to a new tune, Paul looked to his wife.

“Alright then?”

Linda wiped a quick tear. “Fine, fine. God, I despise these guys sometimes. Who do they think they are? It’s not like it was back in the day, you know?”

It was as if she’d read his mind. As he watched Denny Laine and Jimmy McCulloch argue and carry on, Paul couldn’t help but wonder why he was working with a band of lightweights, struggling with a group of mediocrities he hardly knew and with whom he had no history. All they did was give him trouble. At least with John and George, there was always love there, you could feel it, even in the worst of arguments.

“I was thinking the same thing. Even when John takes the piss out of me I’m still sure he loves me. Does that make me barmy?”

“No, no, I think you’re right. Watching you two play together last year was great, really great. And he enjoyed it, I know he did.”

“Yeah, seemed that way, didn’t it?” Paul’s thoughts turned to last March, when he and Linda popped into the Burbank studio where John was starting to produce Nilsson’s newest album. Paul took his place behind the kit and sang along with John, who, though clearly coked to the gills, gladly jammed with him for the first times in years. It was wonderful. Now that John had a number one hit, he was feeling confident and publicly sentimental for The Beatles. He even told a reporter he’d love to record with them again. Typical John. Now that he was at the top of the charts he felt like mending fences. On his terms, of course.

“I think May is good for him, don’t you?” Linda broke Paul’s reverie. “He seemed like old John, having a bash with his mates.”

“You’re right. Wasn’t it a blast with them in Santa Monica?” Paul and the girls had dropped in on John and May’s beach house on the Pacific Coast Highway. Since Yoko pushed John out of their Dakota apartment and into the hands of her assistant, Ms. Pang, John was more available than ever. Paul and Linda even popped in to their apartment in New York. They were getting along well enough that Paul nervously asked John if he wanted to come down to New Orleans for a bit. So why was Paul secretly pleading Yoko’s case to John? It was confusing, as life with Lennon was apt to be.

“I do miss him, I can’t pretend I don’t,” Paul said sadly. He returned to his guitar and, head down focusing on his fingers, sang softly.

I Can See the Places That
We Used To Go To Now
Happiness in the Homeland

Deep in song, Paul didn’t notice Linda snap her head and leave the room. He didn’t hear her as she made her way to the studio door and said, “Hi, duckie.” And he didn’t notice the company until the visitor spoke.

“Valiant Paul McCartney, I presume?” Ah, his old name from Beatles’ Christmas shows long past.

Paul looked up and smiled away.

“Sir Jasper Lennon, I presume?”

By the summer of ’73, John Lennon and Yoko Ono were in the midst of severe marital problems. Yoko banished John from their New York apartment and delivered him into the arms of their assistant, May Pang. With Yoko out of the picture, John Lennon and Paul McCartney saw each other often. On March 28, 1974, the two ex-Beatles jammed with Stevie Wonder, Keith Moon and Harry Nilsson in rehearsals for Nilsson’s Lennon-produced LP, Pussy Cats. Paul pled Yoko’s case to John during this time.

By the end of 1974, with John’s "Whatever Gets You Thru the Night" at #1, Paul invited John to New Orleans as part of what would become the Venus and Mars album. Lennon told May he wanted to go and thought it would be fun to watch Paul record. Lennon’s enthusiasm for the trip led Pang to believe John was ready to write and record with Paul again.

Lennon and Pang were set to fly to New Orleans in February of 1975, but, on Friday January 31, Lennon headed to Ono’s Dakota apartment, where she had arranged for a hypnotist to help John quit smoking. He would never return to Pang or McCartney.

There’s a Better Life for Me and You

2011-02-24T07:56:00.000-08:00

(Reprinted courtesy Creem Magazine, 1977)

The Beatles, gone. Cream, vanished. Jimi Hendrix, dead. The Animals, still standing, after years of squabbling and turmoil. Though the band underwent a series of lineup changes in the second half of the Swingin’ Sixties, they hung in there and now, with original keyboardist Alan Price back on the ark, The Animals are howling away as if the clock stopped circa 1965. A reunion, of sorts, is happening, with some original members of the band joining the Animal lineup that has remained intact since late 1968, the latter configuration that features Zoot Money on keyboards and Andy Somers on guitar.

The Animals were always the top white blues band, Jagger be damned. Nobody, NOBODY could growl them out like Eric Burdon, his beautiful soulful crooning a contrast to his gnome like stature. They broke big in ’64 with “House of the Rising Sun,” Burdon’s vocals melding with Price’s insides-ripping organ solo. (My fave rave was always their “Story of Bo Diddley,” a brief history of the British Invasion complete with tongue in cheek impersonations of The Fab Four and the Stones.) There was no stopping them. Or so it seemed. Like any marriage, money problems led to family squabbles.

See, Price was given arrangement credit for “Sun,” and the gang assumed it’d be split equally. So did Price, until the record soared to number 1 in England and the U.S.A. Ol’ Alan gave things a second look and wasn’t quite sure he wanted to share the loot. By mid-1965, after the seminal “We Gotta Get Out of This Place” was recorded, Price took his piano and left the band.

“Fear of flying,” he said.

“Fuck off and give me my money,” Burdon replied.

Burdon and Somers dropped in to the Creem office for a little chat and mucho alcohol. Burdon looked like any old aging hipster, late 30’s style, sporting Jordache bell bottoms and a leather coat that looked like dried chocolate frosting. His platforms gave a bit of lift to his 5 ½ foot height. Andy look was more current, black jacket and slacks, shaggy blondish hair. Though only one year apart, they look as if they were of two different generations. Not father and son, but older brother who never attained his potential and younger who hasn’t yet tasted the big time. But Eric’s big time didn’t last too long after Price took the money and ran.

With Alan out of the picture, it was a non-stop Burdon ego-trip. “Eric Burdon and The Animals” the records and marquees shouted loudly. It’s hard to remember how bad this band sucked in the late ‘60’s. “Monterey,” “Sky Pilot,” pure unadulterated drivel. Their 10 minute cover of Traffic’s “Coloured Rain” was about the worst pile of shit ever recorded, though it did mark the debut of Somers. Andy’s intelligence-destroying 200-bar solo was almost enough to make you want to go deaf. It was at that point the band was ready to call it quits. Seemed like a good idea.

At the height of his beads, batik and bongs flower child phase, Burdon abruptly announced he was going to quit the band and make movies about American Indians. Could there be a more dated hippie stereotyped path than that? The rest of the band was left hanging, but not for long. They summoned Burdon to Somers’ Laurel Canyon home and threatened to beat the crap out of him unless he reconsidered. As Andy waved a fireplace poker in front of Burdon’s face, Eric quickly decided it may be better to stay together.

Once the metal tools were put down, the group got to talking, real seriously, about their direction and it was then and there they decided to move forward by looking backward. Back to the blues, back to black music, soul-shaking, funky sounds that once upon a time they did best. No more Shankar inspired sitar shit.

It wasn’t easy. Somers wasn’t a Clapton, brought up on the blues, but the guy could play and he set out to master the style. No more trippy, long-winded, six-string jerk-off solos. And the return to form paid off with “Spill the Wine,” a loose groove that had the teenyboppers dancing and buying 45’s. Just like that, they were back.

The first half of the ‘70’s were solid for the band. Festivals, records, television appearances, the occasional magazine cover, but something, or someone was missing. It was time to bring Price back in the fold.

Eric tossed an acetate of the new album on our hi-fi. We opened another bottle of gin, and gave a listen. The Animals laid out a tight groove track after track. Burdon’s vocals are spot on and Somers plays some tasty blues licks. On “Please Send Someone to Love,” Price shines on piano as Burdon stretches his range, hitting notes from thundering low to screechy high. Eric gives a grudging nod of approval, eyes closed, ears open.

“Alan’s a greedy fuck and that hasn’t changed one bit,” Burdon snarled through a forced grin. “But if I don’t think about it too much, we can work well together. There’s nothing like the magic of those first few years of The Animals and we both want that back again.”

And Somers? “It’s fine by me. It makes Eric happy and Alan is terrific. It was very easy and comfortable integrating all the personalities. So far, so good.”

Can The Animals’ blues sound make its way through the disco and punk that dominate the current musical landscape?

Eric thinks for a moment. “In a strange way, we have more in common with disco than punk. R & B, blues, dance music, the whole black tradition is in our music and in disco. We’re no Bee Gees, though!”

Burdon took another swig as he moved on to punk. “Music has always come first for us and making a political statement was never a big concern. Even ten years ago I was into peace and love, not overthrowing the ruling class, you know?”

Somers is more in tune with the British youth movement. “Yeah, I agree with Eric. I’m a guitar player, not a revolutionary. But there are some fine musicians out there. Elvis Costello is a fantastic songwriter. I like what I’ve heard of The Clash, and there’s a group I met in Newcastle that’s led by an American drummer, and a local bass player. They have a pretty weak guitar player. They’re backing up Cherry Vanilla, from New York, but they deserve better.”

The Animals deserve your time. You want bullshit posing and faggy ass-shaking, go buy the last Stones albums. You want the real deal, buy The Animals next one.

Though “House of the Rising Sun” was a group arrangement, executives insisted on a single member receiving credit. Alan Price was the fortunate Animal. That was no problem until the money came flowing in. That, plus a rift between Price and Eric Burdon on the direction of the group, led to Price’s departure in May 1965. Many lineup changes ensued, the last included Zoot Money and Andy Somers in late 1968. Burdon broke up The “New” Animals in December. Burdon went downhill, except his short lived involvement with War. Their collaboration on “Spill the Wine” resulted in a #3 hit in 1970. A reunion of the original Animals took place in both 1977 and 1983. Somers, who later changed his last name to the easier-to-spell Summers, joined American-born Stewart Copeland and Newcastle bassist Sting to form The Police.

This Can’t Be the Scene

2011-02-10T07:26:00.000-08:00

“Dr. James to the ICU. Dr. James to the ICU.”

Ah, that’s a laugh. A call for Dr. Jimmy! Roger grinned as he stared at the tiles surrounding his tennis- shoed feet. Elbows on knees, head down, a flood of brownish-blonde curls camouflaging his head. It felt good to have a chuckle, even a little one. Helped with the nerves.

He felt a slight tap on his shoulder, then a slight weight. He picked up his head and looked to his left, where he spotted a slender hand resting on his tight checked shirt.

“Have a Coke?” the nurse asked. Roger shifted in the too hard white plastic seat. No way to get comfortable. It’s not easy to wait in a hospital waiting room. Not easy to sit and not easy to cope with the uncertainty.

“Thanks, luv.” Roger smiled as he took the cold sweaty bottle from her left hand, lingering a bit. Holding her hand, if even for a moment, felt nice. He wasn’t trying to pull this bird, no. Just looking for a bit of human warmth.

“He’ll be alright, really,” she said seriously, softly. “Really, he’ll be just fine.”

Roger appreciated the encouragement. Did she know for sure? Did she? Or was it just a meaningless, though sweet, comment to ease his pain?

Was it my fault that Pete provoked me? Roger thought. Fuckin’ Pete, he’s always going on about my “fucking shawls” and my wanting to be an actor.

“Oh, now you ARE Tommy, are you?” Pete sneered. “You do know that means I created you. You’re my Frankenstein, mate.”

Roger would burn at the mockery, clenching his fists. It wasn’t like he hadn’t slugged Pete in his big nose before.

“Well, you are deaf, dumb and blind. Especially dumb,” Pete went on, slurring drunkenly.

It’s been getting worse lately, the tension, the taunting. Fine, I know he’s the writer, he’s made us big, but at the beginning it was my band. I’m the singer, and I have something to say too. He wants to work on his operas, does he? Fine, I want to tour more. He’s not the King, though he acts it.

I don’t need him either, at least not only him. Sure, Pete and “Ox” had their own albums out before I did, but mine actually sold! It felt good being the man in charge, choosing the songs, shaping the direction.

Still, what happened today was too much, too ugly. Roger flashed back. They were rehearsing Quadrophenia at Shepperton, getting themselves together for their upcoming tour of America. Pete was wasted, the usual these days. Roger had been clear he didn’t like the music much, the soul-searching, the reflection, the “who am I?” nonsense. I know who I am, Roger declared to himself, who the fuck are you?

Roger reached up and rubbed his shoulder as he thought about the row, another round of yelling and name-calling.

“This is shite, really,” Roger spat with disgust.

“Really, what is it you don’t like today?” Pete replied snidely. “I respect your opinion, Roger, you’ve written, what, ONE FUCKING SONG in your life?”

Roger wasn’t going to take it much longer. He was feeling pretty good about himself, about the success of his last record. Roger wasn’t much for backing down, ever, but even less these days.

“Listen you fucking nob. These songs are terrible. ‘Helpless Dancer?’ Come off it mate, you ain’t that sensitive.”

“You’re a no-talent piece of crap, nothing without me, without MY songs. I’d like to see you prance around in your pretty little fringe vest, twirling your microphone like you’re doing a circus trick. And that hair? Ridiculous, you look like a Soho tart.”

Roger started balling his fists. Pete had him going and wouldn’t stop.

“You’re just a cardboard cutout, a puppet singer that I manipulate from behind the scenes. What can you do about it? Are you gonna hit me like you used to? Grow up!”

Roger unclenched his fists and, in that brief second, Pete turned from verbal violence to real. He smashed the neck of his Gibson Les Paul guitar on Roger’s shoulder, hard. Roger winced at the pain, then flew into a rage. Pete was staring, daring Roger to respond, but that wasn’t going to be a problem. Roger punched up from his 5’5” height and banged Pete square on the jaw.

Pete toppled like a freshly cut tree, crashing horizontally to the floor. From behind his drums, Keith, who had been watching and giggling as his bandmates squabbled, leapt to kneel by Pete’s side.

“He’s out cold, Rog. You got him good that time.”

“Ahh, he’s fine. It’s not like I haven’t given him a bunch of fives before.”

But he wasn’t fine. Keith shook the unconscious Pete.

“Come on Pete, darling, come on. Time to wake up now.” A hot flash of fear swept over Moonie. “Rog, I think he’s dead!”

Roger kneeled down and held Pete’s wrist.

“He’s not dead, you twat, he’s got a pulse.” But as the minutes slowly passed, and Pete remained immobile, Roger grew frightened. An ambulance was called and it was off to the hospital.

That was three or four hours ago. Since then, Roger was consumed with anxiety. Would Pete come out of it? Did Roger cause any permanent damage? Pete did hit his head pretty hard when he landed. Even if everything was alright, would Pete forgive Roger? Would The Who be able to continue?

“Mr. Daltrey?”

It was that same nurse.

“I’m sorry, but I have some awful news.”

In the fall of 1973, The Who was in crisis. Roger Daltrey, whose confidence was at an all-time high after the April release of his debut LP Daltrey, and Pete Townshend, at a peak of alcohol abuse and dictatorial demeanor, argued frequently on the direction of the band. Prior to embarking on a tour to promote Quadrophenia, Pete’s new rock opera that Roger didn’t care for, the band rehearsed at Shepperton Studios. After a heated argument, Townshend swung his guitar down, smashing it onto Daltrey’s shoulder. Casually, Roger knocked Pete out cold with a ferocious punch to the jaw. Townshend was taken to a nearby hospital and remained unconscious for nearly four hours, with a shaken Roger Daltrey nervously awaiting word.

You Don’t Miss Your Water

2011-01-27T09:54:00.000-08:00

In August 1978, I interviewed Roger McGuinn and Gram Parsons of The Byrds. It was the tenth anniversary of the release of their landscape-changing country-rock album, “Sweetheart of the Rodeo.”Parsons, one month away from his 35th birthday, was an anachronistic vision, his shoulder length hair unchanged since the early years of the decade, though it now framed a slightly puffier face. He still dressed in the expensive Nudie shirts and jackets he’d always preferred. McGuinn, the founder of the seminal jangle-rock band that exploded onto the charts with their 1965 electric version of Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man,” was, at 37, more in tune with the fashions of the time, wearing a mostly unbuttoned button- down shirt with oversized lapels, and flared blue jeans decorated with metal studs.

JK: It’s been a decade since “Sweetheart of the Rodeo” came out. Did you have a clue that it would be such a historic album?

RM: (Laughs) No, no. It was a flop! After we fired [David] Crosby, Chris [Hillman] and I were looking to do something different. Chris always loved old timey country music, Crosby hated it I might add, and I was good with that. We’d both heard Gram on The International Submarine Band record and figured we’d give him a call.

GP: I was floored when Roger called. I mean, Roger McGuinn of The Byrds! They were huge, right, and I couldn’t figure out what he wanted from me. Our album didn’t sell anything…

RM: Oh yeah! Why did we think Sweetheart would sell? (Laughs)

GP: True. Why did you? But when we talked, he told me he dug the record and wanted to cut some country tracks along the lines of Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash, I was in.

JK: You recorded from March to May 1968 and then flew to London to start a tour. Those were difficult times and tested the strength of the new Byrds roster.

GP: I’ll start, since I acted like an asshole. We played Middle Earth, a great old club. It was a huge basement, actually, in a warehouse I think, but they had an amazing light show and the audience was all hippies, headbands, psychedelic glasses, loud print blouses, you remember. Of course, they were high on whatever was available at the moment. We played some old Byrds stuff, some of the newer songs and country standards, like Buck Owens’ “Under Your Spell Again” and “Excuse Me.” It came off really well. And the Stones were in the audience that night.

RM: I’d known Keith [Richards] for a few years by then and he came to the gig to see me. When Gram and Keith met, they hit it off in a big way, like long lost brothers. After the show, we all left together, Stones and Byrds, in Mick and Keith’s Rolls Royces and drove to Stonehenge for a miserable, rainy photo shoot.

GP: Keith and I bonded right away. We liked the same music, talked for awhile about Lefty Frizzell and Felice & Boudleaux Bryant, who wrote so many great tunes for The Everly Brothers, and, I don’t know, we just got on well. It could’ve been the Johnnie Walker Red and LSD, I don’t know.

JK: It was soon after that The Byrds almost broke up.

RM: Yeah, we were back in England in July for a charity event called “Sound ’68” at Royal Albert Hall. Lots of cool people played on that bill, great old lost ‘60’s groups like The Move, The Easybeats, The Bonzos. Brian [Jones], Mick [Jagger] and Keith were there, a couple of Beatles, I think George and John, and Hendrix also. We opened with “So You Want to Be a Rock ‘n’ Roll Star” and just killed. There were 4,000 screaming kids in the audience. We were heading to South Africa next and all was well until Keith and Mick started telling Gram about apartheid, how wrong it was and that the band shouldn’t go there.

GP: I was really obsessed with the Stones, I have to be honest. They were the coolest, the best. Can you blame me? So when Keith said [with British accent] “Darling, you just can’t go to South Africa, it’s a drag,” I listened. Looking back, I didn’t know shit about apartheid, and neither did they, but Keith said it, so it had to be true, right?

RM: The more Keith and Gram hung out, sharing guitar tunings, collaborating on tunes and doing drugs, lots of drugs, the worse it got for both bands. I admit I was jealous of Gram being swept away by Keith and, years later, Mick told me he was jealous of the attention Keith paid Gram. Keith would go on and on, “Gram Parsons this, Gram Parsons that.” Mick was always very protective of his relationship with Keith. You know, Mick stole Keith from Brian. It was a weird scene and Gram was in it.

JK: So Gram, tell me about the day the band was set to leave.

GP: Oh man, do I have to? (Laughs) It was not one of my shining moments. I had decided I was not going to go on moral grounds, right, though I just wanted to stay and be with Keith. I didn’t have the guts to tell Roger or the rest of the band, so I never left my room!

RM: It’s funny now, but man I was angry. There we were in front of the hotel, packed and loaded to go the airport and Gram wouldn’t come down. After I while I said “Fuck it,” and we dumped all his gear on the curb and took off.

JK: Six months after Gram joined the band, he was out.

RM: That’s what we thought. In fact, I was so pissed off that I erased Gram’s vocals from five of the “Sweetheart” tracks and did them myself!

GP: I didn’t know that.

RM: Once you came back, there was no reason to get into it again.

JK: Talk about why you came back, Gram. Keith had something to do with that, didn’t he?

GP: Keith is a very loyal dude and has very strong ideas on how bands should behave. I’ve heard him say, “Nobody can quit the Stones. You have to die!” That’s why he still angry at Mick Taylor for leaving a few years back. Anyway, after The Byrds left town, I rang Keith up to tell him I was out of the band and ready to do some songs together.

JK: What was his reaction to that?

GP: Well, he was livid. “That’s your band, mate. The Rolling Stones are my band. I’m not looking for a new one, got it?” I was floored. I think I mistook Keith’s friendship with a desire to be with me. Keith went on that bands are like brothers and should stick together. He really dissuaded me from leaving the group and I called Roger to apologize. Happily, he accepted and took me back.

JK: The ‘70’s have been a great decade for The Byrds.

RM: I can tell you it’s been a relief to have a steady lineup for ten years after the turmoil post-Crosby. And the success we’ve had with what is now called “country-rock” has been terrific.

JK: Though “Sweetheart” didn’t sell, it wasn’t long before you had more big hits, especially “Take It Easy.” How did you meet Jackson Browne?

RM: Before Jackson became a huge star in his own right, we knew him around L.A. as a talented songwriter. He brought us “Take It Easy” and it was the first number one hit we had with Gram in the band. We loved the song and the twangy country arrangement we had worked very well.

JK: What do you think of some of the newer groups that have copied your sound, like The Eagles?

RM: Oh, they’re fine. I don’t want to speak badly of them. They have a little different angle than us – we shoot for authenticity, they looking for a more AM radio type sound. We’re not aiming to make America’s Top 40.

GP: Yeah, let The Eagles have Casey Kasem! (Laughs)

JK: Final question, how have you lasted all these years?

GP: Less drugs.

RM: That and we’ve learned to live with each other. We even get along with David Crosby these days!

On July 8, 1968, six months after joining The Byrds, and one month before the release of the revolutionary country-rock album Sweetheart of the Rodeo, Gram Parsons left the group. After Keith Richards spoke to him on the evils of apartheid, Gram wouldn’t leave his room to join The Byrds on their flight to South Africa. The band left without him. Parsons would form, and leave, The Flying Burrito Brothers and hang out with the Stones through much of the making of their album Exile on Main Street. Eventually, Gram was banished from the inner sanctum due to Mick Jagger’s jealousy. Parsons recorded two solo albums before dying of an overdose of morphine and tequila on September 19, 1973.The Byrds would meet their own demise that same year. Keith Richards remains alive.

End of the ‘70’s

2011-01-13T10:36:00.000-08:00

“All right! Here we go. One of the greatest sessions of all time, history in the making – Phil Spector and The Ramones.”

Joey beamed. Phil Spector had been his hero growing up. Back when he was little Jeffry Hyman in Forest Hills, he idolized the man behind the great girl groups. A big stupid grin spread across his face as he thought about The Crystals, The Blossoms and The Ronnettes. That was early punk rock, totally cutting edge. Great records, man, the best!

In the booth at Gold Star Studio, the site of Spector’s “Wall of Sound” triumphs, Phil paced, stroking his lush goatee. Sweeping his floor length black cape behind him, Phil had a thought.

“Johnny, Johnny. Let’s do the opening to ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll High School’ again. Whaddaya say, baby?”

Disgustedly, Johnny blew his brown bangs away off his eyes. Johnny Ramone hated Phil Spector, hated these endless sessions. Take after take, and for what? Some crazy idea of a perfect drum sound, or the ideal chord. Johnny knew one thing; this wasn’t the way The Ramones were supposed to behave. But maybe, just maybe, they could sell a few more records attached to Phil Spector. So, Johnny would play along, for a little while longer anyway.

“Yeah, fine, Phil, fine, what should I do?”

“We’ll start off, then you play the opening chord.” Phil raised his right hand high. “OK, greatest session ever, gonna make some history. Phil Spector and the greatest punk rock band ever. Count off so we know you’re there, Johnny.”

“1, 2, 3, 4,” Johnny yelled and Marky thumped away on the drums.

“Rock, rock, rock, rock, rock and roll high school,” Joey sang, trying his best to copy the street wise sass of Ronnie Spector or The Shangri-La’s.

Johnny hit his chord perfectly and…

“Piss! Shit! Fuck! Cunt!” Phil was screaming from the booth, tugging at his long-haired wig. An insane look in his eyes that pierced through his tinted lenses. “Stop the damn tape!”

“What the fuck, Phil?” screamed Johnny. After spending hours and hours watching Phil listening through his headphones as he made Marky hit the same drum beat over and over, Johnny was in no mood to go through the same agony. And he was hung-over from drinking at Phil’s house the night before.

That was some fucked up scene at Phil’s mansion. That crazy bastard preached all night to them about the “glory days” of rock and roll. On and on he would go, about The Beatles, about Ike and Tina Turner, “Instant Karma,” like anyone gave a shit. Joey did. He sat close to Phil, eating it all up. Johnny loved The Beatles. He just hated Phil.

The more Phil raved, the more uncomfortable Dee Dee, Marky and Johnny got. When Spector stood up to put another horror movie in the video cassette recorder, Johnny got up to go.

“Phil, it’s getting late, man. We’re outta here.”

“No, no, don’t go. I want to talk about tomorrow’s session. I have some ideas.”

“It’s 3 in the morning, I’m tired, I’m going.”

Phil bent over and reached under the sofa.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said menacingly, pointing a pistol with cold steadiness. The Ramones dove behind the couch.

“OK, Phil, OK, you got it, we’ll stay a little longer,” said Johnny quietly. There wasn’t much to do now that they were kept hostage.

“Not your fault Johnny, not your fault. It was the fucking engineer. Hold it one second. OK, let’s do it again, same way. Count off.”

Johnny snapped out of his daydream in time. “1, 2, 3…”

“Hold it! Did someone wave their hand? I thought someone waved to stop, so I stopped. OK, my mistake. Ready? Hey, I just thought of something funny. Phil Spector is producing the Ramones and Phil Ramone is producing Ronnie Spector. Isn’t that a hoot? Far out man. OK Johnny, ready?”

“Aaarrgghh! I’ve been ready Phil. You’re really startin’ to piss me off,” Johnny’s frustration was rising. “Fuck” he muttered under his breath.

“All right then. I’m ready, you’re ready, we’re all ready. Joey, let’s go! Rock and roll history – roll tape.”

“1, 2…”

“Hold it! I was just thinking something. You guys would have been perfect at the Brill Building. Would’ve had to cut your hair of course, but you can write songs and that’s what matters. I was thinking we could overdub a glockenspiel, some strings, big stuff, big sound. I could call in Barry Goldberg, remember The Electric Flag, that was Barry’s group. What do you think?”

“Fuck, Phil,” screamed Johnny. “Can we just record something straight through? Damn!”

“Johnny, Johnny, we’re gonna do another one, same way. I won’t let you do anything until you finish this. You can do whatever you want, Johnny, after this. I make history, you make music. It’ll be a huge hit. Who’s the producer?” Phil laughed. “I mean really. I was making records when you were in diapers.”

Johnny was reaching his end. “Producers are nothing, you stupid fucker. You haven’t had a hit in, what, 15 years or somethin’. We don’t need you Phil. You are a zero.”

“Joey, can you come up to the booth for a second. I want to talk to you about the vocals.” It was as if Phil hadn’t heard Johnny at all.

Joey was bouncing as he happily went to meet with Phil. From the studio Johnny watched and seethed. He’d been watching, day after day, as Phil doted on Joey, helping Joey overcome his insecurities, praising him as a great singer. There was too much focus on Joey and it made Johnny jealous. This sucks. Phil sucks. He took our great songs and fucked them up royally.

The band sat and waited, not knowing when they’d resume recording, Dee Dee excused himself to shoot up in the bathroom. Johnny sat there more disgusted with each passing minute. He was about to blow his top. After an hour, Joey left the control room and descended to the studio. Johnny glared at him as Dee Dee stumbled back to his chair and picked up the bass.

“Alright. This is gonna be number one!” Phil crowed. “Biggest record ever. Everyone ready. Dee Dee, you alright? OK, Joey baby. Joey, you’re wonderful, kid. I can make you a superstar with this band.”

That was it for Johnny. “This band? Fuck you man. We’re not Joey’s backup group. I’m outta here, Phil. I’m packing my fucking bags and taking the next flight to New York. This is fuckin’ torture.” Johnny stood up grabbed his leather jacket from the metal chair and began to gather his things. “Who else is with me?’

Phil reached down into the small cooler he kept on the floor near the sound board. That was where he kept his .38 caliber pistol. He opened the door and stepped out to face the band.

“I will shoot anyone who tries to leave. Johnny, sit down.”

Johnny had seen this all before, last night as a matter of fact. The little has-been was completely full of shit.

“You gonna shoot me, Phil? You little prick, with your stupid glasses and your fuckin’ wig and your boring stories. You’re a fucking ant, Phil. You don’t have the balls to shoot me, you cocksucker.”

“You’re not leaving Johnny.”

"Go ahead and shoot. I'm going back to New York.” Johnny didn’t even look up.

BLAM! BLAM!! BLAM!!! BLAM!!!!

Johnny flew forward, his back punctured by four bullets.

With the loud blasts, Dee Dee picked up his head and focused on the bright red blood spreading across the back of Johnny’s leather jacket.

“Hey Johnny, you look like you’re in Dawn of the Dead!” Dee Dee giggled and passed out.

Phil returned to the booth.

“OK, Joey baby, one more time. Let’s do ‘Baby, I Love You.’ Someone count off.”

Joey counted off, in shock.

“1, 2…”

“Hold it, hold it,” Phil stopped the tape. “Does anybody hear sirens?”

Johnny Ramone and Phil Spector did not get along. At one point, Johnny walked out of a May 1979 recording session after Phil had Johnny play the first chord of “Rock ‘n’ Roll High School” 160 times over a 12 hour session. The album, End of the Century, would not be the breakout record The Ramones had hoped for. Instead, it laid bare the rift between Joey and Johnny and made an eventual split unavoidable. On April 15, 2001, Joey died of lymphoma. Dee Dee died of a drug overdose on June 5, 2002. Johnny would succumb to prostate cancer on September 15, 2004. Phil Spector survives, in prison, serving a sentence of 19 years to life for the 2003 shooting death of actress Lana Clarkson.

Ooh! My Soul

2010-12-23T07:03:00.000-08:00

Sundown, a red glow filled the room, just like I used to see in the bordellos around Macon. They all had red light bulbs under tasseled lampshades in their fancy drawing rooms. But this was the real deal, no mood lighting. The California sun was setting like a fireball over the ocean and spreading through every window in every house in Los Angeles.

And my house, well it took the cake. You know how much this place cost? It cost $25,000 and it was all mine, a real movie star home. It even had a giant staircase with a chandelier! Ooo-wee! Chile, when my mother saw the marble floors and the lavish bedrooms, she just about died. This wasn’t the kind of home black folk lived in down in Georgia. Oh, she was so proud of her baby. Joe Louis, “The Brown Bomber” himself, lived next door on my Sugar Hill Street, Virginia Road. Know who else used to live around here? Lena Horne, Ethel Waters, The Mills Brothers. Now Little Richard himself, the wildest thing around!

And what a wild day we were having. The whole band was there in the living room drinking highballs, smoking reefer and balling. Angel was taking on three of the boys at once. One of them was as long as this donkey my daddy used to have pull the cart he’d load up with the moonshine liquor he’d sell to the local farmers. Oh that Angel, she was just a-wrigglin’ and a-moanin’, havin’ herself a good time. Two guys stood on either side of her and she had their peckers in her hands, slowly moving up and down. I tell you it was something to see.

I watched and watched. That’s what I liked to do. Richard the Watcher, that was me. It was almost too thrilling. And I was playing with my thing the whole time. That’s what I like to do, and I was doing it all right. I met Angel down in Savannah, this lovely girl with big ol' titties and the skinniest waist. She was almost out of high school when I first saw her and asked one of the guys to invite her to our hotel. A few weeks later she joined me in Washington and stayed. She worked as a dancer, a stripper, a nude model. That girl wasn’t shy! She'd show off her fine stuff all the time, and she loved me. Anything I wanted she’d do, even have sex with other guys. She liked it and so did they. Oh boy, did they ever!

I was sitting in the corner on a red velvet throne, touching myself when the door bell rang. Aww man, not now. Things are starting to heat up just fine, but my momma always taught me good manners, and if someone is a-knockin’ for you, you gotta answer. It just ain’t right to ignore people.

I stood up, hitched up my drawers and clacked my shiny shoes on the foyer floor. I opened the door just a crack; there was too much crazy happening in full view and it wouldn’t do to let an innocent visitor peek inside.

“Hi sugar, can I help you,” I happily cooed as I opened the door. There, in front of me, was a man of the cloth. Softly and kindly, he answered.

“Good afternoon son, my name is Brother Wilbur Gulley. Did you know that Jesus loves you?”

“I should think he does honey, ‘cause I am beautiful and sing like an angel!” I cracked myself up on that one, doubling over and smacking my knees. He didn’t laugh.

“Do you read your Bible, Richard?”

“I do, baby, I sure do. It’s my favorite book.” He thought I was joking, but it was true, the Good Book was my main reading. Sometimes after we’d rip it up with an all-night orgy I’d read a passage to those sinners I’d just been messin’ with. It was a hoot. But how did he know my name?

“You know who I am?”

“I do Richard. I’m glad you know the word of the Lord. With your gift you can reach more people at a higher level if you sing about God’s way. I have here some other books you may want to purchase to purify your soul. I have brought many stars to the path of righteousness and holy purity.”

This cat was too much! “Honey chile, I can’t reach no more people than I do now. Let me see some of those books,” I asked playing along for a spell.

Brother Gulley, thinking he’d hooked me, handed me a couple of thick books to look over as he started giving me his rap. “I’m a missionary, out to save the souls of the afflicted. My church, that is, The Lord’s church, is the Church of God of the Ten Commandments. I go door to door sharing the lord’s gospel with those who suffer in hellish sin.”

Suffer? This man was plain crazy. I opened the door wide. Inside, plain to see, was Angel bent over the sofa, one fella behind her, one in front. The room was bathed in a hot scarlet glow. There was yelling and groaning, writhing bodies in a mad fury under a layer of marijuana smoke that covered the room. “The Girl Can’t Help It,” one of my records, was playing.

I looked straight at Brother Gulley, who was staring at the incredible scene in front of him, his jaw dropping.

“Does it look like I’m suffering? Mister, I ain’t never had so much fun.” I was laughing loud and high as he turned red as a tomato. “You wanna come in and have a ball?”

Gulley stammered, his head hung down. “N-n-no, son I don’t think so. I-I-I must be going now. I’ll pray for you, boy. You are lost.”

I slammed that door laughing my head off. Lost? Baby, I’ve never been so found! I was King of the World, Little Richard. I dropped my pants and headed back. We gonna have some fun tonight! Richard the Watcher, back in action.

Ooo-wee.

In early 1957, Little Richard was visited at his Los Angeles home by Brother Wilbur Gulley, a man who had success converting stars to Jesus. Richard was impressed and Brother Gulley led him on a spiritual awakening. On October 4, 1957, in the midst of an Australian tour with Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent and The Bluecaps and others, Richard saw the just-launched Russian satellite Sputnik and the ball of fire in the sky “shook his mind.” He turned to God then and soon announced his retirement from rock and roll. The following January he became a Seventh Day Adventist minister. Richard returned to rock during a late 1962 tour of England.

Can’t Be Really Gone

2010-12-09T15:19:00.000-08:00

Ah, the exciting life of a ballplayer. Here I am, not even 22 years old, and am I out on the town boozing it up, dancing the night away at some fancy club with a gaggle of sexy chicks hanging on my every word? Nope, not ol’ Tugger. I’m stuck in Jacksonville, Florida on a sweltering night, lying on my couch drinking warm Jack Daniels from the bottle and watching a Beverly Hillbillies rerun. Oh, the glamour!

Don’t get me wrong. The life of a baseball player has its upside, to be sure. And it is the swinging sixties, and girls do like athletes. There’s always one party or another to go to and there’s a lot of sleeping around. Even in a dead end city like Jacksonville, there are a lot of cute girls in bikinis hanging around the pool at the University Apartments, where me and some of my teammates are living during our stint in the minors. I’m just complaining because my arm hurts.

Back on that May night at Shea, after uncorking a pitch to Tommy Harper of the Reds, I heard a minor explosion like the sound you hear watching news coverage of Vietnam. I knew my arm was shot. Man, for a guy making his living off of his left arm, it’s just no good to have it so sore. My fastball stopped going fast, my screwball stopped screwing. The Mets sent me down to Florida to pitch for the Suns, hoping that with extra work my wing would pitch its way back to shape.

So far, rehabilitation has been pretty erratic. Some good outings, some bad. When I’m on, baby, I’m on top of the world. Everything’s good – I’m a star baseball player. Plus, I’m not in the Marines anymore. Just being out of the Marines felt great. That was a crappy winter, I can tell you.

On those good days, Seaver and I fool around by the pool, tossing a football around, missing on purpose to let the pigskin roll near the prettiest girl on a lounge chair. Then we saunter up and, while bending over to get the ball, strike up a conversation. Yeah, it’s a gimmick, but it always works. Especially for Seaver, who’s a handsome guy with the talent sure to make him a star in the big leagues. It even works for me, a goofy looking Irishman with a huge chin. It’s how I met Betty.

Betty’s pretty cute, alright, especially in that tiny bikini she struts around in. She told me she’s 18, but I’m not so sure. She’s still in high school, Terry Parker High, I think she told me. She’s hard to resist though – kind of petite with brown hair. I could go for her. I like how she laughed that when I told her I was baseball player. She thought that was kids’ stuff. She giggled when I told her my name was Tug. Hey, she laughs at me a lot! Not sure I like that, come to think of it.

Anyway, she’s supposed to come down pretty soon from her apartment upstairs. Her mom doesn’t mind that she visits and that we yell to each from our balconies. Right now, I’m not in the mood to see her. Another shelling on the mound today; nothing was working. I just want to wallow in self-pity. When I saw Betty this morning at the Laundromat, where I was bleaching my uniform, and she was doing the family wash, we made a date, but now I wish we hadn’t.

There’s the bell. Gotta answer it. I open the door and there she stands, in a little tank top, mini-skirt and, as usual, barefoot. She looks great, but the throbbing pain in my arm is all I can think about.

“Hey Tug!” She leans over for a kiss, which I return without enthusiasm. She doesn’t notice.

We sit on the couch.

“You want a drink?” I ask.

“Tab, if you have one,” she says. No beer, no whiskey? She’s not eighteen, no way.

As I go to the fridge to see what I have for her, she looks at some of my baseball trophies and pictures, and makes idle chit chat, not really interested in the game. In fact, she seems a little upset.

“What’s up Betty?” As soon as I ask, she starts to cry. She told me her dad had dropped by the apartment and they got into a fight. Betty’s mom had already gone out with her new boyfriend. Her folks aren’t divorced – yet. I could relate since my parents were already splitsville.

We sat together on the couch, really close, and talked for a while about family and friends. Betty was pretty shaken up and, I think she felt vulnerable. We kissed and I held her, but it was clear she wanted more. Things were started getting pretty heavy; clothes were starting to come off. Now, I’m not against having sex whenever and wherever it’s available, but she was so emotional that it felt like I’d really be taking advantage of her when she was most vulnerable. It just didn’t feel right, you know?

I gently pushed her away. “Betty, listen, I really like you, you’re a swell kid, but I think going any further is a pretty bad idea right now, you know?”

She immediately sat straight up. Her expression changed from lust to anger. “You do? You don’t want to go further? You think it’s a ‘pretty bad idea’ do you?”

She stood up, putting her shirt back on. I think she was embarrassed also. That didn’t mix well with how furious she was.

“You should have thought about that before you led me on Tug. Really. You men are all alike.”

She turned to leave.

“Betty, wait a minute,” I said, but to tell you the truth, I didn’t really care. I wasn’t too attached to her, just another girl. Once I get back to New York she’ll be forgotten.

I took another swig of Jack as the door slammed loudly behind her, and turned the dial to the local news.

Tug McGraw, future relief pitching legend for the New York Mets and Philadelphia Phillies, was doing a stretch during the summer of 1966 in Jacksonville, Florida. It was there he met Betty D’Agostino. They saw each other frequently and Betty would become pregnant (after the one time they had sex), giving birth on May 1, 1967 to Samuel Timothy McGraw. That baby would become Tim McGraw, one of the biggest stars in country music. When Tim was eleven years old, Tug found out he was the boy’s father, although he denied it for seven years. They would become close after Tim’s 18th birthday, remaining so until Tug’s death from brain cancer on January 5, 2004, in Nashville.

Rock & Roll Suicide

2010-11-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

Pop star Bowie, one other, killed in blast

Los Angeles, CA, May 17 - The San Fernando Valley was rocked today by a mysterious early morning explosion at the site of famed singer-songwriter Jimmy Webb’s recording studio. Superstar rock and roll chameleon David Bowie was killed, as was the lesser known James Osterberg. Osterberg, known as “Iggy Pop” to his fans, had been recording demos with Bowie, who had become something of a mentor to the young singer. Currently struggling with drug addiction, “Pop” was on a weekend leave from UCLA Hospital where he is registered in a recovery program. Sources close to the two musicians agreed that Bowie was filled with excitement about the latest collaboration with “Pop,” writing new songs and playing electric guitar on some tracks.

The cause of the massive carnage is still unclear, say fire investigators. However, a clue may be found in a recent appearance by Bowie on the television talk show hosted by Dick Cavett. In December of last year, Bowie was a guest on the program and spoke nervously about the potential destruction of, what he referred to as, “black noise.”

Bowie, who was known for his famed glitter-rock persona of Ziggy Stardust earlier the 1970’s, appeared on the Cavett show resplendent in blue long sleeved shirt, suspenders and baggy trousers beneath a flaming swath of orange hair, and delved into his explorations of the devastating power of sound waves. Said Bowie, “black-noise is the register within which you can crack a city or people or... it's a new control bomb. It's a noise-bomb, in fact, which can destroy.” Further, Bowie said he had been looking into ideas for such a device in the French government’s patent office and that they were available for the equivalent of three or four dollars. When Cavett asked about the potential firepower of such a weapon, Bowie replied, “it depends how much money you put into it. I mean, a small one could probably kill about half the people here [in the studio]. But a big one could destroy a city or even more.” The annihilation of Webb’s temporary studio may have been the result of Bowie’s pursuit of a “black noise” bomb.

Dick Cavett, the impish television talk show host, was reached for comment. Reflecting on the interview of December last and its connection to Bowie’s death, Cavett was shocked. “Though I enjoyed David’s songs and found him a fascinating subject, I really thought him ridiculous. His talk of William S. Burroughs, Paris and ‘black noise’ was, to me, silly and affected. I’m stunned to find it was all deadly serious.”

Bowie, born David Robert Jones on January 8, 1947, was the rock and roll equivalent of Lon Chaney, his many faces confusing critics and delighting fans. After changing his name to avoid confusion with Davy Jones of The Monkees, Bowie burst onto the music scene with the 1969 hit “Space Oddity.” In turns a hippie folkster, the King of Glam Rock and, most recently, a clean cut, straight laced purveyor of Philadelphia soul music and dance music, Bowie was a man in constant flux.

John Lennon, who collaborated with Bowie in January on the disco-fied “Fame” (scheduled for a July release), was deeply upset upon hearing the news. From his apartment in New York’s fabled Dakota Towers, the ex-Beatle said Bowie’s death was “a senseless loss, a tragedy. David was so young and had so much to give, musically speaking. To lose him through a pointless act of violence is staggering.”

The career of the emaciated and platinum-haired “Iggy Pop” has been one of underground critical acclaim coupled with the neglect of the record buying public. Hailing from the Detroit area, his band, The Stooges, made three albums from 1969-1973, their last produced by Bowie. Bowie and “Pop” met in 1971 at Max’s Kansas City, a New York music club. From that point forward, Bowie has acted as a career mentor and guru to his troubled, and sometimes violent, protégé. Osterberg was 28.

In May 1975, David Bowie and Iggy Pop began a recording session that included “Moving On,” a free association rant coming straight from Iggy’s deep drug addiction. Though the session was halted, the song would emerge two years later as “Turn Blue,” featured on the Bowie produced Lust for Life album. On December 5, 1974 Bowie appeared on The Dick Cavett Show and spoke at length about the power of a “noise bomb.”

Try

2010-11-11T13:15:00.000-08:00

They sit looking out on the Port Arthur Canal. They sit transfixed in the front seat of the ’56 Chevy pickup he borrowed from a teammate. They don’t talk, they stare to the horizon. They drink cans of Lone Star Beer, tossing the empties out the open windows. They listen to Connie Francis sing "Everybody's Somebody's Fool." They sit quietly, as silent as the smooth surface of the glassy water before them. The glass cracks.

“I just don’t understand how you can treat me so mean in front of everybody.” Janis was upset, hurt, her eyes welling up. But she wouldn’t cry. “I was just minding my own business in history class and you started to give me a pretty rough time. It’s irritating, you know?”

Jimmy turned to face her. She wasn’t pretty, well, not in the way most Texas girls were pretty with blonde bouffants and shapely builds. Janis was kinda funny looking – big nose, small teeth, wild hair. But he loved her for that. She was different, a challenge. He got that same joly of excitement being with her that he got lining up against Port Neches in a big game.

“Janis, I told you why. People wouldn’t understand us, so it’s just better to pretend we don’t like each other, pretend I think you’re weird.”

“But baby, it really hurts when you torture me. And what does ‘Beat Weeds’ even mean? It sounds awful.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Janis Lyn, it just came out. I’m sorry.” He really was, but he was torn between his feelings for Janis and his status as the best football player at Thomas Jefferson High School, an All-State lineman. He gave her a hard time during the day, always laughed and joined in when his pals would harass her as she walked down the hallway, strutting her stuff in black leotards. She was something else, that was for sure, and it’s what drew him to her.

And she knew he was sorry. Just like he was sorry when he didn’t ask her to go the prom. She ended up home, alone, a recluse listening to her Bessie Smith and Leadbelly records, feeling awfully sorry for herself. Reaching out to touch the childhood scars visible under his crew cut, Janis felt a surge of warmth.

“Oh, Jimmy, you’re a sweet little boy. It’s just this town, man. I hate Port Arthur. I’m outta here after graduation. I got no friends, maybe a few people I’ll remember, probably not their names, though. I just want to go where there’s a little understanding, you know, a little more kindness. I want to be liked, even a little, not laughed at, you know?”

Swallowing hard, Jimmy realized this was the moment. He’d been hatching a plan, not sure if Janis would go for it and scared to ask. But now was the time. He grabbed her hands and leaned closer.

“Janis, honey, what would you think of coming with me to Arkansas? It’s a great school, and you can paint, write poetry, sing your folk songs. A college town has got to be more open minded than here, right? People are kind of afraid of you in Port Arthur.”

“Afraid of me? I don’t know, sugar, I was thinking California, San Francisco maybe.” That was a secret of her own she’d been keeping back.

"What? That’s so far away. I’d never see you again.” Jimmy was stunned, his brain swimming, like after a forearm to the helmet. She wanted to leave him? “I know I tease you too much in public, I know that. But I…I do love you Janis.”

Love? Janis looked back out on to the artificial waterway. Love? I care about him, he’s a good man, yeah, maybe I love him too. She knew that love was hurt, that love was work, that this may be her only chance and she didn’t want to lose it. Maybe Jimmy was confusing love with fear; he’d be lonely in college. She had her own plans to attend Lamar Tech over in Beaumont.

“Are you conning me Jimmy? Do you really love me? ‘Cause if you love me, that’s serious, man.”

“I do, Janis, I really do.”

An image flashed before her mind. She saw a mule pulling a cart. The driver held out a long stick with a carrot dangling from a string. That stupid donkey kept walking and pulling that load, hoping he’d reach the carrot. Was she that dumb animal, and that mule driver her man, holding out something that he’s not prepared to give. But love? Love is hard to find.

“If I go with you, you have to promise you won’t be mean to me, ever. You have to swear that we can go out together and everyone’ll know we’re together. And another thing, I still have to be myself and dress how I want and do what I want. I don’t see myself baking bread and having babies. I’m not ready to settle down. Not yet.”

“Yes, Janis, yes, that’s how I want it too. But I also want you to share in my life, go to football games, and be proud of me.” Janis had never attended a high school game; she felt out of place and terrible when Jimmy ignored her, or worse. Maybe it would be different if he wanted her there.

“Well, I’m not much on sports and I don’t like the violence. It’s better to be nice to people then to beat the hell out of them. But if you want me to go, I will.”

Jimmy smiled and reached out for a kiss. He was happy, happy she’d go with him, happy he’d be able to be with her in the open.

“Will your parents be OK with you following me?” Jimmy wondered.

“My parents? Well, they don’t really get me, you know, but they trust me and support me. They know I’m pretty smart. Did I tell you the doctor told my mom that I’d better straighten up or I’d end up in jail or an insane asylum?” Janis laughed loud, a raspy cackle that most kids in school found scary, but Jimmy loved. He laughed himself. “I’ll have to explain the pros and cons of my decision, but they’ll agree. Maybe you should take me home now so I can talk to them about it.”

Jimmy dropped her off at the curb in front of the small pink house under the trees on 32nd Street. Entering from the garage, Janis looked down and saw “Janis” and “JLJ” etched in concrete. She’d done that years ago to make her mark, to make sure everyone knew Janis Joplin was here. But not wanting to lose her man, she knew that she’d follow Jimmy to college and end up stuck down South, as permanently as her childish scrawl in the hard floor.

Janis Joplin and football legend Jimmy Johnson went to Thomas Jefferson High School in Port Arthur, TX, at times ending up in the same class, and graduating together in June 1960. In school, Janis was constantly ridiculed by her classmates for her unique ways. Johnson was a football star, and though he takes credit for tormenting Janis and dubbing her “Beat Weeds,” he has also insinuated that he was sexually involved with her. Both have busts at their old high school celebrating their future fame as rock star and Super Bowl winning football coach.

Where Do Maybe Babys Come From?

2010-10-28T13:22:00.000-07:00

When a writer and a historical moment fall in love, they get together and...

Well, it's true. All Maybe Babys start the same way. An important piece of rock history that I’ve already known has entered my mind or, through my constant thumbing through books and rifling through old albums, a new idea comes forward. My neighbor, who suggested I name my sources, was startled when I told her that, really, the only source is the historical fact. Ultimately, everything is made up by little ol' me; only the spark is real.

Once that fact has appeared, the next step is deciding how the story should go. Some Maybe Babys are about things I want to happen (saving Curtis Mayfield); some are about things I'd like to stop (John and Yoko). Some are simply remarkable anecdotes I'd never known and can make into a tale wholly new (The Kinks assault, or the terrorist attack on The Rolling Stones). All Maybe Babys can be divided into four categories: it happened and was good, it happened and was bad, it didn't happen and was good, it didn't happen and was bad. Simple right?

Maybe Baby is as much about writing as about rock 'n' roll. For me, it has become an exercise in stylistic diversity and points of view. Part of the, dare I say, "magic" of it is that I can approach a story from any angle: interviews, first person reflection of the hero, third person historical. Did I interview Ray Manzarek and Paul McCartney in 1973? I was ten years old then. Do I know what Stephen Stills was thinking when he chose to be a Monkee? I couldn’t possibly, and, anyway, Stephen Stills never was a Monkee!

Once the subject and the approach have been chosen, the research begins. Library books, Rolling Stone and Creem archives are summoned. Every Maybe Baby must be grounded in historical accuracy and real knowledge of the characters involved. They must ring true to make their falseness feel real. And the music, don't forget the music. I completely immerse myself in the work of the artist in play and snippets of lyrics morph into bits of dialogue, inflection and manner of speech go from the singer to the text. YouTube helps with getting the patois just right. The reader (that’s you) has got to believe that this fanciful fiction could’ve happened.

The greatest reactions are from readers who aren’t quite sure what’s going on. I’ve been asked if I really did talk to George Harrison, or how did I know what Paul Simon said to Art Garfunkel in a private call? That’s when the stories work the best. And when I get an email from a musician in Minneapolis, or a Tweet from a London reader, I know I’ve hit emotional pay dirt.

Twists are important. A Buddy Holly story may seem to be about saving the bespectacled genius from a plane crash, but don’t be so hasty. It’s more than that. What did happen to Bob Dylan when he departed from the rock scene post-Blonde on Blonde? They end up writing themselves, in about 1 1/2 weeks from idea to final product.

The pictures help. I've found photos that fit perfectly and more than once I’ve been shocked to find a shot that looks as if it were taken explicitly for the story. If I need to change the written description of, say, Ray Davies’ clothes to make the text match the photo find, I gladly do so. It heightens the alternative reality. There’s been a small amount of Photoshopping, but no one here is very good at that.

Oh yeah, the titles are key. They’re either song names that fit, or snatches of lyrics that make the reader get a feel for what's to come. The best title is Maybe Baby itself, which came from Karen (Mrs. Maybe Baby herself). When I thought of putting the stories up as a blog, I told her I needed a song, or lyric, that reflected what I was attempting to pull off, an alternate rock world. It couldn’t be too obvious.

“Maybe Baby,” she said without skipping a beat. It was pure inspiration and just what was needed. The subtitle, You Know That It Would Be Untrue, gives a little more insight into the blog, courtesy “Light My Fire.”

Once the story is written, it’s filed away to wait its turn for posting. Emails to about 150 people provide clues as to what the coming feature will be about. Those emails are used as Facebook and Twitter updates, as well as messages to the occasional fan site. Daily Tweets highlight a piece of rock history and a link to the relevant Maybe Baby story.

And there you have it; a new Maybe Baby enters the world on the 2nd and 4th Fridays of the month. So far, there have been 34 offspring set free. There are many more written, waiting to be officially born.

Read on!

(Thanks to Kate Roth for suggesting this piece).

Get Back

2010-10-21T12:42:00.000-07:00

Staying at home was more enjoyable than John thought it would be. Playing with Baby Sean, baking whole wheat bread for his macrobiotic diet – that would never keep him happy, he thought, but Yoko insisted, so there you are. One of the joys of being around was that he was available when friends came to call. George was in New York for a Monty Python show at City Center, and Paul was going to drop by tonight. Paul and Linda were in town to promote Speed of Sound, Paul’s new album that already had shot to the top of the charts.

Now in April of 1976, John was scornful of the pap Paul was putting out. Well, OK, he liked some of it and was very much tempted to surprise Paul a couple of years back and drop in while Wings was recording Venus and Mars in New Orleans. But Yoko caught wind of it and pulled him back, away from Paul. She wasn’t going to have that again, and word got back to her that John and Paul were getting along very well indeed, the McCartneys having visited John and then-girlfriend May in Santa Monica and New York.

But Paul was visiting and he was allowed to ring John up, which he did. It was nice to have his old mate back and their friendship was finding its way through both the breakup of the band, the endless lawsuits and their different, grown up lifestyles. Paul was churning out the hits and ready to tour, John was no longer riding on the merry-go-round, having bowed out of the scene after his last album in ’75.

Paul and Linda arrived at the Dakota around 9 PM that Saturday and were sent right up. How does he do that, John wondered, traipse through security without a look? He was the only one who could pull that off. John answered the door, looking very thin from his steady consumption of brown rice, Thai stick and heroin. John led Paul, who had brought a guitar, through the apartment to a small room where they could relax, talk and watch TV. Since the birth of Sean in October, a month earlier than the due date by Caesarean section to have the baby’s arrival “magically” fall on John’s birthday, Lennon had been slowly rendered useless in his own home with the addition of a full-time nanny and had retreated to one corner of the apartment. Everything he needed was there – a couch, a color TV and a few guitars. Tonight he was keen to watch John Sebastian, former leader of The Lovin’ Spoonful on Saturday Night Live. Sebastian was in the midst of a comeback after a long period out of the public eye.

In the comfortable company of his old friend, Paul talked excitedly about his upcoming tour and wondered if John would show up for the May dates at Madison Square Garden.

“Everybody’s been asking me if I’ll be there, you know,” answered John.

“And?…"

“I don’t really know. I might, it’s all up in the air with the baby and Mother.”

“Let me know. I’ve asked George as well, but he doesn’t know if he’ll still be here. If you wanted to come up and do a number, like you did with Elton, that would be fine too.” There, Paul laid it out as plainly as he could. If John could join Elton John on stage to sing (and sing Beatle songs no less), then why couldn’t he do it with Paul?

A heavy silence. No answer. John seemed to want to say yes, but hesistated, unsure. He passed the joint to Paul. It was past midnight and the comfort of the evening was gone. Both of their heads turned to the television, tuned to Channel 4 and Saturday Night Live. A young man with a dark jacket sat behind a desk, wood paneling behind him.

“Hi, I’m Lorne Michaels, producer of Saturday Night.”

“Have you seen this show?” asked John.

“Heard of it. Good?”

“Yeah, very funny. Reminds me a bit of The Goon Show and Python.”

“…if I may, to address myself to four very special people-John, Paul, George and Ringo,” said Michaels.

John and Paul heads snapped to face each other, and then back to the TV. At the peak of Beatle reunion offers, some in the tens of millions, here was the producer of a comedy show offering, wait, was that three thousand dollars? The boys laughed.

Michaels continued. Holding up a check from NBC, he laid down the terms. “All you have to do is sing three Beatles songs- ‘She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.’ That’s a thousand right there. You know the words-it’ll be easy.”

“We do know the words John.”

“That we do. Fancy doing it?”

“When did you have in mind? The Wings tour ends in June.”

“Now, I fancy doing it now. It’s live, Saturday Night Live,” John spit out the last word. It was more than 20 blocks from the Dakota to the studio at Rockefeller Center, but the show didn’t end until 1 AM. They had time.

“Let’s go.”

John called down to the lobby to have a cab waiting. The two quickly put on their shoes and hurried to the elevator. In the rush, McCartney left his guitar upstairs.

They arrived in short order. As they burst into the lobby, the elderly security guard looked up, wondering who these young fellows were and why they were in such a hurry. He slowly got up from his stool. Like a flash, Neil Levy, the show’s talent coordinator swept in, having been sent to the door by Lorne as a joke, in case any Beatle showed up. He kept his cool as he escorted John and Paul to the studio.

“Lorne, Lorne, they’re here!” Levy yelled as he made his way through the halls backstage. He found Michaels, who snapped out of the boredom of listening to guest host Raquel Welch belt out “It Ain’t Necessarily So.”

John and Paul stood face to face with Lorne Michaels. The producer, though stunned beyond belief, had a show to produce and had to forego any small talk, for now. After the show there’d be time.

“John, Paul. We’ll get you on next. What do you need?”

John, feeling the leader again, spoke first. “Two guitars.”

“Any lefthanders in the band?” asked Paul. “If not, I can play upside down.”

Michaels grabbed one of the assistants. “Get two guitars for The Beatles!”

Word was travelling. Half the cast, still in bee costumes from the last sketch, hurried to see the Fab Two. Even seeing wasn’t believing. They hadn’t performed together for almost ten years.

A commercial break was scheduled, but as Welch sashayed off, the din from backstage led the live audience to suspect something was up. Don Pardo, the show’s announcer, was on mike.

“Ladies and gentlemen, John Lennon and Paul McCartney.” The two entered together, laughed a bit and began to play. Barely heard through the hysterical crowd were the opening strains of “Two of Us.”

On April 24, 1976, Paul McCartney visited John Lennon at his home in the Dakota Apartments. They watched Saturday Night Live as Lorne Michaels presented NBC’s offer of $3,000 to The Beatles, split however they saw fit, in case they wanted to give Ringo less. John and Paul thought about going down to the studio but, as John told Playboy magazine years later, they were “too tired.”

Even the Losers

2010-10-07T16:44:00.000-07:00

I decided to drive down to Florida for spring break in 1983. Not having much success with girls in college, I figured my chances had to be better in Daytona Beach. After all, girls went down there for anonymous sex, didn’t they? At least, that was the premise I was going on, and probably what was on my mind, when I missed the exit off I-75 for the eastbound road to the Atlantic coast.

Let me make it clear that I am not at all comfortable out of the city, let alone in rural Florida. I saw Deliverance and, let me tell you, it left a mark. But, with Gainesville ahead, I felt brave enough to pull off the highway. It was a college town, wasn’t it, and had to be a little civilized.

I was starving and found a McDonald’s drive thru. My gut told me to stay in the car, but I decided to be tough and enter the restaurant. It wasn’t bad. The local crowd wasn’t particularly scary and there were no signs of backwoods hunters forcing strangers to squeal like a pig. Maybe my images of the south were a tad skewed. Could be.

After I finished my three minute meal, I noticed a bar called The Cypress Lounge and, with my newfound inner strength, decided to stop in for a beer. Not my style, I know, and about as out of character as when I drank from the community bottle of Jack Daniels at a Rolling Stones concert. This seemed well thought out by comparison.

The bar was dark and almost empty. It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the dim lights. From the corner, there was the neon glow from a jukebox playing “Bits and Pieces” by The Dave Clark Five. I sat down, ordered a Bud, figuring that was the safest choice. I didn’t want to stand out, you know. Two seats over I noticed a guy with shoulder length greasy blonde hair and the sunken appearance of a skeleton. He looked familiar. Was it Tom Petty? Tom Petty had a couple of great albums a few years back, with some amazing songs – “Breakdown,” “No Second Thoughts,” plenty more. Then he disappeared. I never knew why.

“I love the Dave Clark Five,” I said, hoping to make a connection.

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled into his beer bottle.

“Excuse me, are you Tom Petty?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m a big fan.” I stuck out my hand, but he didn’t turn his head. Awkward, but I didn’t catch the hint.

“What’ve you been up to lately? I have both your records. They’re great. I love ‘Hometown Blues’ on the first album.”

He turned slowly to look at me, realizing I knew his work. Maybe that’s what broke the ice.

“Thanks for not forgetting about me, man.”

“It’s not that easy. Those were my favorite albums at the time, but you haven’t done anything in, like, five years. Are you working on something?”

Petty took a swig from his bottle of Bud, placed it on the bar and gave me a ferocious stare. “Don’t read the music magazines, do you?”

I got a little nervous. “Umm, no, I don’t. Sorry.”

It got quiet. “Hey, I’m really sorry if I stepped into something bad. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just curious.”

“Ahh, forget about it.” He paused. “You know anything about the music business? You know that it screws over hungry kids all the time?”

“Sure, I’ve read about guys getting ripped off. The Beatles, Springsteen, everyone, I guess. What can you do about it though, they’re powerful dudes.”

“Yeah, well I thought I could do something about it. Wanna hear about it?”

I nodded. “You want another beer?”

“Sure, you buying?” I said yes.

“You see, we had made those first two records and were doing all right, you know, but I realized I was getting ripped off. They stole my publishing for pennies. I signed those songs away – I thought it was, like, a contract making songbooks or something.”

I laughed, after he did.

“So, I was already screwed, like what more could they do to me, right?”

“Yeah, right,” I quickly agreed. This was really cool, sitting in a bar with a bona fide rock star, listening to his story. I didn’t want to lose the moment.

“Here’s where I fucked up, big time. After, the second album, it was on Shelter, remember, our label got sold from ABC to MCA, but we had a deal that we couldn’t be sold. I was scared to be in the hands of people I didn’t know, and I pushed back, hard. Gotta keep a little bit of pride, you know.”

He was getting a little drunker, and a lot angrier. Who knew how long he’d been sitting at that bar? I never met a guy whose records I had. I was going to keep this going for as long as I could.

“What did you do?” Not a great question, but enough to make him talk some more.

“Well, my manager told me I had no money. I was half a million bucks in debt and, if I declared bankruptcy, I’d be out of my contracts. So I said, let’s do that. I can tell you, the music suits were not happy and came down on me pretty heavy.”

“I still don’t get why you’re not making records anymore?” And I didn’t.

“I’m getting to that. There was this executive board meeting, and this big man comes in and says ‘Let me tell you something, kid. You’re going to forget this whole thing, make your records and shut up.’ I didn’t take to that very well.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, it did. So, after hearing that, I pull out a switch blade and look at it menacingly. Then, I look straight at that guy in his expensive office and his fancy suit and say, ‘I will sell fucking peanuts before I give in to you. You can’t make records, you can’t sing.’ Then I got up and left. That’s the kind of guy I was then.”

“That’s cool.” And it was.

“Was it? I really thought they’d cave and I told the band that, but, you know what, they didn’t. They used their lawyers to get an injunction – we couldn’t tour – and they made it clear to every record company that we were through. Blackballed us up and down, there wasn’t a label that would touch us.”

Petty wasn’t angry now, just sad. I could see in his face that being a tough guy, a rebel, may have been a great image for a rock star, but it was a lousy approach to business. He knew it too and lived with it every day. What a wasted life, I thought. Was it worth the fight?

“You still playing?”

“Sometimes, around Gainesville. We started out in places like this,” he waved his beer holding hand in a circle, “and that’s where I’m back.” He got quiet for a while. Then he spoke.

“Hey, can you pick up another round?”

“Sure. I have a few bucks, even on a college student budget.”

We talked long after dark, countless sad stories of a guy who once was king, if just for a while.

Tom Petty’s early career was marked by a series of legal entanglements. First signed by Denny Cordell for Shelter Records, Petty gave up his publishing in return for a record deal. He later sued, and won, resulting in a royalty rate greater than the penny a record deal he was on. Shelter, distributed by ABC Records, was sold to MCA. Petty’s contract contained a clause that he could not be transferred without his approval. He balked at the move, MCA threatened and Petty declared bankruptcy. Since bankruptcy would void all contracts, Petty’s move shook the music industry to its core as scores of artists could follow suit. After a prolonged fight, MCA gained an injunction to stop Petty from touring. With new backing, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers embarked on their “Why MCA” tour and, soon after, a settlement was reached.

No Future for You

2010-09-23T13:20:00.000-07:00

Johnny Rotten was still squirming a bit after the presenter had called him out on his naughty word. Schoolboy humiliation washed over him as Bill Grundy, dapper in his gray sport coat, black shirt and black and blue tie, mocked. Johnny scolded himself – the best you could come up with was “shit.” How weak!

“Good heavens,” said Grundy with false shock, “You frighten me to death.”

Johnny shrank at the ridicule, looking down at his fuzzy black and white sweater that suited a 1950’s pinup girl more than a Sex Pistol. Guitarist Steve Jones sat, smoked and stewed.

Grundy went on, addressing Siouxsie Sioux, standing to his right. After a bit of banter, Sioux took the piss out of the older man.

“I always wanted to meet you,” she said coyly, sarcastically, batting her clownishly made up eyes.

Grundy was repulsed by these dirty punks, but attracted as well. The bleached blond Sioux in her white shirt and suspenders intrigued him. He'd had worse. Imagining her attentions to be pure, Grundy, reeking of gin, pursued.

“We’ll meet afterwards, shall we?”

That was it for Jones. In his sleeveless t-shirt that featured a monochromatic pair of tits, he puffed on his ciggy and let Grundy have it.

“You dirty sod. You dirty old man,” spat Jones contemptuously.

Grundy, sensing a scene, pushed him. “Well keep going, chief, keep going. Go on, you've got another five seconds. Say something outrageous.”

And he did. “You dirty bastard. You dirty fucker. What a fucking rotter.” The other Pistols, Glen Matlock and Paul Cook, laughed. Johnny smiled weakly, knowing Steve had taken the spotlight from him. After Grundy signed off, Steve stood up and after a bit of celebratory dancing, the entourage ran off to the green room backstage for more of the free drink that had greeted them upon their arrival.

Telephones rang. Steve and Sioux picked up the receivers, and were met by complaining viewers, appalled at the foul language they’d been subjected to. “Fuck off, you stupid cunt!” yelled Sioux.

Everyone giggled but John. He was ashamed that he hadn’t risen to the occasion and knew he needed to seize the moment.

“Ah, he thought he bloody had us, didn’t he. Well, we wiped his arse off the floor, didn’t we!”

Steve couldn’t believe it. He’d done the deed, and Johnny, that big headed pain in the ass, wanted all the credit.

“You didn’t say a word, you little shit,” said Steve, gobbing on the carpet in disgust.

Rotten knew he’d been a coward and deflected Jones’s rightful scorn to Glen.

“Me? I said ‘shit’! I started the whole row! It was Glen who said nothing, sitting all neat with his clean cut hair and his poofy sweater.” Rotten turned and lashed out at Matlock, sitting quietly. “You ain’t one of us, Glen. You’re a prim little schoolboy, a real musician.”

Glen got up to protest, but thought better of it. He’d hated John’s guts ever since the press had gone to his skull. On top of that, Glen had already been planning his own group and EMI was interested. He wanted to write melodies mainly and that wasn’t what The Sex Pistols were interested in.

“Fine, I’ve had enough of this.” said Glen. “I quit.”

“Maybe you can join Wings,” Johnny sneered. “You always loved The Bay City Rollers any way.”

Steve and Paul watched with disinterest. Jones never really got on with Glen, thought he was a wee bit poncified, not one of the lads. Once Steve had stolen a bass and gave it to Glen to sell. Poor Glen, innocent as always, hadn’t a clue it was hot and was arrested. Paul met Glen first, when they were kids playing football on Wormwood Scrubs, but he didn’t care whether Matlock was in the band or not.

“You’ll regret this John, you need me,” Glen threatened. “Who you gonna get to replace me?”

“Ah, you’re not so special. It’s easy, we’ll get Sidney!”

Steve and Paul recoiled. Sidney? Sid Vicious? Sid was crazy and couldn’t play a lick. He may have been acting the drummer in Sioux’s band The Banshees, but he couldn’t play. Sid followed John everywhere. Once he was a conservative kid worried about his exams, but Sid became Sex Pistols’ fan number one, transforming into a reprobate, drinking, fighting and shooting up at the gigs he attended night after night.

Jones jumped in. “That nutter? He can’t play bass.”

“Who the fuck cares? He’s one of us,” replied John. “He’s not some suburban geezer like Glen, listening to Paul McCartney and writing pretty little songs.”

“Wait a bloody minute, John. Glen may be a fuckin’ wanker and a tart but he can write and he can play.” Steve looked at Glen, who stared straight back. “There’s no way Sid will join this band. God, you’d be sorry if you brought that stupid fucker in. HE CAN’T PLAY!”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters, you twat. We are a band. Bands need people who can play instruments.” Steve was disgusted with John.

Just as he was put in his place by Bill Grundy, Johnny found himself again contrite, with Steve in charge. He hung his head as Jones spoke.

“Listen Glen, you’re a tosser for sure, but you are the best musician of the lot of us and we can easily make it big. Whaddaya think?”

For a moment Glen was quiet, but quickly realized that The Sex Pistols would be huge if they hung together and Johnny didn’t fuck things up with his massive ego. It was worth a go.

“Just keep Johnny on a leash, Steve, ‘kay?” Johnny remained mute.

Later that night, at the 100 Club, The Sex Pistols put on a killer show, with blistering versions of Matlock’s “Pretty Vacant” and a cover of The Count Five’s “Psychotic Reaction.” Out in the crowd, Sid Vicious pogoed, springing up and down doing the dance he created. In a quick, he heaved a beer bottle against the wall and a shower of glittering specks of glass descended on the writhing revelers. Listening to his favorite band, accompanied by the screams of those cut by the shards, Sid grinned like a baby. He was living his dream.

The power struggle between Johnny Rotten (Lydon) and manager Malcolm McLaren would cause a rift between Rotten and Glen Matlock. Matlock, the group’s bassist and primary songwriter, was seen by Rotten as a McLaren stooge. Glen was sacked and, on March 3, 1977, was paid less than £3000 settlement and subsequently vilified by Rotten as conservative and liking The Beatles too much. Matlock would form The Rich Kids with future Ultravox front man Midge Ure. Sid Vicious was brought in as the band’s new bassist, but without Matlock’s writing skill The Pistols hit a creative dead end and broke up in January 1978 after a disastrous tour of America. Johnny regretted bringing Sid into the group and hated him from day one, as Sid and his heroin addicted girlfriend Nancy Spungen annihilated the band.

Beat It

2010-09-09T18:17:00.000-07:00

Things were definitely looking up at MTV. Ad sales for the first quarter of 1983 had outpaced those of all of 1982. Video-mania was sweeping the country. Duran Duran, a band going nowhere in the States, had seen a flop album named Rio turn into a blockbuster. Months after its release and teetering on the edge of oblivion, the band, with the support of Capitol Records, had produced a video for “Hungry Like the Wolf,” and the images of the clean cut, androgynous group sailing across the South Seas, drove suburban girls (and boys) wild. The frenzy forced the hand of radio stations and in January 1983, Duran Duran was as hot an act as any.

It was all playing nicely into the hands of the corporate giant that was Warner American Express. MTV was a highly valuable product. There was more gold to be mined, and how to extract those nuggets was the subject of the day’s board meeting.

“People,” began 29-year old Bob Pittman. “Let’s get down to it.” Pittman had been a radio announcer at 15, and had programmed MTV to its present position of musical dominance. Though offered the CEO job at WASEC, Warner American Express’ cable company, he had demurred, accepting, instead, the position as executive vice-president. His charge was to cut the company’s $10 million dollar loss in half, to turn their growing musical supremacy into dollars, and he was certain he knew the way.

As the MTV brain trust sat down, Pittman continued. “Folks, the guys upstairs are really pushing for us to charge cable operators for MTV. They think that’s the way to guarantee a steady stream of revenue. CNN has been charging 15 cents per subscriber ever since they’ve been on the air. The Entertainment and Sports Programming Network is starting to charge as well, and what do they show Australian Rules football and college sports. Our audience wants their MTV and they’ll pay, I’m sure of that. Thoughts?”

Carolyn Baker, head of talent and artist relations, spoke. “Bob, it’s a fine idea, but to make that really pay off we need to dramatically expand our audience. Having a select group of cities broadcasting our network isn’t going to cut it. If we played Michael Jackson’s new videos, I’m sure…”

“Carolyn, stop, just stop. If this is going to be another ‘We need to play more black artists on MTV’ sob story, I’m not interested. We’re doing fine with what we have now.”

“Listen, Bob, you’re wrong. We shouldn’t have passed on Rick James last year. ‘Super Freak’ and ‘Give It to Me Baby’ were huge hits and we snubbed him. It certainly doesn’t help our image when Rick James is out there calling us racists.”

“You’re black Carolyn. How can he call you a racist?” Pittman let out a smug chuckle.

“I’m just saying it’s bad for the network.”

Pitttman demurred. “We didn’t do too badly turning down Rick James.”

“Those were big hits,” countered Baker.

“We didn’t suffer”

“But we could’ve done better. His album sold three million copies.”

The debate about black artists on MTV was a hot one. One faction felt that MTV was rock only, and that most black artists didn’t fit into the format. That made for a small list – Joan Armatrading, The Bus Boys, Prince, Tina Turner. Not many others after that. The other side pointed out that MTV wasn’t merely one of many video outlets, it was the only one, and they had an obligation to desegregate their lineup. This wasn’t FM radio. Plus, cutting off a huge audience just wasn’t smart business.

Pittman answered. “We’ve built up a solid suburban white audience. I won’t risk alienating that demographic.”

“Alienate our audience! Michael Jackson is already a huge star. You do know that, right? Off the Wall sold eight million copies a few years ago. This Thriller album is already a big hit and CBS is pushing it hard.”

That was true. The first single was a duet with Paul McCartney, sure to capture the most airplay possible. It did, screaming to number 2 on the Billboard charts. To keep the momentum going, Epic Records, the CBS subsidiary that carried Jackson, issued two singles in January. “Billie Jean” was a killer dance track aimed at the urban audience, and “Beat It,” with guitar god Eddie Van Halen, was sure to gain rock radio approval. Epic hoped both could hit the Top 40. To push the album that much further, Jackson made a video for each single.

CBS President Walter Yetnikoff knew MTV was not likely to embrace Michael, so he laid down an ultimatum – if MTV didn’t pick up Michael Jackson, they would be barred from playing all of his label’s stars. No more Billy Joel, no more Journey, threatened Yetnikoff.

“Sorry, Carolyn, I’m not buying it.”

“What about Yetnikoff? Doesn’t that concern you?” she asked. Surely she could use CBS’ position as the leverage she needed to open up MTV to black audiences. Michael was just the vehicle to get it started.

“Yeah, right, I can hear Walter now. ‘Oh, Billy Joel, we’re very worried about Michael Jackson’s career and, because of that, we’re not letting you on MTV. Oh, Journey, you’ll just have to help us with Michael Jackson’s sales. I’m sure you understand.’ They won’t stand for that and you know it and Walter knows it.”

“Have you actually seen the videos Bob? They’re groundbreaking. You’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Don’t have to see them Carolyn, we’re not going to put them on. Michael Jackson doesn’t fit into our format and that’s that. He can sell millions of records without us, and we can keep feeding our white kids The Stray Cats, A Flock of Seagulls and Haircut 100. After all, bands like that will last a long, long time. We’ll be fine. I guarantee it.”

Though MTV made Michael Jackson bigger than ever, and, vice versa, the decision to show Michael Jackson on MTV was not an easy one. On March 2, 1983, one week after “Billie Jean” hit number one, the video aired. “Beat It” followed weeks later. Michael Jackson and MTV exploded together. Thriller, which had already sold two million copies, began selling an astounding 800,000 per week. By June it would top the seven million mark. MTV spread throughout the entire country and soon become the first profitable cable network ever.

You Really Got Me

2010-08-26T11:25:00.000-07:00

Things were more chaotic than usual at the Cardiff Police station. Besides the usual tumult, the hustling in of the daily sots, the common hooligan run in for vandalism, there was a buzz in the air. Something else had happened, something that drew the local press gaggle to the station looking for a story.

“So, what’s all the racket, Constable?” asked Sergeant Dalton.

“A bit of mayhem out at the theater, Sir. Terrible scene.”

“A concert?”

“Yes, Sir, one of those rock and roll shows. We’ve got one of them in for questioning, Skipper. A real long haired poof,” the Constable spit contemptuously.

“Now, now, they’re just boys, officer. No need to be so harsh in your judgments.”

“Sorry to be disagreeable, but they’re bloody animals, the lot of them, Sarge. Plain and simple.”

“Well, Constable, perhaps I’ll head back and have a little sit down with the boy. How does that sound?”

"If it suits your fancy sir, have a bash.”

Dalton politely knocked on the door to the interrogation room. He thought he heard a low “Come in” and turned the knob. Entering, he encountered a visibly shaken lad, couldn’t have been more than 20 years old. Oh, he was poncified for sure, with his long burgundy hunting jacket and yellow shirt beneath, his puffy hair sticking up, his sideboards well below his ear looking for all the world like an ancient Roman helmet.

“Have a cuppa tea, son?” Dalton offered kindly.

“Ta.” Not much of a talker, this one.

“What’s your name son?”

“Ray, sir.” Polite though.

“Ray what?” It’s like pulling teeth, Dalton thought as he slid over the steaming mug.

“Davies, Ray Davies.”

“Alright, Ray Davies, care to tell me what happened out there tonight?”

“Well, sir, I don’t really know. We were playing over at the Capitol Theatre tonight and everything seemed fine. We started with ‘You Really Got Me.’ That’s our big hit. Do you know it, sir?”

“Sorry, can’t say I do. Acker Bilk’s more my speed these days.” Dalton smiled.

Ray chuckled. “Yeah, I can see that. Well, I guess Dave, he’s my brother and the lead guitar player in the band, insulted Mick, he’s our drummer, and gave his kit the boot. Mick didn’t care for that, I guess.”

“I guess not,” Sergeant Dalton nodded for Ray to go on.

“We started our second number, called ‘Beautiful Delilah,’ and all of a sudden there was a really loud racket. Next thing I knew, Dave was knocked out cold on the stage and Mick was hitting him over and over again with his hi-hat, you know, the cymbals.”

“Was there bad blood between the two?”

“Funny, there is and there isn’t. They live together in Connaught Gardens, up in Muswell Hill. It’s kind of a den of iniquity, a real orgy palace. Mick’s room is called ‘Spunker’s Squalor,’ Dave’s is called ‘Whore’s Hovel,’ and they…”

“That’s enough, son. I get the picture and I don’t cotton to that sort of talk.” These kids really are a different breed, smutty and offensive and not caring a whit about propriety.

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean anything by it. Mick and Dave, well, they drink a lot, and there are always birds, sorry, girls, hanging around. Sometimes they get along quite well, other times they’re chalk and cheese. I don’t know what Dave said to Mick last night in Taunton, but they had a real punch up and Mick won. I’m sure Dave didn’t like that one bit. They were both soused, of course.”

“Do you think that caused tonight’s row?”

“I suppose so, but they always get on each other’s wick about something or other. Could’ve been anything, really.” Ray thought back to the scene, and put both hands in his hair, pushing it up even further. “There was Dave, my own brother, on the stage, bleeding all over, and my best mate Mick, beating the stuffing out of him and slicing at his throat with a cymbal. I didn’t know what to do. I was stunned.”

“Where’s Mick now, do you think?” asked the Sergeant.

“I don’t know. After he leapt off the stage and into the crowd I lost him. He could be anywhere, I suppose.”

Dalton nodded. That Avory boy had committed this fiendish assault in front of a crowd of screaming kids and then flew the coop. He must’ve known he’d be in for it, most likely thinking he’d be nicked for Grievous Bodily Harm with Intent to Kill. There’d be jail time for sure. But Avory couldn’t have known what a bollocks he’d made of his life.

“Sir?” asked Ray meekly.

“Yes, Ray?”

“Where is Dave now?”

“He’s at Royal Cardiff Infirmary.”

“Is he alright then?”

Sergeant Dalton got up from the metal chair and shuffled slowly over to Ray. As he put his hand on the lad’s shoulder, Dalton notice the darker red spots that had spurted from the ghastly cuts that Avory had sliced into Dave Davies as he lay unconscious. They’d made a mess of Ray’s frock. Dalton spoke soothingly.

“I’m sorry son, your brother lost too much blood. Dave’s dead.”

During their 1965 spring tour, The Kinks stopped in Cardiff, Wales, for a show at the Capitol Theater. Dave Davies and Mick Avory, always arguing, had fought the night before. After completing their first song, Dave kicked Mick’s drums. Avory retaliated by smashing his hi-hat stand on Davies, who was rendered unconscious. Afraid he’d killed his bandmate, Avory fled from the scene and went into hiding. Dave Davies was rushed to the hospital, where his head wound required 16 stitches. Dave refused to press charges, saving Mick from sure arrest. Mick said it was part of the act, a new bit where band members would throw instruments at each other. Ray remembers it as the night when “Mick tried to slice Dave’s head off with a cymbal.”

To the Edge of Panic

2010-08-12T08:02:00.000-07:00

“Yo Chuck, tell me again what you worried about.” Flavor Flav tugged on the vertical explosion of hair on top of his head. He looked like a carrot.

“OK Flav, one more time.” Chuck D took off his gray Los Angeles Raiders cap, placed it on the mixing board, and rubbed his head. “This lawsuit could put us out of business. No more Public Enemy, not like we been doin’.”

“That’s some wack shit man. Nobody gonna put us out business.” Flav was really animated now, hopping up and down, waving his arms wildly.

It was most definitely some wack shit. That damn fool Biz Markie always clowning. It’s not so funny now that he’s getting sued for sampling. And who was this white motherfucker, what was it, Gilbert O’Sullivan, suing Biz for some lame ass tune, “Alone Again (Naturally)?” From what Chuck had heard, Biz’ label had asked for permission. That was bullshit, man. Just take what you need, aight. See what happens when you ask the white business world for permission? Fuck that shit!

“They could, Flav, they could. And if we have to pay for every sample we use, you think The Bomb Squad’s gonna be able to make our records the same way?"

“Listen to Flav, man, The Bomb Squad are the most incrediblest people. They’ll be able to produce the dopest records for us.”

Chuck hung his head. Flav just didn’t get it. You can’t make a song with 10 different samples if you gotta pay for each one. We’re through if the judge decides against Biz.

“Chuck. Hey boy! This ain’t no graveyard party, stop actin’ like a tombstone!” Chuck smiled. Flav could always cheer him up. As they sat in Chuck’s recording studio at his house in Roosevelt, Long Island, he thought back to the rise of Public Enemy, how they led the way, never selling their soul. Even when Professor Griff put them through some serious shit a couple of years back, they hung tough. Griff’s anti-Semitic riffing back in ’89, that was something else to deal with. Griff said Jews were responsible for “the majority of wickedness that goes on across the globe.” Now why’d he have to say that? It put Chuck in a bad spot, having to fire Griff’s black ass, then bring him back, then disband the group, then bring it back. Chuck thought that was the worst threat to Public Enemy, but when Griff dissed his posse, saying they were all full of shit, well, Chuck had no choice but to get rid of Griff for good. But they survived.

This lawsuit, though, that really scared him. If they couldn’t use all those samples anymore, what would they do? Back at Adelphi, when Chuck was still just Carlton Ridenour, a graphics design major, he’d met a couple of homies at the school radio station and those nights with Hank Shocklee and Bill Stephney, were where Public Enemy’s sound was born. Shocklee would cram those motherfucking samples into PE songs and really create something special. Hank was the leader of The Bomb Squad now. Could he do something different if he had to?

Flav watched Chuck quietly thinking. He rattled the chain holding the giant clock that dangled from his neck, pulled off his oversized orange glasses and hollered.

“Yo Chuck. Isn’t Dre using just one sample over and over again? He ain’t no sample king.”

“Aw man that’s West Coast shit. That’s not us. We’re East Coast all the way,” said Chuck adamantly.

They were. When Rick Rubin heard their first tapes he went wild and signed them up at Def Jam Records right away. Rick was good to them and, even though he left the label a few years back, he stayed in touch, keeping Chuck in the loop with whatever the important happenings. Rick was another dude from Strong Island. Hell, he started Def Jam out of his dorm room at NYU.

“Naw, Dre lays down some phat beats. You wrong about that Chuck. Word up.”

It was hard to listen to Flav’s silliness with this lawsuit on his mind. Man, he should have his own TV show. People would eat that shit up! We all better be thinking about new careers. Figures, the white establishment looking for any way to shut us up, the real voice of the ‘hood. They just want minstrels, old timey Toms saying “Yassuh,” Nosuh.” Not prophets, not strong black men, telling it like it is. Shut ‘em down! That’ s justice right? That’s the legal system – it’s a joke, an anti-nigger machine. Fight that power? You can’t win.

Flav was still chattering when the phone rang.

“Yo, what’s up?” asked Chuck.

“Chuck, it’s Rick.”

“Hey, man, how you doin’?”

“Not as good as you. Did you hear the judge ruled in the Biz case?”

“Nuh uh. What’s it gonna be?” Chuck asked nervously.

“The judge said that the company suing Biz didn’t even own the damn copyright. Business as usual man, business as usual.”

“Thanks Rick, you the man!”

Now all smiles, Chuck faced Flav. “We’re cool, man, we’re cool. Wonder what Griff would say about these Jewish lawyers now!” He placed his Raiders cap back on his head.

Flavor Flav leapt from his seat, hiked up his baggy reddish orange pants and, flashing a mouth full of gold teeth, yelled “We cold lampin’ now boy!”

Grand Upright Music, Ltd v. Warner Bros. Records Inc., was decided on December 17, 1991. While the U.S. District Court ruled that all samples needed to be cleared, the judge noted that Grand Upright did not own the copyright to “Alone Again (Naturally).” Still, Warner Brothers asking Grand Upright for permission indicated that they knew they were violating the law. The ruling changed rap forever, making it financially prohibitive to make records using multiple samples, the hallmark of Public Enemy’s sound. 1991's Apocalypse 91...The Enemy Strikes Black was the last great Public Enemy record. They would go on hiatus during 1993, then, after negative reviews greeted 1994’s Muse Sick-n-Hour Mess Age, Chuck D retired Public Enemy from touring.

(Cold lamping - To hang out next to a streetlamp)

Don’t Need No Ticket, You Just Thank the Lord

2010-07-23T04:03:00.000-07:00

“All great music is soul music. No matter what genre of music it is, it has to contain a little bit of soul. And God knows, nobody ever had more soul than my man, Curtis Mayfield.”

Amen brother! Well said. I clapped and looked around. Here I was at the Waldorf-Astoria, watching Puff Daddy make a speech about Curtis. Puff Daddy! Doesn’t that just beat all. At the next table was Paul McCartney, at another Bruce Springsteen. And me, a 42 year old veteran at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction ceremony. I looked at Curtis, part of the class of 1999, and couldn’t help but think back on how we met and the part I played in his being here.

It started way back in ’72. My folks didn’t have much money, and there wasn’t much luxury where I grew up, in a two room apartment on 149th Street. I used to sneak into the movies as much as I could to escape our rundown building and stay off the streets. They were too dangerous, man, a lot of drugs, a lot of guns. I loved those black flicks like Shaft and Slaughter. But Superfly was number one for me.

Superfly was the real deal. Those were my streets, the gritty, dirty neighborhood that I lived in every day. On every corner a dealer pushing his product, the smooth kingpins sitting in diners, watching their empires through pane glass windows, tugging their fedoras over their eyes if they didn’t want to be seen.

That was the first time I heard Curtis Mayfield. The movie was great, but Curtis’ songs, hey, they were better than the movie itself. I really dug his music, it really got to me. He was talking about some serious shit, really telling it like it was in the ghetto. “Pusherman,” “Freddie’s Dead,” “Superfly” – I knew those guys. I don’t know; it was like Curtis knew me. That was my life. I was 15, with no future, surrounded by bad men.

I ripped off a copy of the album and listened to it over and over again. It spoke to me, made me sad. But there was something in Curtis’ voice, that high crystalline tone, so beautiful, that gave me hope. I felt connected to this man and, even though I didn’t write well, I found a scrap of paper and wrote him a letter, telling him how much his songs meant to me. I sent it off to Curtom, the record label Curtis owned, and that was it.

A few months later Curtis wrote me back. I was knocked out. I never thought he’d have time for me, but he did. I remember it word for word, even now.

Young brother, thank you for your thoughtful letter. Maybe we can meet someday. I always have time for a fan, and, maybe the next time I’m in New York, you can come see me. Keep up the faith. All is possible. Your friend, Curtis.

Wow. That was something, man. For a little child, running wild in the streets, a message from Curtis Mayfield meant something. I taped it on the cracked plaster wall next to my bed and read it every night before I went to sleep. I checked out his older stuff with The Impressions. Those early records were great, though not as funky. I loved the covers, little Curtis with a big ol’ toothy grin, or the three of them pushing a fine sports car.

When I was 18 I joined the Marines and, with a real future ahead of me, I felt the need to write Curtis again, just to tell him what was happening with me and how he was my inspiration. He wrote back again, telling me how proud he was and asked me to stay in touch. I did and we’d write each other every few months, even as his career faded with the rise of disco and MTV. I bought all his new records and, when The Impressions toured in ’83, I was in Lebanon, seeing the heaviest stuff I’d seen since my days living in Harlem.

When Curtis moved to Atlanta he dropped me a note with his new address. We kept writing, but still never met. I left the military, settled back in New York, Brooklyn this time, and by 1990, was pretty settled. Curtis wrote me that he was playing an outdoor show in Wingate Field, over in East Flatbush, on August 13. He asked if I could come, now that I was nearby, and invited me backstage as his guest.

It started off as a nice day, but the sky was getting pretty dark when I arrived around 5:30. I told the guard who I was, that I was a guest of Curtis Mayfield’s and, after checking his pad, he waved me in. I wandered around and spotted Curtis talking to a group of guys that, it turned out, were Harold Melvin and The Bluenotes. They were on before Curtis.

“Umm, excuse me, Curtis, I’m…” I didn’t have a chance to say another word before he grabbed me and squeezed me in a big bear hug. He was tinier than I pictured, but he was a giant to me. His tight afro was flecked with grey and he wore some funky tinted glasses.

“Oh man, it’s so good to meet you at last. Hey Harold, I gotta tell you, this dude wrote me a letter when he was 15 years old, and we’ve been pen pals ever since! Can you beat that!” I couldn’t believe how excited Curtis was to see me. “He went into the Marines, did us all proud and, here he is!” He was bragging on me like he I was his son.

His voice was deeper than his singing voice. That surprised me. He was soft, gentle, caring, everything I hoped he’d be. The show began and the two of us stayed backstage, talking through the whole set.

The wind was kicking up a bit, rain was clearly coming. We talked about life, about music. I couldn’t believe Curtis liked rap, especially Public Enemy. He explained to me his views of music, using it to spread the truth. “Everything’s changed, but ain’t nothin’ changed too much.” He laughed; so did I.

The weather was getting worse and, though Curtis had some time before his set, the promoters were nervously circling around us, hoping to get a word with him.

“Curtis, can you go on early? We’re worried about this rain cancelling the show.”

“No, man, I’m talking to my friend here.” His friend, he called me his friend. I had to smile over that.

They wouldn’t let up. Every minute or two they would ask Curtis if he would go on and Curtis kept telling them no.

I asked him if he thought the weather would be a problem. He wasn’t worried, the show would go on. We kept on talking, when, suddenly, a thunderous crash, a blast from the heavens, jolted us out of our conversation. I figured it was the beginning of the storm, the wind was fierce, but Curtis turned quickly to the stage and said “What the fuck was that?”

He made a step forward and I followed. There, where he would have been standing had he gone on instead of talking, was a 500 pound lighting scaffold which had been blown off its tower and onto the stage. We looked at each other in disbelief.

As Curtis walked onto the stage after Puffy’s speech and began to speak, I thought back on the day we finally met, the day I saved Curtis Mayfield’s life.

On August 13, 1990, a freakish onstage accident left Curtis Mayfield paralyzed from the neck down. Under pressure from promoters to start early to avoid the rain, Mayfield was walking on stage as the band played the intro to “Superfly.” As 10,000 watched, a lighting scaffold was blown off its tower and crushed the singer.

On March 15, 1999, Curtis Mayfield was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, along with Billy Joel, Paul McCartney, Del Shannon, Dusty Springfield and Bruce Springsteen. Befitting his positive post- accident attitude, Curtis planned to attend the ceremony at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in Manhattan. It was only his steadily deteriorating health that prevented him from appearing. Curtis Mayfield died on December 26, 1999 in Roswell, Georgia, at the age of 57.

Even Hate My Rock and Roll

2010-07-08T19:26:00.000-07:00

When John got the call Friday afternoon inviting him to perform on the same bill with his heroes, he fought back all nervousness and dove in. Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard and John Lennon? At first, when the promoter, some kid named John Brower that Lennon had never heard of, rang up the Apple office to ask if John and Yoko would come watch the Toronto Rock ‘n’ Roll Revival as members of the audience, John was put off. “We don’t want to be the fucking King and Queen, we want to play. Just give me time to get a band together.” Now, three days later, he was thinking he must’ve been out of his head. Perform live for the first time in years with some friends and Yoko? Would it work? Could he do it alone, without The Beatles? He’d been thinking lately about leaving the band, his band, the band that he started, and diving headfirst into a world of Yoko only.

In the motorcade to Varsity Stadium, sitting in the back seat of a black limo escorted by scores of leather clad bikers called The Vagabonds, John had second thoughts. They’d rehearsed a bit on the plane to Canada, he and Eric working out a few tunes they knew, classic rockers like “Blue Suede Shoes” and “Dizzy Miss Lizzy,” their unplugged electric guitars sounding tinny and weak. Last year, Lennon, Clapton and Keith Richards had done “Yer Blues” together on the Stones’ television show, so they hashed that out as well. Yoko sat close by, silently, and John was a bit uncomfortable with her presence. His shaky confidence was made worse by her clinginess. It would have been nice if George had come as well, but he wanted nothing to do with an avant-garde band, the very thought of Yoko’s piercing shrieks as harmony, or worse yet, some endless jam of screeches and howls, gave Harrison the shivers. It would have provided great comfort to John had one of his band mates stood with him.

Back in the Cavern days, when The Beatles would cover the songs of their favorite rockers, John would never have believed that in a few years he would be topping the bill. Now, in 1969, he was the key attraction of the one day festival. Well, alright, The Doors were actually the headliners, but the makeshift Plastic Ono Band were on right before them. It was just as well, John thought, as he threw up backstage. I’m not ready to be the star by myself.

John watched Bo Diddley work the crowd, Jerry Lee drive them to a cliff, and Richard push them over. It worried him. Man, these guys can deliver, he thought, and here I am with a band that hasn’t even played together before. He felt a wave of nausea roll up to his throat, but he clamped down on the feeling, keeping it deep inside. Yoko stuck to him, her very existence adding more heat to an already warm September day. His stomach revolted.

To a sea of lit matches and butane lighters, the band strode onstage, terrified and shaking. John immediately cautioned the crowd, 20,000 strong.

“Good evening!” he shouted, and, after a blast from his guitar, “We’re just gonna do numbers that we know, because we’ve never played together before.” The warning made, the group began to slog through “Blue Suede Shoes.” In mid-song, Yoko disappeared briefly and returned with a white bag, which she entered. Lennon looked down, his face a stone mask, but his voice gained an added ferocity.

They plodded through the set list. “Money” rolled out at a tempo slightly faster than a full stop, and John was embarrassed. He reached down after the song was over and ruffled through the bag to grab the lyric sheets that Yoko had held and kept with her when she hid. He needed the words. It’d been so long since he played these numbers that he had hastily scribbled the words on scattered white paper that Yoko clutched. At least she would be good for something, but, in his moment of need, she was gone.

“Bloody hell,” John thought. “This is awful. And what the fuck is she doing. Standing too close, out of the bag, inside the bag, back outside.”

When the band launched into the one song they did know, “Yer Blues,” Yoko let out a nasty squawk and kept at it throughout the tune. John was mortified and sheepishly turned to face Clapton, not wanting to meet his gaze. Clapton shot a piercing look at John, clearly disgusted by what was happening on stage. John tried to shake it off, wobbling his knees in a silly dance as a way to keep his sanity, but the weight of shame wasn’t so easily shaken off.

As John sang “Cold Turkey,” Yoko went into full animal howl, causing Lennon to clench his teeth as he sung. He needed to glance at the lyric sheets she was holding, but it was getting harder and harder to face her. Every time he turned he would see Clapton glaring at him. “Maybe Eric’s looking to me for cues,” John mused, but it was obvious the Clapton was irate. John felt a wave of humiliation and, when the song finished and there was no reaction from the audience, he lashed out. “Come on, wake up,” he sneered, but he knew he wasn’t mad at them, but at the crazy lady who hung on him so tightly, his wife.

He counted in “Give Peace a Chance” with a vicious German accent, “Eins Zwei, Eins Zwei Drei Vier.” With Yoko caterwauling and clapping a rhythm that was uniquely her own and in no way connected to the song, John erupted. He leaned over to Yoko. “If you’re gonna clap, try to be on the beat. You’re messing me up.”

He’d had it. Still, Yoko had her number to do and John introduced her with more than a bit of venom.

“Yoko’s gonna do her thing all over you,” he declared to the crowd.

While Clapton played violently, Yoko sang “Don’t worry” over and over again, before she launched into an endless stream of violent screaming. The cacophony was too much. John wondered how he got to this point, playing on stage with an insane Japanese woman. The so-called “song” was excruciating, seemingly endless. Eric stared daggers at John. The band exited, their guitars spewing feedback as Yoko remained standing, "waaahing" alone at center stage. A tsunami of boos surged toward her.

John nervously walked behind the stage, wishing he could disappear, when Eric charged him. Grabbing John by the shoulders he shook him violently.

“What do you see in her John, really? She’s your old lady, I dig that, but she’s not a musician, she has no right being on that stage. She made a right fool of us all.”

There was no point in fighting it. John hung his head. He knew Eric was right.

“You’re right, man, absolutely right. I can’t go through that again, she’s mad as a hatter.”

Realizing that John was hurt by the truth, Eric pushed on, gently.

“Let’s all go back to London and, when we get there, meet with the boys and tell them how much the band means to you, how much you love them and that you need them.”

John nodded his head. His future, musically, was with The Beatles, not with Yoko Ono.

“And you have to tell her where you stand. Now.”

“Do I?” asked John, wide-eyed, afraid of a confrontation. Eric gave him a pat on the back for encouragement and a soft push to send him on his way.

Nervously, John walked to the opposite side of the stage where Yoko had just emerged after 20 minutes of screeching yodels. She was still holding the lyric pages. To do what was necessary, he needed to be nasty John, cutting John, the John that spared no one’s feelings.

“You make a great music stand, luv, but I’m not going to be humiliated again. I was nervous as hell out there and I didn’t need to be embarrassed,” he started.

From where he stood, Eric Clapton could see John shouting, his head down, staring at his guitar to avoid looking at Yoko as she wiped away a tear.

Before arriving in Toronto, John Lennon confided to Eric Clapton and bassist Klaus Voorman that he was leaving The Beatles. Having never heard the boos after Yoko’s performance of “Don’t Worry Kyoko,” Lennon was flush with self-confidence as he returned to meet the Beatles at the Apple offices in Savile Row. During a business discussion, John announced he was leaving the group. While George Harrison and Ringo Starr had each quit previously, Lennon’s announcement was the end. Paul McCartney would be the first to go public with the breakup, publicizing his own departure in April 1970.

The Madcaps Laugh

2010-06-24T13:44:00.000-07:00

“Interesting group today, eh, Nurse?”

“I suppose, Doctor,” she replied quizzically. The older nurse didn’t get this new psychiatrist. His shoulder length hair made him look like one of those Woodstock hippies, not a staff doctor at Bellevue in 1970. She had no idea why these particular patients were anything special.

“You suppose? You don’t follow rock and roll, do you?” He smirked. “I know, silly question. You’re more a Perry Como type, I bet.”

Insulted, the gray haired woman smoothed out her gleaming white uniform and straightened her cap. “I do like him, yes.”

“OK, sorry, but these guys are famous rock stars. Legends.” The nurse remained unimpressed.

“Well, let’s go in and see what we can do for them, shall we.” He opened his notebook to refresh himself on the facts.

Alexander “Skip” Spence – born 4/18/46. Former drummer of Jefferson Airplane and guitarist for Moby Grape. Schizophrenia exacerbated by LSD intake. Committed to Bellevue under restraint after attacking a band member with a fire axe. Believes he is the Anti-Christ.

Peter Green (Greenbaum) – born 10/29/46. Former lead guitarist for Fleetwood Mac. Schizophrenia exacerbated by LSD intake. In May 1970, left the band he created in order to follow the teachings of Jesus and to divest himself of all his money.

Syd Barrett – born 1/6/46. Former lead songwriter and guitarist for Pink Floyd. Unknown mental illness coupled with LSD intake. Erratic behavior including near-catatonia during performance, public defecation, prolonged disappearances.

The room was spare, empty save for five metal chairs arranged three facing two. The doctor suppressed his urge to be a fan first, and while he managed to stay professional, inside he was buzzing. Man, he had been at the Fillmore East just two years earlier for a Moby Grape show and it was the best he’d ever seen. Peter Green “The Green God” himself, was his favorite blues guitar player, better than Clapton. And Syd? Only the genius who gave birth to psychedelic music. However, the doctor knew he needed to try to help these men come back to some semblance of normality. Along with medication and talk therapy, the doctor had a backup plan, something he hoped would get to the core of who these men were.

Spence, wearing his hospital uniform, could hardly sit, a fidgety mess with darting eyes, a sly smirk and tangled hair. To Spence’s left sat Green, a Jesus manqué, hands folded below a large dangling cross. To keep Peter calm, he was allowed to wear his own clothes, which included a shiny blouse with lace lapels. Syd sat apart, his Medusa hair nearly covering his dark eyes, so deep in the sockets that they were almost unseen. Perhaps he had looked at himself in the mirror and turned to stone. The doctor and nurse sat in the two seats opposite the troubled trio.

“Gentleman, good morning. I’m Doctor Brown. How are you all today?”

“Fine, my son, fine,” answered Green. “Today is another wonderful day thanks to my father, the Lord God.” He pushed back his long matted hair and stroked his flowing beard.

“Ah, that’s bullshit, man, bullshit. God is a pussy, he can’t do jackshit!” Spence yelled. Since being committed to Bellevue in a straight jacket after attacking fellow Graper Don Stevenson with a fire axe, Skip was a man possessed. Literally. In his mind, he fancied himself the anti-Christ. It was for Don Stevenson’s own good that Spence tried to chop through a hotel room door with an axe. He was only trying to protect Don from the evil that had invaded Skip’s soul.

“Skip, if you could relax, please.” Doctor Brown was interrupted by the screeching of the chair on the hard floor. Green had slowly pushed his chair back and stood up. He attempted to lay his hands on Spence’s head to soothe his troubled soul. “My son, you need to lead a selfless life along Christian principles.” Skip pushed Green’s hands away violently, as if sprinkled with holy water while undergoing an exorcism, then turned to face the window.

It was hard for the psychiatrist to keep his clinical cool. Holy shit, he thought, these guys are fucking crazy. In medical school he was taught to avoid laymen’s generalizations, but, come on, THEY WERE NUTS. Turning away for the religious war waging before him, he turned to Syd, who sat quietly, head down and motionless.

“How are you today Syd?”

“Am I here then?” Syd asked sincerely, almost sweetly. Barrett shared none of the aggressive insanity of the others in the group. “I thought I might be disappearing, treading backward on a path, out of focus.”

“Do you often feel like you’re vanishing?” the Doctor asked.

“I don’t feel it; it’s true. I have photographic evidence of it.”

“Tell me what you mean? Could I see the picture?” A physical manifestation of his psychosis? Intriguing, though impossible.

“When the band was ready to give me the sack, they knew I was evaporating. They saw it in the photos. I knew they were right. From then on, I couldn’t be bothered singing or playing. I couldn’t care less.”

That was hard for the doctor to believe. “Couldn’t care less? Pink Floyd was your group. You weren’t hurt when they fired you?”

“I didn’t think or feel at all. I think even less now,” Syd said almost inaudibly. “It’s better that way.”

“That may be, Syd, but you’re here, in this room, with the rest of us.”

“Who knows for sure? Maybe it’s a dream. Maybe you’re dreaming you’re a doctor.” Syd lifted his head and for the first time looked straight into the doctor’s eyes. “You might be a teenager in your suburban bedroom, dozing off as you listen to your records. Maybe we’re not here at all.”

Out of the corner of his eye the doctor could see Skip taunting Peter, giving the “messiah” the evil eye and waving his hands as if putting a hex on Green, who sat serenely with his hands in prayer, eyes closed.

“Skip, please stop that.” ordered Doctor Brown. Skip obeyed and sat quietly in his chair. “Peter, do you feel like Syd does or do you miss playing guitar and being on stage with your band?”

“I’ve got to do what God would have me do. We should love one another, care for one another. Money is not important. Being a rock star is not important. Giving of one’s self to others is everything.”

Skip let out a loud raspberry, and Peter calmly made the sign of the cross over him. Syd remained apart, statue-like.

Clearly, group therapy was ineffective. There was no interaction between the three, at least no positive exchange. This was going nowhere. It was time for the doctor to roll out his plan, earlier than he had hoped. Calling their bluff, making them play music would, he hoped, get to the heart of who they were and bring out their true selves. Then real therapy could begin.

The doctor stood up, walked over to the door and rapped on the glass window to summon the attendants. Three men, burly hulks immaculately dressed in white, arrived and escorted the deranged musicians to the recreation room. As other patients sat stoically, their attention focused toward the corner of the room where a small black and white television was bolted into the wall, the assistants brought Syd, Skip and Peter to instruments that had been placed in the room. A drum kit was set up and a guitar and bass rested on the tiled floor. A few of the more sane turned in their worn cloth chairs to observe the scene.

Doctor Brown stood before the sick supergroup. “Here’s what I’d like to try. Skip, if you could get behind the drums, Syd, pick up the guitar, and Peter, I read once that you could play bass. Now, there’s no pressure here. I simply want to see if you could find some happiness in what you do best, music.”

They were all skeptical except Skip, who leapt onto the stool and started pounding on the toms. Syd dutifully wrapped the guitar around his neck, his arms hanging down lifelessly. Slowly, Peter strummed a few strings.

Suddenly, a savage sound erupted and, like savants, they were off with a bang. There was not a sign of instability as they launched into Robert Johnson’s “Hellhound on my Trail.”

Speculation that Syd Barrett was a daily user of LSD has been disputed over the years, but it is clear that his drug use and unpredictable behavior turned off the rest of Pink Floyd soon after the band broke out in 1967. Though Syd was the group’s main songwriter, it was decided to not call him for a gig at Southampton University in January 1968. Officially, Syd’s expulsion came April 6. He lived at his family’s Cambridge home until his death in July 2006.

Skip Spence, after Moby Grape’s classic debut LP in 1967, had a psychotic episode that led to his attack with a fire-axe on band mate Don Stevenson’s Albert Hotel room door. He was jailed in The Tombs, and then committed to Bellevue. Spence recorded his solo epic, Oar, in 1969. For the next 30 years, Spence would be in and out of treatment, sometimes destitute enough to qualify for public aid. He died in 1999.

Peter Green left Fleetwood Mac in May 1970, his financial success with the band causing him inner turmoil. After an LSD binge in Munich, Green, in his own words, “went on a trip and never came back.” Years of psychiatric hospitalization, which included shock therapy, led a vagabond’s life as a recluse. He has toured in recent years but the fire is gone.

Blue Flashing Light

2010-06-10T07:28:00.000-07:00

That’s the kettle. Now where’s the sugar? Can’t have my tea without sugar, can I? Oh, there it is.

That’s hot. Soothing though. Hits the spot. Nothing like a nice cuppa to ease the mind and give one a bit of peace. Everyone needs time to think, that’s for sure.

So, Reg, what’ll it be? Music or marriage? Do you love her?

I don’t know mate, I really don’t. She’s alright, I suppose, but she’s a bit barmy and more than a bit dominating. Not that I’m opposed to the occasional domination, but, really, a man has his limits. Linda is beautiful, if you go for that kind of thing. And she certainly has the grace to hold herself above others. I would like to have that knack.

Well, she is an heiress, right? Even though it’s to a pickle empire. There I’d be, “Mr. Epicure Pickles.” That’s a laugh. A June wedding? That’s not so funny. And pretty soon, too. Fuck’s sake, she already ordered the cake!

But give up music? Linda is adamant that I should pack it in, quit. “You’re going nowhere Reg and if we’re getting married you’ll need a proper job.” She’s just like my dad that way, always putting me down. Mr. RAF, always disapproving of my music. “You’re inadequate, son, strictly mediocre.” That’s encouraging for a boy to hear! That’s what he would say, at least whenever he was around.

And just now when it seems to be getting better. It couldn’t have gotten much worse. Bernie, he’s someone I could do great things with. Brilliant lyricist, brilliant. What luck to have both answered the same ad looking for talent at Liberty Records. When we first met I swear there were sparks. It was electric. Bernie Taupin – 18 years old, dreamy and quite the poet. And now that he’s moved in with Linda and me, we can work together, ‘round the clock.

So, what’ll it be? Me Mum is against the wedding; so is Bernie. And last night at the Bag O’ Nails, John Baldry put it to me straight. “You love Bernie more than you love this girl.” That made me take notice. “If you marry this girl Reg, I swear you’ll destroy two lives – hers AND yours.” He was yelling by then. He loves me; I know that he has only my best interests at heart. And he said all that after I asked him to be my best man! Hah.

When I got home, when was it, around 4 AM, I broke the news to Linda that the wedding was off. She went into complete shock, breaking down. Then she let me have the news. I’ll never forget it. “I’m pregnant Reg, pregnant. What are you going to do about that?” I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know. I suppose my responsibilities are to her and the baby, but I don’t want to put my career on the back burner.

It all leaves me so depressed, about my life, my career. What’s wrong with me? I don’t love Linda, I know that. Do I love Bernie? Maybe, I don’t know. Does he love me? I could just go to his bedroom and ask him; he’s in there. He couldn’t possibly care for me in that way, me at 21 already fat and balding. Not fat. Chubby though.

Ah, now the tea is cold. There’s more water in the kettle.

Forget it. I don’t want any. I don’t want anything, just out. It’s utterly hopeless, all of it, Linda, music, Bernie. I’d be better off dead. What chance would a child of mine have with a father like me? Going nowhere, head in the clouds, dreaming of stardom.

Pilot light’s on, have to blow that out. Don’t want to be cooked. How much gas does one use in this situation? I’ll put it on high. That should do it, I would think.

Ugh, the oven is filthy. I’m not putting my head on that greasy rack. Let me get a pillow.

Oops, almost forgot to take off my glasses. Ah, much better.

What will Linda think when she finds me? “That’s a waste of good gas,” I bet. Practical to the end. And Bernie? Will he be upset?

I’m starting to get very sleepy. Eyes heavy. No pain, no regrets. I hope Bernie isn’t ……

From his room Bernie could smell the gas. Quickly, he leapt from his bed, dropping his notebook and pen mid-sentence. Entering the kitchen, he saw Reg lying on the oven door, his head resting peacefully on a pillow inside the oven. Bernie opened the kitchen windows, startling a butterfly, which flew high away. He was too late.

Reg Dwight met Linda Ann Woodrow, when the American heiress to the Epicure Products fortune came to see his band Bluesology. They were quickly engaged. Reg had met lyricist Bernie Taupin when they both answered an ad searching for talent at Liberty Records. The three lived together in Furlong Road, Islington. Torn between his music and his marriage, Reg heeded the advice of Long John Baldry, a dear friend, that Bluesology was backing. Baldry, a gay man who sensed Reg was of similar taste, advised him to cancel the wedding. Unsure of what to do, Reg attempted suicide by putting his head on a pillow placed inside the oven, gas on low. Bernie, smelling gas from his room, ran into the kitchen where he saw Reg on the floor, windows wide open. He couldn’t stop laughing. Reg cancelled the wedding. Around the same time, he changed his name to Elton John. This period is the subject of his hit song, “Someone Saved My Life Tonight.”

I’m So Tired of Being Lonely

2010-05-27T17:24:00.000-07:00

When the world lost George Harrison to brain cancer on November 29, 2001, it lost the rarest of things: a rock superstar who believed in what he sang about – love, God, peace. I often bemoan the void created by the absence of his music and spirit in these trying times. It was a brisk March day in 1987 when I sat down with “The Quiet One” on a frigid wrought iron chair beside a lake, his Friar Park manse looming behind us. George was enthusiastic about Cloud Nine, his first album in five years. It was an unforgettable afternoon and my journalistic integrity was cast aside. I was a fan, nothing more, nothing less. It was all I could do not to scream.

JK: Can I ask you about Dark Horse?

GH: That’s going back a bit. Not sure what I could tell you about it now.

JK: I’ve wanted to ask you this for years. Did you ever think of redoing that whole album? Your voice was pretty ragged and the critics savaged you for it – Dark “Hoarse,” for one.

GH: Do you like those songs?

JK: Very much. I always thought they didn’t get their due because of the vocals.

GH: I was quite surprised by the savagery of the rock press at the time, but I was a target fit to be brought down, I suppose. We did make an alternate once my voice had healed, but it was too late. The songs had passed, like all things, as someone once said. (laughs)

JK: I’d love to hear it. Tell me about Cloud Nine. You’ve been gone for a while.

GH: For the last few years I’ve been writing, playing, occasionally dropping in on a concert or two. I haven’t really been gone, I just haven’t been recording. Didn’t have the desire to make product.

JK: And now?

GH: Well, two years ago I started thinking I needed to get the songs out of my head and out on an album. I began thinking of producers and Jeff immediately came to mind.

JK: Jeff Lynne.

GH: Right, Jeff Lynne. Not Jeff Beck. Good to clear that up. I knew Jeff from his days with The Move and it was clear from his ELO records that he’s something of a Beatlemaniac. I figured he would relate to me pretty well. I had Dave Edmunds, a friend of both of ours who was working with Jeff at the time, pass the word on. Which he did, and Jeff called me right away and took me up on it.

JK: Did it work out the way you hoped?

GH: Yeah, it was quite relaxed and Jeff gets the credit for that. It didn’t hurt to have some friends play on it as well – Eric Clapton, Elton, Ringo.

JK: Sounds like a pretty good band.

GH: It felt very much like a band and made me, for the first time in 20 years, remember the joy of being in a group, sharing ideas, sharing responsibilities.

JK: I figured I wouldn’t ask any Beatles questions, but, clearly, the last few years of The Beatles were pretty unpleasant for you.

GH: Definitely, and it soured me on the whole band thing. But Cloud Nine was very different in that it felt like a band, but wasn’t. Having Ringo around helped for sure. Plus, no one really cares whether I make a record or not anymore, which removes the “mania.” We just played music, had fun – no pressure on our nervous system at all.

JK: Would you be up for a group again?

GH: Ah, funny you should mention that. I was at a Dave Edmunds concert in Hollywood last month. Dave’s great. I loved his playing in Love Sculpture and am quite partial to rock and roll, which he does beautifully. Dave and I played together on Carl Perkins’ television special and we hit it off well. Singing harmonies on “Your True Love” with Dave was very enjoyable. And he produced my version of Dylan’s “I Don’t Want to Do It.” So I know Dave quite well.

JK: So you and Dave are thinking of working together.

GH: Yeah, but, wait, there’s more. After the show, I went backstage with Jeff, Lynne, not Beck. We had gone together and sat in the balcony. Well, it was like a guitar convention back there.

JK: Who else?

GH: Brian Setzer of The Stray Cats was there, who Dave had produced. Brian had joined Dave for the encore. He’s a great player, the kind of guy, like Carl, that I would have idolized back in the day. I didn’t know Brian, but I have a weakness for that rockabilly sound.

JK: Wait, wait. Are you hinting that a group may include you, Dave Edmunds, Jeff Lynne and Brian Setzer?

GH: Sort of. Do you remember Duane Eddy?

JK: Of course. Wasn’t he a big influence on you?

GH: Huge. Do you know the story of “Raunchy”? No? It was a Duane tune that Paul made me play for John on the bus. That got me in, you know, because I knew the whole thing. “I Want to Hold Your Hand” is filled with Duane Eddy riffs in the verses. Give it another listen. Jeff and I worked with Duane on his new album.

JK: That is an unbelievable lineup. Five of the greatest guitarists in one band.

GH: Six, actually.

JK: Dave, Brian, Jeff, Duane and you. Did I miss someone?

GH: Dylan was there too.

JK: What?

GH: True. Bob and I have always been friends; at least I think we are. Bob is tough to read sometimes. We were hanging out in Hollywood together last month, even joined Jesse Ed Davis on stage at The Palomino Club about a week before Dave’s show.

JK: I’m almost speechless. Bob has never really played in a group, though obviously with a group, The Band.

GH: True, but he’s quite keen on it. It all fun, laid back, no hassles. I think we’ll do it well.

JK: Do you have a name?

GH: I was thinking “The Dinosaurs” or maybe “The Grandfathers.” We’re all very clean. How about “The Relics?”

JK: (laughs) All good. Will you tour?

GH: The difficult part is going to get everyone together in one room to record, let alone tour. I’m not keen on touring. Traveling will bury you.

Cloud Nine, released in November 1987, was a towering return to form by George Harrison. The sessions, produced by Jeff Lynne, sparked George’s interest in playing with a group. George, and the ersatz Traveling Wilburys above, met after a February 27, 1987 Dave Edmunds show, in which Brian Setzer appeared during the encore. A CREEM magazine photographer suggested a band of all guitar players and George seemed interested. The real Traveling Wilburys (George, Bob, Jeff, Tom Petty, and Roy Orbison) would come together a few months later to record a B-Side for George. That song was “Handle with Care.”

My Tune for the Taking

2010-05-13T17:45:00.000-07:00

I hated calling Artie in Mexico. The connection was terrible; he seemed even farther away from New York than he actually was. Truth is, I didn’t want to talk to him at all. The nerve of him to take off and leave me with all the work. And to become an actor? A betrayal, that’s what it was.

“Hello?” I could barely hear him on the other end of the line.

“Hi Artie, it’s Paul.”

“Paul, how are things in New York?”

“Well, things are standing still. Roy and I are at Studio B working on the mixes. Are you coming back soon or not?”

I can tell you it was difficult to keep my anger under control. Artie had promised me, absolutely promised me, that the film shoot would take him away for only two months, three tops. Then, Mike Nichols kept him on the Catch-22 set for over four months. It was frustrating. We’d been working on the new album since, when was it, late ’68, and here I was with our engineer almost a full year later, still waiting on Art.

“Paul, I’ve already told you, I’ll stay here as long as Mike needs me. He’s the director and he calls the shots. And I’ve told you before, my acting career is good for us. It provides a balance to the partnership.”

Oh, man, I hated that superior attitude of his. It was completely unjustified. His acting career? Come on. He gets one cameo in a movie and now he’s a Hollywood star. Please.

“Are you coming back, yes or no?”

“Paul, don’t beg.”

“I’m not begging, I just want to know, one way or the other.”

“It sounds like begging, it really does.” He gave one of those sighs that always came before he was going to lecture me. He was like that when we were thirteen. I’ve hated that sound since I first heard it back in 1955.

“Paul, listen to me.” Oh boy, here it comes. “I’ll say it again. My acting is good for the identity of the group. It’s a perfect balance. On stage, you play guitar and I fiddle with my hands. Now I do something, too. You’re sounding very dependent and threatened.”

That was all I could take without yelling. So I yelled.

“Threatened? Are you joking? Threatened by you? By your acting career? Man, you’re losing it.”

I’d lost my cool and, like usual, when that happened, Artie got even more arrogant.

“Paul, I’ll be back soon and give you the help you need to finish the record.”

As if I needed his input, you know. As if he was such an important part of the music.

“For chrissakes, Artie, you’re not even on half the record because you haven’t been around. I don’t need you to help me. I just want to know if you’re coming back. If you’re not, then I’ll move forward without you.”

Silence. There, it was out. I knew I could do this alone and now he knew it too. I’ll hand it to Artie, he was unflappable, confident. “I don’t agree. You need my opinion and my voice. Yes, the songs are important but they wouldn’t be as popular without my singing and my arranging.”

“Look, Artie, people like my songs - and they are my songs. I’ll accept that the harmonies get more people to buy the records, but the songs matter most. And to be honest, I don’t care how many people listen.”

I was pretty sure I was being honest. Didn’t matter, really. This was really happening and I wasn’t about to stop it now.

“Paul, Paul, that’s not so.” Was he calling my bluff? Did he know me that well, or not at all? “As to ‘your’ songs, you know I’ve never taken a writing credit when I could have. I can write seven counter melodies an hour. It’s like breathing, Paul, very easy for me.”

“Really, Art, you think it’s that easy? As a matter of fact, I think I could do quite well without you, although I will grant you that I don’t think of myself as a singer, but as a writer.”

“You need my input, Paul, we both know that. ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water,’ you’re wrong on that one. It’s not a good song, but I have some ideas on a very grand orchestrated flourish I want to share with you and Roy when I get back.”

Typical, just typical. “That’s your taste, Artie, not mine. I don’t want it to sound like some orchestra piece. It’s a gospel song, plain and simple. As to waiting for you to get back, I’ve been trying to involve you Artie, but you’re too distracted.”

“That’s fine, I don’t want to do that song any way,” a little pout appeared in Artie’s voice.

“Yeah, well you know, that’s fine. You don’t have to do it. In fact, you don’t have to do any of them.”

You could cut the silence with a knife. I knew he didn’t see that coming, but, you know what, I was very angry. Artie had fucked me over. It’s not that he was doing movies, but that he saw doing movies as an opportunity to fuck me over. I know him. He thinks ‘Hey, I’ve always felt like a nobody. Now you’re going to be the nobody’.” We’ll see.

“I am not having a good time anymore and I don’t want to continue doing this. I’m having more fun in Mexico than I have with you. I want a rest from Paul Simon.” As if I hadn’t made that decision already. Usual Artie, thinking he was the big shot in control.

“Absolutely. This isn’t making it. That same old lie, ‘I write the songs, Artie arranges them,’ it’s bullshit and I’m not doing it anymore.”

So, that was it, really. I was free of Art Garfunkel. That much was clear. Just one more thing.

“So long Artie.” With that I hung up.

I have to say I’d forgotten Roy Halee was still sitting there, waiting for me to get off the phone. When I turned to him he was a bit shaken, seeing that Simon & Garfunkel were no longer together. Here we were, with most of the album done and Artie on a big chunk of the songs. I put my arm on Roy’s shoulder.

“Roy, show me how to wipe Artie’s vocals from these tracks.”

Despite Art Garfunkel’s demurral, “Bridge Over Troubled Water” proved to be the greatest success of Simon and Garfunkel’s career. It also was the finale, as the duo began a break from each other in 1970 following two sold out appearances at Forest Hills Stadium. There was never an official announcement of a breakup but, for nearly 40 years they have worked apart, their separation interrupted by sporadic reunions. After their 1982 reunion, a new Simon & Garfunkel album tentatively titled Think Too Much became a Simon solo effort, Hearts and Bones. Paul decided he “didn’t want Artie to paint on my painting.” In the summer of 1983, Paul called Artie on the phone to break the news that he had decided to erase all of Garfunkel’s harmonies from the tape.

Caught in the Devil’s Bargain

2010-04-22T16:55:00.000-07:00

White Lake, NY, August 16 – What started out as a celebration of flower power and the younger generation’s messages of peace, love and music, devolved into violence and bloodshed on Friday.

Officially titled “An Aquarian Exposition: The Woodstock Music and Art Fair,” the weekend- long rock festival, scheduled to showcase teenage favorites Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane and many others, was created to point out the differences between establishment and anti-establishment forces. However, an uneasy balance between profit and freedom proved too tenuous to hold as 800 off duty New York City policemen squared off with gatecrashers in a fierce melee.

“Woodstock,” so named to capitalize on the magical cache of the artist community approximately 50 miles away that is currently the home to counterculture guru Bob Dylan, is a for-profit concern put together by four principals calling themselves Woodstock Ventures – Michael Lang, Artie Kornfeld, John Roberts and Joel Rosenman.

While promoters had projected 150-200,000 attendees, advance sales of 186,000 (at $8 per ticket) suggested a much larger turnout. By Friday morning, 200,000 squatted on the field well before the gates were scheduled to open at 1PM.Walk up sales had always been expected to provide a large percentage of box office receipts, as many of the young audience would decide at the last minute whether to attend.

As hordes of longhaired adolescents descended on dairy farmer Max Yasgur’s 600 acres expecting to purchase tickets for the weekend extravaganza, they were met not by manned ticket booths, which had never been set up, but with shaky chain link fences and a phalanx of security. In the absence of portable ticket booths and ticket sellers, the crush of people proved too much for the weak boundary markers, which came down immediately. With that, the police attempted to hold back the crowds.

Undeterred, the kids, perhaps drawn like a moth to the flame by the murmur of music in the distance, began to trample over the screening. The fences proved too pliable under the weight of the oncoming rock fans and bent under their weight, occasionally snapping back on the next in line. Security was under instructions that “under no circumstances” were they to leave the box office area. Said one guard, “We were told by the promoters that while the welfare of the kids was important, this was not a free concert and those without tickets were not allowed in.”

The unarmed security had difficulty taming the crowd but, working as a unit, managed to push back at pockets of youth. Not expecting any kind of force, the peaceful pack were easy prey to pushing and punching, and they retreated, at first. Unlike the Democratic National Convention in Chicago last year, where the protesters were met with the overwhelming force of the Chicago Police Department, here the younger crowd well-outnumbered security and quickly realized it. It was at that moment of reckoning that the “love in” became a free-for-all.

Like a match to a fuse, it took one person pushing back to start a conflagration. As two security guards shoved a lanky, bearded young man dressed in white robes, ten others ran to his rescue and began to pummel the guards. With the scent of blood in the air, the tide shifted as the multitudes beat the guards violently. As the pounding took place, others walked towards the stage area. Some giggled as they observed the older men beaten to a pulp, a few already unconscious on the grass. No one offered help.

Bill Graham, the San Francisco based promoter behind the successful Fillmores West and East, was on hand. “I told these guys [Woodstock Ventures] that there had to be a measure of crowd control set up BEFORE the kids arrived at the festival site.” Graham was strident in his beliefs and referenced even more radical efforts. “In South America, when swarms of wild ants approach a village, the natives dig a deep ditch, fill it with oil and light it. The firewall prevents infestation.” Whether Mr. Graham meant that literally for the situation that unfolded is not known.

Once word of the battle reached the promoters at the VIP tent adjacent to the stage, they seemed unperturbed. Roberts, heir to the Block Drug Co. fortune (makers of denture products such as Polident), and financial backer of the event along with Yale Law graduate Rosenman, shrugged off the altercation. “There’s a lot of my money at risk on this,” said the short haired, clean cut Roberts. “My money, over a million dollars of it.”

Besides revenue brought in by ticket sales, film rights to the “happening” have been purchased by the struggling Warner Brothers studio, hoping to revive its fortunes by cashing in on the youth market. Would a violent outbreak ruin the film’s message? Kornfeld, the 26-year-old former A & R man at Capitol Records, thought not.

“If it goes the way we hope it will go, Warners will have a wonderfully beautiful movie that will make us all a lot of money. If there’s a riot and everybody dies, they’ll have one of the biggest selling movies of all time. Either way is fine with me,” said the bearded Kornfeld. Wearing a leather vest without a shirt underneath, Kornfeld betrayed a practical bent behind his shirtless, vested “freak” image. As to the violence at the gates, Kornfeld admitted to being panicked at first when told the fences wouldn’t hold. “I trust our security,” he said flatly before returning his attention to Richie Havens on stage.

“The show will go on as scheduled,” intoned the man behind the entire festival, former Coconut Grove, Florida head shop owner and present Executive Producer Michael Lang, 25. Behind a waterfall of curls, Lang went on. “Look, we all believe in peace and love and music,” said the Bensonhurst native, “but it comes at a price. This weekend, that price was $8 per person, no exceptions. After all, we have our own interests to protect.” Lang, who vowed to make himself a millionaire by his 25th birthday, seemed on target to achieve his goal as he drove away on his BSA Victor motorcycle to keep tabs on his creation, in full bloom despite the violence.

Expectations of 200,000 people were well below the actual turnout for the Woodstock weekend. Estimates of 400-500,000 are commonly agreed upon. For security, 800 off duty NY cops were interviewed and nearly 300 were hired. However, Police Department pressure stopped them from actually working and camp counselors, gym teachers and area residents were employed instead. Ticket booths never arrived and by midday on Friday, it was announced to the throng that Woodstock was now a free festival. Weekend losses for Woodstock Ventures were estimated to be $1.4 million, with Roberts putting up his trust fund for debt payment. On September 8, 1969, The New York Times announced Roberts/Rosenman had bought out Lang/Kornfeld for, according to Lang, $31,750 each. Said Kornfeld, “we lost $50 million between us” when the Woodstock film and soundtrack would prove to be commercial smashes. As Bill Graham would later say, “Woodstock took rock from the neighborhoods and put it on Wall Street.”

Rip This Joint

2010-04-08T20:32:00.000-07:00

Twirling a .38 on his right index finger, Mick turned to Keith and spoke in his best John Wayne accent.

“Throw your gun to floor, partner, and reach for the skies.”

Keith placed his own pistol on the metal chair beside him.

“You won’t get any problems out of me, Sheriff.”

The two old friends laughed, if only to release the tension.

“You scared?” asked Keith.

“Shitless. You?”

Keith nodded his head. “A bit, a bit. That was a bad scene today, for sure.”

The evening’s show at the Montreal Forum had turned from festive to frightening. That afternoon, French separatists had blown up The Rolling Stones’ equipment van. Thankfully, no one was hurt, although new gear had to be flown in from California. The local police had assured the band that all was clear at the concert venue. Jagger and Richards weren’t so sure. The terrorists had made some very clear threats to the band’s well-being.

The tour was a monster as it was. The Stones were the last ones standing in the summer of 1972. The Beatles, gone. Dylan, disappeared. Who was left to see, who was left for the press to glom on to? Just the Stones. They wore their status royally – a Lockheed Electra with a giant Stones’ tongue licking the clouds as it flew the band from city to city. There were two film crews, a slew of celebrity hangers-on, Truman Capote scribbling reports from the road, and a mass of bodyguards. Still, Mick and Keith weren’t quite secure and carried loaded .38s with them, even in the concrete-walled dressing room below the stage. Through the thick walls, the heavy bass thumping of Stevie Wonder’s band Wonderlove could be felt, if not heard.

“What’s that, ‘Uptight’?” wondered Mick aloud.

"I don’t give a shit what it is, I hate that cunt!” spat Keith. He hated the tour, hated the large stadiums that separated him from the audience and, after six weeks, he hated Stevie Wonder.

Richards was still pissed off at Wonder for bailing on the first show in Fort Worth. It didn’t matter one bit that Stevie’s drummer was totally fucked up and couldn’t go on. Keith didn’t believe that story. He knew that Stevie had been partying too hard and was the one who needed to sit one out. For fuck’s sake, if I can make every show with the amount of shit I put in my body, why can’t he? Keith thought.

“Lay off on Stevie, he’s cool.” Mick, always the diplomat, once again trying to keep Keith in check.

“No, mate, no. He’s not cool. Very unprofessional to miss a gig. It’s just not done.” Keith was not going to let this one drop. “You heard what he did to Jeff Beck, right?”

“No.” Mick was half-listening, straining to hear the rhythm from above.

“No? He wrote ‘Superstition’ for Jeff. A solid song, no doubt. And Jeff needs a hit, you know. Then, the bastard takes it back for himself. It’s sure to be a number one. That ain’t cool, Mick.”

“No, it’s not. Jeff Beck, now there’s a cunt.”

Keith had to smile at that. True, son, true.

Mick was still troubled by the day’s events. There were more bad omens. 3,000 forged tickets had been sold, and the fans rioted, causing the concert to start late. Mick thought the cops were distracted from searching for more bombs due to the mayhem in the streets. Cops arrested thirteen and more people were injured in the melee. The vibe was just awful.

Jagger reflected on Altamont, not even three years earlier. That was a bad scene too. Anytime someone is murdered at one of your shows it’s a drag, for sure. But Mick never felt in danger himself. Call it selfish. Nobody ever accused Mick Jagger of being overly concerned with the welfare of other people. The bomb, though. Someone wants to kill him, and the other Stones.

“They do hate the English, that’s the point,” Mick said.

“Who’s that? The blacks?” Keith wasn’t sure where Jagger was coming from.

“No, not the blacks. These French bombers. They’re anti-English speaking, anti-English culture, anti-English everything. That’s why they blew up the van. And we are English, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Keith smirked. “I heard the cops say it was American draft dodgers, not the French. Relax, mate. The cops did their job and gave us the all clear. I wouldn’t-”

A muffled boom shook the walls. At first Jagger thought it was Wonder’s band, but, no, it was too loud. And now there was no rhythm at all, just the sounds of muted screams.

Security pounded on the dressing room door. Mick jumped up to open it; Keith grabbed his gun.

“Guys, guys, we gotta get out of here. Another bomb went off near the stage. It’s chaos, we have to run.”

“Stevie?” asked Keith, suddenly concerned.

“Nah, there’s no one alive anywhere near the stage. We gotta get you out of here. The limos are waiting.”

Keith and Mick briefly exchanged a look of horror before they were whisked out of the Forum, surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards.

The STP (Stones Touring Party or Stop Tripping Please) was a massive undertaking in the summer of 1972. Intense press scrutiny followed the band’s every move. On the afternoon of the July 17 show in Montreal, French separatists succeeded in blowing up the Stones’ equipment van. Three other bombs were supposedly planned to go off during the rest of the day. While the Montreal police inspected the Forum from top to bottom and found nothing, Mick Jagger was fearful a bomb would go off during the show.

Stevie Wonder did miss the first show in Fort Worth on June 24 due to drummer problems. Although Wonder had promised Jeff Beck first crack at the song, Motown insisted “Superstition” be released as a single to promote Wonder’s new LP Talking Book. It would go to the top of the charts the following year. Jeff Beck’s version, on Beck, Bogert & Appice would be released later in 1973.

The day after the Montreal fiasco, Mick and Keith were jailed in Rhode Island after a fight between the band’s entourage and a photographer.

To Take a Place Near You

2010-03-26T03:05:00.000-07:00

“Thank you, goodbye, from David and the boys in the band, the cats, you know who they are.”

Marc Bolan’s fey, wispy voice contradicted his arrogance. He was an out of focus image, a strutting cock and a fairy, a leader and a slave. Under permed mop, his pasty face and mascara lined eyes were a masquerade. Was he king or knave?

David Bowie stood supremely confident, his eyes focused on the neck of his guitar as Bolan said his goodbyes to the studio audience. Masterfully in control behind oversized tinted frames and an opened blue dress shirt, Bowie projected corporate smug. He was carefully coiffed, but it hadn’t been that long since he had his own mass of flowing curls, when he was at the bottom and wished to be Marc Bolan.

When Marc shouted “Go!” to the band and T. Rex began to churn out a bluesy riff, he glared at David with the fire of competition, but Bowie had left that all behind. There was no rivalry anymore from where he stood. He’d been the clear and decisive winner. David turned his back on Marc and didn’t see Bolan fall drunkenly off the stage. When he turned and saw what had happened, Bowie laughed at Bolan, crumpled in a spot beneath his feet, and kept strumming. The directors of the show cut to the multicolored “Marc” graphic they had used during the six show run.

The television program on Granada TV was a smash for Bolan, desperately trying to reclaim his popularity. It was a tea time program, waiting there for the kiddies when they returned from school. Besides playing his own songs, Bolan was introducing new groups like The Jam and Generation X, latching on to the younger generation. Quick to hitch himself to a fresh scene, Bolan had toured the UK with The Damned earlier in the year and shouted to all who would listen that he was “The Godfather of Punk.” David claimed the same title, but to packed arenas and millions of record buyers.

Bowie turned to the band, signaled that they stop playing, and the pedestrian chords they’d been hammering came to a halt. Bowie leapt from the stage and bent over to give Bolan a helping hand. As Bolan got to his feet, the smell of alcohol permeated the area. Bowie put his arm around Marc and helped him to his dressing room. It was a struggle, as Bowie towered over his tiny friend.

The dressing room was a tousled mess of outfits and props from the previous shows; a leopard skin jumpsuit here, a wilting pink carnation there. David thought back to when the two first met, when was it, oh yes, in 1964.

“Do you remember when we used to go dustbin shopping?”

“Uh, mmm, yes, yes,” Marc muttered almost incoherently.

David pressed on, trying to connect. “Those were good times, what were we 16? Carnaby Street, late at night around 10, combing through the dustbins looking for the days rejects. We built our wardrobe on that.” Bowie laughed.

Marc sat up a bit straighter. “I showed you that. That was my idea, as you recall.”

“You were brilliant. I remember when we met, and I asked if you were a Mod. Do you remember what you told me?”

“I believe I do,” Marc’s memory brought him to the time when he was on top, when David Bowie was nearly big enough to give him a run for it. “I believe I said ‘I’m King Mod.’”

“Yes, that’s it. That and, ‘Your shoes are crap.’” They both laughed.

“Well, you told me I was short!” Giggles filled the room.

“You were,” David paused theatrically. “And you still are!”

Bolan pulled his knees up in a paroxysm of hilarity, clapping his hands.

“Still prettier than you, though, still prettier,” Marc countered as David winced.

It was the nature of their relationship to teeter back and forth from camaraderie to cutthroat. Ever since they were two nothing kids with the same manager, it had always been that way. They were already close when Marc and Tyrannosaurus Rex hit big with “The Wizard” in 1965. Sensing that Bolan had found the key to stardom, David adopted Bolan’s warbly vocal style, as well as his hair. Bowie used his Bolan imitation when he cut “The Prettiest Star” four years later with Marc on guitar. Bolan, furiously jealous at the recent success of Bowie’s “Space Oddity” came to the studio, spoke to no one and stormed out without even a goodbye.

Then it was Marc’s turn. When “Ride the White Swan” and “Bang a Gong” covered the airwaves in 1970 and 1971, the “new” glam Bolan was a god of sex and rock and roll, and David desperately wanted that fame. Is it any wonder that Bowie morphed from long haired hippie minstrel to glam superstar? Try as he might, he couldn’t get near him. Bolan was number one.

Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders From Mars followed and, like that, David Bowie had conquered the world. As surely as the moon must fade when the sun rises, Bolan began his descent. He would get bigger than Bowie, in one way. The press dubbed Bolan “The Porky Pixie” as his steady diet of drugs and booze caused his weight to balloon.

It was that fat Bolan who found himself staying in the Beverly Wilshire in 1975. Three times Marc tried to break big in America, three times he failed. Bolan sought out his old friend and rival when he was informed that Bowie and his entourage was at the hotel as well.

David was shocked to see the bloated Bolan, trying hard to be like Bowie with dyed blonde hair as he toured to promote his Ziggy rip-off, Zinc Alloy and The Hidden Riders of Tomorrow. He was a pitiable figure, though still full of himself, and David tried to give him some fatherly advice, out of both concern and superiority.

Marc listened, at least enough to get in shape, and attempted a comeback. The “Marc” show gave him a half-hour of redemption and he took it, but, in typical Bolan fashion, he was letting it slip away.

“You are an absolute mess,” David said curtly. “Look at you, drinking between takes, stumbling off the stage.” Bowie clucked his tongue with dramatic disapproval.

Marc waved his right arm like a butterfly, trying to shoo away the barb. “Best thing I’ve ever heard in my life. You better watch out!” But he was clearly a bit shaky. Bowie sat coldly, solid as a stalagmite.

“Watch out? Me? You’re going to die if you keep on this way. Look at me. This is a business, and there are ways to succeed in a business. A sloppy drunk with a penchant for pills won’t make it.”

Marc couldn’t argue. Though it was his show, clearly David Bowie was the bigger hit. Surrounded by a teeming mass of secretaries, publicists and press, Bolan might have been the star of his little after school program, but David Bowie was king. Even drunk, Marc could see that, and he wanted it, desperately.

In a tone combining courtesy and condescension, David made an offer. “I’ve just finished a new album, Heroes, and have to leave on a press tour. Paris, Amsterdam, the States. Come with me. We’ll have a ball” Perhaps getting Marc out of London would calm him down.

Bowie’s offer struck Bolan with a mixture of pain and love. Sobering up to the bitter pill he was about to swallow, Marc admitted, at least to himself, that he needed David Bowie to get what he wanted. Well, no harm there, David Bowie had used him when their roles were reversed. With a sense of doubt, he plunged ahead.

“What the hell, life’s a gas. When would we go?”

Bowie rose from his throne. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll send a car for you.”

Bolan, still seated, reached up and grabbed David’s hand in supplication.

Marc Bolan (born Feld) met David Bowie (born Jones) as they painted their manager’s office in 1964. For the next 13 years they would be friends and enemies both. Their fortunes would never coincide, resulting in envy, anger and slavish replication of each other’s styles. By 1977, David Bowie was an international superstar and among a select few at the top of the rock pyramid. That same year, Bolan began a comeback that culminated in his television triumph.

On September 16, one week after David Bowie appeared on the final installment, Marc Bolan was killed when the purple Mini driven by his girlfriend smashed into a sycamore tree after drinking the night away at various London clubs. He died instantly, two weeks shy of his 30th birthday.

Four days later, David Bowie returned to London from Switzerland, a stop on his Heroes press tour. He attended the funeral at a Golders Green synagogue and announced he would set up a trust fund for Marc’s son Rolan Bolan (named in the fashion of David’s own child Zowie Bowie).

I Didn’t Know What I Would Find There

2010-03-12T03:00:00.000-08:00

Safely on Duke Street outside the Indica Gallery, John couldn’t contain himself any longer.

“Ho ho ho, hee hee hee, ha ha ha,” he cackled, starting in a jokey low voice and ending with a maniacal shriek, his legs swinging wildly under him in a paroxysm of hysterics.

“Didn’t like it, eh?” Paul remarked coolly with a bit of smug. He liked the show very much. He’d been a supporter of the Indica from its inception – he was the first customer, helped draw the flyers advertising the opening in September of ’65, designed the wrapping paper. He even transported the lumber for the book shelves in his Aston Martin, and like a good working lad wasn’t above putting saw to wood. Deep into Stockhausen, musique concrete and the works of William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, nobody in the London rock scene was more curious about the avant-garde than Paul McCartney. As he often said, “People are saying things and painting things and I must know what people are doing.”

Far from the cutting edge, John spent his days in his suburban Weybridge home with stock brokers for neighbors. As the suited men with briefcase hands made their way to The City for the market opening, Lennon sat watching the telly and smoking pot, both for hours on end. When Paul called to invite him to come to the opening of a new exhibit at the Indica, John was in no way interested.

"Ah, that’s a lot of phony bullshit.” John snapped.

“It’s not really,” Paul protested. “That’s what you thought when I brought you the tape loop idea, you were a bit put off, but you ended up quite keen on it. Come on down to London and we’ll make a night of it.”

Better than sitting here all day watching spy programs and eating acid, I suppose, thought John and, after first fighting the urge, he cozied up to the idea. He wanted to talk to Paul anyway about a new thing he was working on, knowing Paul would have something bright to add. He was nervous at the thought of cutting demos of “Strawberry Fields” in a few days without Paul’s input.

John arrived at Paul’s townhouse out of his mind after three days of tripping. They drove together in Paul’s car, windows rolled down. It had been unusually cold that first week of November, but by the 9th it had warmed up considerably and John needed the air.

“What’s this about then?” He had never asked what they were seeing.

“It’s called Unfinished Paintings and Objects. Weird pieces by this Japanese artist from New York, Yoko Ono.”

John snickered. “That’s his name? You’re having me on.”

“I know, I know, but really, Yoko Ono. She’s a her and very big in New York. John Dunbar was telling me about some of the items - sky T.V., eternal time clock, crying machine, and he…”

Peals of laughter from John. “That’s daft! It’s a con. I think you’ve been taken in, mate, but, I’m bored and I’m here so let’s see the show.” Paul parked and John joyfully leapt from the car, sensing the thrill of taunting another “artist” who would no doubt look down her nose at him. “Come on.”

Entering the gallery through the olive green door, the two Beatles were enthusiastically greeted by John Dunbar, one of the co-founders of the gallery. It was important to Dunbar, a coup really, to have them here the night before the official opening of the show, the gallery’s first big show of the fall of 1966. If they liked it, if they bought something, word would spread fast. The Beatles taste became everyone’s and fast.

Dunbar grabbed each gently by the elbow and walked them to a figure facing a blank canvas, a slim, small form in a black leotard.

“John Lennon, Paul McCartney, I’d like you to meet Yoko Ono.”

Yoko turned to face them and handed each of them a card. It said BREATHE.

"No thanks,” sneered John, “I already had some at home.”

Paul was quite abashed, but went with it. “Don’t mind if I do,” and he slowly inhaled. Yoko smiled.

The three strolled through the exhibit.

“Is this an apple, then?” asked John.

“Yes, it’s an apple,” Yoko answered, sensing scorn.

“For sale? How much?” It was hard for John to hold in his rising laughter.

“200 pounds.”

“Is that for real?” John scoffed, but Paul jumped in.

“I get it. It’s a joke, isn’t it? For a couple of hundred quid I can watch it rot. I like it.” Paul was quite chuffed.

They moved on, towards a step ladder. On the ceiling above was a black canvas, next to it a magnifying glass hanging from a chain. John climbed up first, grabbed the handle and placed it in front of the small word affixed on the canvas. He descended, head shaking.

“What’s it say?” asked Paul.

“’Yes’, it says ‘Yes’.” He turned on Yoko, “What’s the point of all this? It’s too weird. Outrageous really, a fraud.”

Paul climbed up and looked at the word. It was simple and positive and he felt warm and peaceful. Back on the floor, he leaned over to Yoko and whispered, “I love it.” Her stoic face broke into a wide smile, expectant. Now Paul and Yoko walked together, talking about Buddhism. Paul had recently bought a book on Gandhi and non-violence and their talk became more animated as they discussed peace and protest. John lagged behind. Spotting the giant white canvas, he asked, “What’s this?”

Yoko explained it was a pure white space, and when the exhibit opened each person could hammer one nail into it.

“Can I do one now?” John asked eagerly.

Yoko shook her head. “No, it must remain untouched until the show opens tomorrow.”

“Right, right. That makes perfect sense,” John spat, his anger evident.

“Hey Paul,” John called. Paul walked over. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, OK. I’m enjoying this, though.” Paul wasn’t going to argue.

Safely on Duke Street outside the Indica Gallery, John couldn’t contain himself any longer.

“Ho ho ho, hee hee hee, ha ha ha,” he cackled, starting in a jokey low voice and ending with a maniacal shriek, his legs swinging wildly under him in a paroxysm of hysterics.

“Didn’t like it, eh?” Paul remarked coolly with a bit of smug. “Well, I did. It was clever and interesting. What did you think of her?”

“She’s a beast, isn’t she? I wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of her.”

Paul stopped. “I think I’ll go back for a little.” He handed John the keys to his car. “Stay at my place tonight. You don’t have to head back to the suburbs.”

A bit stunned at Paul’s desertion, John took the keys. “I may head over to Bag O’ Nails and see who’s there tonight. I think Georgie Fame is playing. Meet me there if you want.”

Paul headed back to the Indica. He was intrigued by this Yoko Ono. Not his type, really, but he was interested for sure.

When he opened the door to the Indica, Paul expected another cheerful greeting from John Dunbar. Probably assumes I’ll buy something, Paul thought. Instead, the place was in chaos, Yoko sobbing as Dunbar held her tightly. John had hammered a nail right in the middle of the clean white canvas.

John Lennon attended Yoko Ono’s show Unfinished Paintings and Objects on November 9, 1966, the day before it opened. After three straight days of taking LSD, he arrived, skeptical. He was won over by Yoko’s positive message and, when he offered an imaginary five shillings to pound an imaginary nail into the canvas, sparks flew. The only Beatle living in London, Paul McCartney was heavily into the avant-garde scene and the most interested of the group in counterculture art and literature. Rumors of an affair between Paul and Yoko have surfaced. Yoko met Paul first and did visit him at his townhouse sometime in 1966, where they were spotted being quite affectionate.

I AM the One

2010-02-26T03:51:00.000-08:00

Elvis got up slowly from the cream damask chair closest to the color TV set. The television had been pulled out in front of the white baby grand and now sat in the archway that separated the living room from the music room. He turned to face his friends, the so-called “Memphis Mafia,” five of them comfortably lounging in the custom 15-foot sofa.

“So, what did you think of that, boys?” Elvis asked unsurely as he sat back down.

Joe Esposito spoke first. “Oh Elvis, man, you still got it. You’re still the King, boy.”

“TCB, baby, TCB,” Elvis boasted. “Taking Care of Business all the way.”

Sonny went next. “You’re all the way back, boss, all the way.”

Elvis shot him a cold steely look. The room was instantly quiet. “Back? What do you mean ‘I’m back’?”

Sonny got nervous. “Back on top. Number one.”

“Was I gone? You saying I’m some kinda has-been?”

“No, no, no. I mean, wait, wasn’t it supposed to be a comeback special? Isn’t it called a comeback special?” Sonny was sunk, sunk deep, and he knew it.

Suddenly, Elvis burst into laughter, smacking his thigh. “Oh, baby, I had you going.” Elvis looked around to his devoted flock, who were all laughing now, perhaps a bit too loudly. “Had him going, didn’t I?”

“Shit, Elvis.” Sonny laughed weakly, if only to fit in, but he was mighty relieved.

“That boy almost crapped his pants,” yelled Charlie, nearly convulsive and beet red.

Feeling a little remorseful, Elvis backed off. “Sorry, Sonny, sorry. I was just putting you on a little.”

For the next hour, the gang laughed and praised Elvis for what appeared to be a very successful TV special. It was simply called Elvis and it was true to the man, his music and his magnetism. Amazingly, it had been seven years since Elvis Presley had performed music in front of a crowd, but he sounded great and looked like a teenage god, clad head to toe in black leather or resplendent in white and burgundy suits. He told everyone he was scared to death to get out before a live audience.

The doorbell rang and Charlie leapt from the couch to answer. Soon he returned with a stack of telegrams in his hand.

“Telegram for Elvis Presley,” Charlie did his best impersonation of a telegraph messenger boy, but it was closer to the Phillip Morris bellhop.

“Read ‘em to me,” ordered Elvis. He had hoped for a reaction to the show and, based on the pile of paper Charlie dumped on the coffee table, he’d gotten it.

“This here one is from Johnny Cash. It says, “Dear Elvis, How come you look younger now than when we started out at Sun Records and I look like a broken down tractor? You’re the greatest. Love from Johnny and June.”

“Hey, here’s one from England,” said Joe. “It says, “You were wonderful, marvelous. We’re planning our own television production and we learned a lot from you, just like in the old days. All our love, Mick and Keith.”

Elvis was puzzled. “Who the hell are Mick and Keith?”

The boys looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads.

Sonny held up a telegram. “It’s from Bob Dylan. He says, “Great show. You brought me through the mirror. Bob.”

“Now what’s that supposed to mean? That guy is nutty,” Joe laughed as he spoke.

“Wait a minute, son. Bob Dylan is a great songwriter. It’s gotta mean something,” said Elvis in Dylan’s defense.

The phone rang in the background. Joe had a telegram in hand. “Hey, Elvis, this is from John Lennon.”

“Really? Read that, nice and loud.”

Joe cleared his throat dramatically. “You’re still the biggest. Come to England – Paul and I would love to produce an album for you, if we aren’t too nervous in the presence of The King! Love , John.”

Elvis got quiet, serious. That’s back on top, working with The Beatles. He did like them, said so publicly during the show. What would give him more credibility with the young kids then to work with The Beatles? He couldn’t turn that offer down.

“Son, it’s the Colonel on the phone. He wants to talk to you.” Vernon held the receiver out for Elvis.

“Well, I want to talk to him, too!” Elvis dashed to the phone.

“Elvis, my boy, what a success! My phone has been ringing off the hook with offers,” harrumphed the faux-Colonel, Tom Parker. “In fact, I’m still here at my MGM office. They want you, Elvis!”

“Uh, yeah, we’ve gotten a bunch of telegrams here at Graceland. I want to talk to you about one, it’s from-”

“Listen to me first. We have a huge offer from Las Vegas, huge. There’s big money there and they want you badly.”

Elvis balked. “Vegas? Pardon my language, Colonel, but are you outta your mind? Las Vegas is for Dean Martin and Perry Como. I’m the King of Rock and Roll. Always was. Vegas?”

“It’s a lot of money, Elvis, a lot of money,” The Colonel replied, speaking the only language he knew. “I told you this TV special would work.”

Elvis rolled his eyes. “You told me? You wanted me to wear a Santa suit and sing Christmas songs. For cryin’ out loud, you were against this from the start. I had to put my foot down to get it right, get it my way. You were rooting for us to be wrong, just to tell us ‘I told you so’.”

“I’m telling you, Elvis, Vegas is the way to go and-”

“Listen to me Colonel, for once just listen and stop flappin’ your gums. Leave Vegas to some sleazy lounge singer. The Beatles want to work with me in England and I’m going.”

Panicked quiet on the other end. “Now, Elvis, we’ve talked about going abroad. It’s a bad idea, and I would strongly advise you against it.”

“To hell with your advice, sir.” Elvis hung up the phone.

“Can you believe the Colonel wants me to sing in Las Vegas like some 50 year old crooner? Not me, baby, not now.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“To hell with that. Someone get me John Lennon on the phone. Time for me to take care of business. Boys, pack your bags, we’re going to England.”

The story goes that Steve Binder, producer/director of the ’68 Comeback Special, made a 33 year old Elvis Presley walk down Sunset Strip, where he was not recognized by any of the youth passing by. Having his irrelevance clearly pointed out, Elvis was willing to go all out to reclaim his former stature. Col. Tom Parker, Elvis’ manager/Svengali, was opposed to the proposed plan and insisted on a more traditional Christmas-themed show. The Comeback Special aired on NBC on December 3, 1968, and was the number one Nielsen rated show of the entire year, viewed by 18 million households. Elvis never toured outside the US, in any country that required a passport, as the Dutch-born Parker was not a US citizen and feared both a denial of a passport and deportation. Elvis premiered at The International Hotel in Las Vegas on July 31, 1969.

Make Me Wanna Holler

2010-02-11T15:37:00.000-08:00

Heading downtown to Motown headquarters behind the wheel of his white Rolls, Marvin was deep in his mind. Used to be, everyone helped everyone. If I had to play drums for Smokey, I’d play drums. The Supremes would sing backup if that’s what it took. What were they called then? Now, it was all corporate, with Berry spending most of his time out in Hollywood, doing business, becoming a big shot, right. Even right here in Detroit, the sweet old Hitsville USA house had been replaced by a ten-story office building. No soul man, no soul. Adjusting his white-rimmed cap, Marvin rubbed his head as if pushing his brain to remember. The Primettes, yeah, The Primettes, that’s what they were called back then.

It was Friday, and Berry Gordy was flying in for the day to attend the Quality Control meeting. Marvin had been holed up, doing his thing on his own, making music, and the business side had heard it through the grapevine that it didn’t sound like Motown. Marvin certainly hadn’t gone about it the “Motown way,” checking each move with the higher-ups. He wasn’t playing that game anymore, no way. Still, it was up to these people, on this day, to decide, thumbs up or thumbs down on his record. He was always a good worker, did whatever he was told. He laughed to himself, usually did what he was told. Don’t I get to do my thing, my way, after all these years? He wondered whether that history counted for much anymore.

Marvin pulled his car up to the curb in front of the Woodward Ave. entrance, pushed through the heavy doors and, after being buzzed in by the receptionist in the interior lobby, headed to the elevator. He decided to keep his waist-length leather coat on. It made him feel protected.

On the way up, he thought about whether to fight or not. He believed in this record, believed in it more than anything he had ever done. This was really Marvin Gaye, singing what was important to him. Look at Sly Stone. He puts out whatever he wants to. Isaac Hayes? That man can’t sing to save his mama, but he’s allowed to be an individual. And I can’t? After all I’ve done. I’m a fighter though – I can whup Smokin’ Joe Frazier with this music!

Marvin was overjoyed to see Berry pacing outside the meeting room. They couldn’t be more different than they were right then. Berry was nattily dressed in his Los Angeles outfit, white sport coat, white pants, white shoes, silk shirt, sporting his dark sunglasses indoors. Marvin was right out of the ghetto, rough beard, Lions jersey, sweatpants and sneakers. Marvin hoped to catch BG alone before they got down to business. It would be different inside, all executive protocol.

“Hey, BG, what’s happening, brother? How’s L.A.?” Marvin greeted Berry with a soul handshake and a warm embrace. “I’m glad to see you before we go in.”

He was received with a slight coolness.

“Marvin, you know I don’t have a lot of time for this. I have to get back to L.A. this afternoon. When are you going to move out there?”

“Detroit is my home, my people. California, you can have it. What are we supposed to do, follow you out there like puppy dogs?”

“OK, OK. I hear you. What about this record? I gotta tell you, man, because we’re friends, I don’t like it, but we’ll let Quality Control make that decision.”

It hurt Marvin that BG didn’t like his new music. “Music ain’t cars, BG. You gotta let go of that Quality Control ‘product’ mentality.” Marvin pointed with both index fingers to his temples. “These songs, they came from God, not from some assembly line. They’re works of beauty, not Buicks.”

Berry shook his head. “Marvin, Marvin. Why are you always giving me such a hard time? Does Michael give me a hard time? No he doesn’t. And that boy is churning out the hits.”

“Michael? Michael Jackson? He’s a boy, BG, a kid. I’m a 32-year old grownup man. I don’t need any Quality Control telling me what’s good or what’s bad. Michael Jackson – he’s 10 years old.”

“He’s 12, actually, but he’s no kid. That boy is like an old man. He knows what he wants, and he’s straight as an arrow. Just wants to sing and dance. Nothing fancy, nothing weird. Not high all day, smoking jays and thinking he’s some kind of messenger from the Lord.”

“You don’t dig Divine guidance? Fine, I’m focused on sincerity, baby, love. I’m looking for a message of positivity for my audience. So, what about the record? You gonna let it out?”

“Marvin, you know it’s up to a vote, not up to me. If it was up to me, no. You have a nice image going. You make hit songs, you’re a sex symbol, and you should stick to that.”

“Did you listen to it, I mean, really dig it?” Marvin’s tone was subtly changing from feistiness to supplication.

“Yeah, I did, it grooves, for sure, but what are you so angry about. All this protesting about the ecology, Vietnam, the ghetto. What’s that one called?”

“Inner City Blues.”

“Yeah, who’s going buy a record about that, man? No one, that’s who.”

“Anna, this morning, before I left, she was like, ‘Baby-that’s it!’ Loved it”

“Don’t you throw my sister at me, Marvin. Ever since you married her she’s been hands off on these decisions. And with you stoned all day, and fucking around all the time, don’t play ‘My wife loves my record’ with me. Come on, let’s go in. They’re waiting.”

Even though he had been spending his time in California, Quality Control was Berry Gordy’s to run. There were only three rules, all set up by the big man himself – no producer could vote for his own record, anyone over five minutes late was locked out, and Berry alone could overrule a majority vote. It was an honest meeting, everyone expected to speak their minds.

Berry led off the discussion. “Alright people. Let’s talk about What’s Going On. Marvin, you’ve always been a challenge, wouldn’t go to our charm school, fought the producers, yelled at the sales department, but this, this I just don’t get.”

Marvin quietly answered. “It’s a protest album, a Spiritual album. This world has lost its way.”

“What are you protesting about?”

“I’m not happy with the world, BG. I’m angry and, through the power of the Lord, these songs were created.”

Berry shook his head. This was a business meeting, not a prayer meeting. It was time for others to chime in and comments began.

Voices sprung from around the table.

One said - “This mix is too confusing. I don’t understand the vocals. It’s just Marvin on top of Marvin on top of Marvin. The songs are too long and they have no form at all. It’s just not done.”

Another said – “This is a ghetto thing, too narrow for a big audience. You think white people are going to buy this?”

Another – “It’s crazy, trash, worst record I’ve ever heard. They won’t play this on the radio and you know it.”

Yet another – “Marvin, who the hell do you think you are? What, you’re your own producer now, your own Quality Control? That’s NOT how we do things at Motown. You should know better.”

One more – “It’s too political. Stick to what works, brother.”

Berry had heard enough. It was clear where this was heading. “Is everyone ready to vote?”

Marvin sat, subdued, eyes closed and hands together, his fingers touching at the points. Was he praying? His cockiness was gone for the moment, the fight taken out of him by the onslaught of negativity.

“How many think it’s a hit?” The key question was asked, and hung heavily over the room.

No hands were raised.

“How many think it’s not a hit?”

All hands went up. That was that.

“Sorry Marvin, looks like we won’t be releasing this one.”

Marvin stood up, and looked straight at Berry, his back turned to all the corporate decision makers.

“Same old bullshit. I have three years left on my contract, BG. You know where to find me. And I’ll tell you something else. I won’t make any music for you anymore.”

Berry Gordy, founder and head of Motown, as well as Marvin Gaye’s brother-in-law, wouldn’t release the single “What’s Going On” for six months, insisting Marvin stick with his sexy, crooner image. Marvin wouldn’t record until Gordy finally relented in January 1971. The record went to #1 on the R & B charts and #2 on the Pop charts. Despite being wrong on the song, Berry Gordy was still hesitant to release the LP. Marvin threatened to stop recording if his music wasn’t released. Gordy gave in on the full album as well and when it hit in May 1971, What’s Going On caused a sensation, spawning three Top Ten singles and becoming the biggest selling album in Motown’s history up to that time.

No Retreat, Baby, No Surrender

2010-01-22T03:06:00.000-08:00

"I can’t do it, Jon.” Bruce was clearly agitated as he burst into his manager’s office.

“Can’t do what Bruce?” Jon Landau raised his head from his cluttered desk. He had been looking at promotional material for the new album – ad copy, mockups of covers. He liked the look, the giant American flag as a backdrop. He just couldn’t decide whether he preferred Springsteen’s back to the audience or the action shot with Bruce’s right arm suspended in the air, about to drop a Pete Townshend-like windmill on his guitar.

Nervously, Bruce rubbed his hands on his faded black jeans. He would have used his sleeves, but management had liked him in sleeveless shirts. After they encouraged him to work out, they wanted him to show off his newly toned body.

“It’s not right to release the record.”

“Bruce, we talked about this. Putting these songs out with synthesizers in a modern setting will help to grow your audience and get the word out. You agreed to that.”

“I know I did, but I was talking to Bob Dylan and…“

"Oh shit. Why were you talking to Dylan?”

“Yeah, well, you know, Bob means a lot to me. I wanted his advice.”

"What the fuck? I mean, Dylan was great in his day, but what can he tell you now? I hate when you talk to him, you get like a little kid.” Landau took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“He knows, man. He made me feel irresponsible if I let out an album I was unhappy about. He’s right you know.”

“Don’t you want better sales? Don’t you want to be huge?”

“I know this - I don’t want to sell myself short, that’s the worst thing I can do. This record’s not what I thought it would be. Bob said, "Jesus said ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven.’ He’s right.”

“Who, Bob or Jesus?” Landau said mockingly.

“Both actually. I don’t need bigger sales. Didn’t Nebraska sell well? Plus, it was the simple truth, tunes about real life, real people. I’m not Boy George, you know. I don’t need to be a hit factory.”

“Boy George? Who said you’re Boy George? I never said you were like Culture Club.”

Bruce laughed, remembering. “Bob said something about ‘Church of the Poisoned Mind.’ I didn’t even think he knew the new stuff, but he’s amazing, he knows everything. Bob said-"

“Bob said, Bob said. I don’t give a shit what Bob said. Listen to what I’m saying. Have I ever steered you wrong. Didn’t “Hungry Heart” go Top Ten after I sped up your vocals?”

“It did but I sounded like Mickey Mouse. I hate that record and the fact that people paid money for it made me feel worse.” Bruce scratched his head, pulling off his purplish bandanna. “And I hate wearing these fuckin’ headbands!”

“OK, what’s really the matter here?” Landau suspected there was more to it than just Bob fucking Dylan telling Bruce some born again crap to make him change his mind.

“I’ll tell you. I’m really worried that these songs will be misunderstood if the words are surrounded by pop music. At first I was on board, but now I’m not so sure. You think ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ is going to work? A song about this guy, fought in ‘Nam, his brother died, he has no hope, no more faith in the American Dream, nothing. With that chorus, man, you’re gonna get the kind of people who voted for those bastard Republicans and Ronald Reagan and they’re gonna make it some patriotic anthem. I don’t want that.”

Landau raked his hands over his balding head. What the fuck? It was all planned out, this record was going to explode, a balls out rock album after that Nebraska mess. Hell, that album made you want to kill yourself! It totally sucked the air out of the momentum that we got from The River. But it’s Bruce’s call, right, that’s how it’s always been. What can you do?

“Are you sure this is what you want to do Bruce?” Landau asked one last time, hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s got to be that way. Man, I’d go crazy if it came out as a rocker. It’s got to be simple, stripped down. That’s how I want it.”

“OK, OK. You’re the Boss, right?”

“Sure, Jon, I’m the Boss. You’ll take care of it?”

“I got it, I got it,” Jon answered with a wave.

Bruce left the office. Landau looked down at the covers. Oh well, I guess we’ll go back to depressing black and white.

Jon picked up the phone to call the record company. They weren’t going to like this one bit. With the dial tone in his air, Landau swept aside all the red, white and blue pictures and put his head down on his desk, waiting for the screaming to start.

Sprung from songs created during the 1982 recording of the spare Nebraska, Born in the U.S.A., was released on June 4, 1984. Though Springsteen and Landau agreed on a contemporary sound, Springsteen was concerned that the messages in the songs would be misunderstood in a modern musical setting. He was right. After attending a September 14 Springsteen show, conservative columnist George Will wrote a column citing Bruce’s “elemental American values.” Soon, Reagan himself was adhering to what he called, Springsteen’s “message of hope and making dreams come true.” Ten years earlier, with Blood on the Tracks on the verge of release, and original pressings already housed in their covers, Bob Dylan pulled the disc and re-recorded it to his satisfaction. Born in the U.S.A. sold over 20 million copies.

The Hand of Fate

2010-01-08T03:06:00.000-08:00

The phone rang at Bermondsey, The Rolling Stones’ rehearsal studio in South London. Ian Stewart of the Stones loved The Small Faces, couldn’t get enough of them really, and set them up here. Actually, they were the ex-Small Faces. After a number one album in the UK, lead singer Steve Marriott had bolted and the remaining members, Kenny Jones, Ronnie Lane, and Ian McLagan had reached out to their pal Ronnie Wood for help. Trying to find their way they’d made camp here, drinking the nights away while jamming with their new guitarist, who had just stepped out for a smoke. They sounded rough and wonderful, sort of a poor man’s Stones, if you will. They just needed a singer. Woody’s pal Rod Stewart was at Bermondsey as well, on the upper floor, lying on the floor in a listening room, refusing to come down. Strange bird that Rod.

Brrrinnnggg! Brrrinnnggg! Brrrinnnggg!

“Anyone going to get that?” Jones wondered aloud.

“Alright, I will,” huffed Lane. He laid down his bass, almost toppling the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels by his chair. He bent over and steadied the wavering bottle, wobbling as much as Lane himself. Neither fell down. That settled, Ronnie went to pick up the receiver.

“‘Ello, who is it?”

“Is Ronnie there?”

“This is Ronnie, who’s this?” he answered, slightly slurring.

“Ronnie, it’s Mick. Listen, we were just thinking whether you would you want to join our happy family?”

“Mick, who?” thinking it was Jagger, but willing to take the piss out of that nonce.

“Jagger, Mick Jagger.” A bit miffed now, not used to be addressed with such obvious derision. Maybe Keith was wrong about this bloke.

“Hmm, tempting mate, tempting. Well we are working here, trying our hand at a few numbers, but, the Stones, well, there’s nothin’ bigger than that, is there?

Jagger laughed. “I suppose not, I suppose not. So, you’ll mull it over?”

“I think I would fancy that, sure. Better birds, better drugs, right?”

“True for sure. Well, let’s get together with Keith and discuss this further.”

"Fine, fine. So, tell me then, why is Bill leaving the band?”

“Bill?” Jagger asked, now confused. “Bill Wyman?”

“Of course Bill Wyman, you prat. If I’m coming on as the new bass player it’s obvious that the old bass player would be gone, am I right?”

A long silence. “Is this Ronnie Wood?”

“Nah, you twit, it’s Ronnie Lane. You want Woody?”

“Umm yes, actually, I was wondering if Woody would want to join the Stones to replace Brian. We’re going to give him the sack. Is Woody there?”

“No, no, Ronnie is not here. Ronnie would not like to join The Rolling Stones. He is quite happy where he is, thank you very much.”

"Can you tell him I called?” asked Mick, suddenly quite unsure of himself.

“Oh, of course darling, of course. I’d be happy to mention that you rang.”

“Thanks Ronnie Lane. Frightfully sorry about the misunderstanding.”

Lane put down the receiver and rejoined his mates, still playing around with Dylan’s “The Wicked Messenger.”

“Who was it?” wondered McLagan.

“Nobody, wrong number I think,” answered Lane.

Just then, Wood walked back in. “How’s everyone doing? Did I miss anything interesting?”

“Not really, Woody, not really,” said Lane. “Ready to play with us a bit more?”

Wood turned to the drums. “Hey Jonesy, why don’t you go upstairs and get Rod to come down and have a go at singing with us?”

Kenney headed up to retrieve Rod and when they returned, the band kicked into gear. They hacked away at old chestnuts, mostly, “Memphis,” “Twistin’ the Night Away,” that sort. Around 4 AM, Ian Stewart burst in.

“Ronnie, Ronnie Lane. What did you say to Mick?”

Lane gave Stu a “Who me?” look, utterly unfazed.

Woody, confused, looked towards Lane. “Can I ask Mick who?’

"You’re a right bastard, you are, Lainie. You didn’t tell him, heh?” Stu said disgustedly.

Turning to Wood, Ian told him straight out that the Stones were looking for a new guitar player, that Brian Jones was not much longer in the group and that Mick had called tonight to ask if Woody would be interested. “And that cunt,” he pointed at Lane, plucking his bass, grinning widely, “took the call, tonight, and said he would tell you.”

“Fuuuccck!” Wood unstrapped his guitar as quickly as he could and got up to leave. He laid down his axe, careful not to upend the half-empty bottle of Mateus wine by his chair.

“You better hurry mate. Mick’s pretty sore,” Stu warned.

Woody started to walk just a bit faster. Turning back to Lane he had one last thing to say.

"Hey Lainie, sod off you little shit. I quit.”

Brian Jones was fired by The Rolling Stones in June ’69. Looking for a replacement on guitar, Mick Jagger called Ronnie Wood, ex-Jeff Beck Group bassist, presently working as lead guitarist with the former Small Faces. Instead, Ronnie Lane, bassist for the group, picked up. Mick asked if Woody would consider joining The Stones. Lane told Jagger that Wood was “quite happy” where he was, at the beginning of what would become The Faces. Lane never did give Wood the message that Jagger called. Instead, The Stones hired Mick Taylor of John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers. Five years later, Taylor left and Ronnie Wood began touring with The Rolling Stones, officially joining them in February ’76.

Across the Great Divide

2009-12-22T05:44:00.000-08:00

When I pulled up yesterday, like “Mr. Big Rock Star” in a long black limo, I couldn’t believe what I saw. There, on the field between the house and woods, were five guys, some in black jackets, or vests, most with one kind of hat or another, all with cowboy boots. They looked liked Jesse James and his gang, a band of outlaws, bearded and mustachioed. Was I having an acid flashback? No, it was real. The one with the bushy beard kicked an American football high and far to another wearing a cowboy hat with a flat topped crown.

Ever since I had been slipped the tape of The Band’s songs, I’d been hooked. It was a drug to me; I couldn’t stop listening to it. These songs pointed out to me everything that was wrong with Cream. Jack and Ginger would go off and do their own thing, and I would hole up listening to the tape over and over again. Every track was beautiful and grown up, not like the useless and pointless music I was playing. I adored the economy of their playing. It ran rings around our virtuosity. We were ridiculous in comparison. Levon Helm’s drumming did more in four minutes than Ginger Baker could do in a ten minute solo. I realized then that their music was what I wanted to play. They had it all – country, blues, rock – great songs.

I met Robbie Robertson out in L.A. and told him how much I dug what his group was doing and he invited me out to meet the guys in Woodstock. I finally managed to get out East. After meeting them all, we went inside the house. I had heard what Dylan had been laying down and now saw where Bob did his recording. It was a garage, not a basement – that’s what people had called the new songs, “The Basement Tapes” – with cinder block walls and a concrete floor, not nearly covered by a big rug. There was a steel furnace in the corner, piano, drums and recording equipment scattered around.

Robbie asked, “Hey Eric, want to play?” The whole group turned to face me, waiting for my answer.

“No, no, I just came to watch.” I wasn’t ready to play with them, not where my head was at. I didn’t think I could play with them, though I really wanted to. In fact, I had come hoping they would ask me to be in the group. Or I would ask them, if I had the guts.

The five of them sat in a circle, playing at a low, relaxed volume, like a conversation. I loved how they looked at each other. I thought about Cream. What a con we were! Here were these guys, totally into each other as a band. When we played we were three separate planets, each in our own orbit, far from each other and staring out to the audience. We hardly ever looked at each other. Jack and Ginger loved each other, I guess, but they couldn’t stand each other’s face. I tried to keep the peace, but that gets on your wick after a while. At least it did mine.

The Band was playing a song about the civil war. Beautiful, man, just beautiful. This is what I want to hear, this is what I want to play. Musically, these are my soul mates. No more maestro bullshit, no more “Clapton is God.” Please! Rolling Stone was right when they said my playing was boring and full of clichés, pointless jamming with no musical value. That review knocked me on my heels, man, but it was true, the Emperor had no clothes, you know?

It was so nice just sitting and listening to these mountain men, playing mountain music. They didn’t jam, they worked, liked serious musicians, perfecting their craft with joy and integrity. Cream’s psychedelic insanity was already passé and stale. The Band’s music was real.

"Dog eat dog, cat eat mouse.” That’s a great line Levon just sang. Like Cream itself. We’ll eat ourselves if it doesn’t end. These songs feel as old as the hills, timeless. They finished playing and Robbie motioned to head upstairs, so we did.

It was a great night. So comfortable, laying back in the overstuffed couch, feet up on the coffee table. No drugs, much booze. Everyone had a bottle for themselves. Richard Manuel and I plowed through gallons of Johnny Walker Red, or so it seemed. Levon talked about Sonny Boy Williamson. Turns out they were from the same place in Arkansas, West Helena.

"The Yardbirds played with Sonny Boy when he came to England,” I said, a bit of pride in my voice.

“He told me about that once,” said Robbie. “We were playing and he said, ‘I just played with some white motherfuckers over in England,’ you know how he talked. ‘Yeah, these white boys like to play blues real bad, and that’s how they play it, real bad.’”

Everyone laughed. I did too, but I was hurt. I wanted to be accepted by these guys, wanted to be seen as a serious musician who could add something to what they were doing.

That was yesterday. I heard the birds chirping as I looked out the window this morning, the trees already losing their leaves. There’s a workman outside already, covered in plaster from head to foot. No, wait, it’s Rick Danko.

It’s paradise here. It must be nice not dealing with band mates who are looneys. This is where I want to be, this is what I want to play.

A knock on the door.

“Yeah, come in.”

Robbie walked in. “Hey Eric, could you come downstairs? Me and the guys wanted to ask you about something important.”

Eric Clapton was introduced to the music of The Band when L.A. entrepreneur Alan Pariser gave him tapes of what would become Music from Big Pink, the group’s first album, released in July 1968. It had a profound effect on Clapton and he realized that the music of The Band was what he wanted, the proper place for a serious musician such as himself. He told his Cream band mates, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker, that he couldn’t go on anymore with what they were doing. Clapton visited The Band in the fall of 1968 in the hopes of joining them, but he didn’t have the nerve to ask. Cream would break up in November. The following year, Blind Faith would become the first supergroup, Eric hooking up with Steve Winwood, who was available after his own band, Traffic, dissolved in January 1969.

Starting Over

2009-12-11T03:07:00.000-08:00

Up on the tenth floor of The Record Plant, John, Yoko and producer Jack Douglas were putting a few finishing touches on “Walking on Thin Ice,” a new Yoko single, They’d been in the studio for over five hours, since 4:30, and the trio was getting tired.

Earlier, David Geffen had stopped by the studio to bring everyone the good news. Waving them into the control room, Geffen said with glee, “Well, congratulations, two weeks out and your album is gold and quickly headed to platinum.” John was relieved. He’d been nervous that, after a five year layoff, no one would buy a new album of his and Yoko’s. Now, Double Fantasy was a certified hit. Geffen was relieved as well. As President of the new Geffen Records, he wasn’t sure John Lennon would sell in 1980. Let alone an album that was half John, half Yoko. It’s not like Yoko records had ever sold, or ever been released without an accompanying torrent of scorn.

Geffen also gave a listen to the day’s work. Impressed, he offered to take out ads promoting it. John was elated. “Fantastic, Mother,” he said to Yoko, “you’re getting ads!” John jumped up and down, clapping his hands like a spastic child. “I’m telling you, the ‘80’s are gonna be great.” Then, dropping his voice into a deep serious tone, “Brothers and sisters, everything will be fine if we all pull together.” John glanced again at the Soho News on the chair next to him. Inside was an article, “Yoko Only,” that praised Ono the artist. “Even the critics love you now, Mother.”

At 10:00, as the session was winding down, John talked giddily about writing a new song for Ringo, and getting some of the extra tracks from August out as a second John and Yoko record. As “Walking on Thin Ice” played over and over again in the background, John and Yoko got up to leave.

“I’m famished. Perhaps a stopover at the Stage Deli before we get home. Are you ready Jack?” asked John. Douglas, who lived two blocks from the Lennons’ Dakota apartments, always got a ride back with them at the end of a hard day’s work.

“Can’t do it John,” Douglas said slowly, running his hand through his hair and shaking the cobwebs out of his head. “I have another session to do.”

“Really?” John turned to Ono, her coat already on to ward off the December weather. “Yoko, love, mind if I stay with Jack for a few hours more?”

“That’s fine John. I’ll see you later.” She leaned over to permit John a peck on her cheek and left.

“So, let’s get down to work, Jack,” proclaimed John arms outstretched, hands intertwined, knuckles cracking. “First things first. What should we get to eat?”

***********************************************************************************

At 10:00, as the session was winding down. John talked giddily about writing a new song for Ringo, and getting some of the extra tracks from August out as a second John and Yoko record. As “Walking on Thin Ice” played over and over again in the background, John and Yoko got up to leave.

“I’m famished. Perhaps a stop over at the Stage Deli before we get home. Are you ready Jack?” asked John. Douglas, who lived two blocks from the Lennons’ Dakota apartments, always got a ride back with them at the end of a hard day’s work.

“Can’t do it John,” Douglas said slowly, running his hand through his hair and shaking the cobwebs out of his head. “I have another session to do.”

“Too bad. Walk us to the elevators, then.”

As they strolled, John talked about mastering Yoko’s song the next day, December 9. The doors slid open and, before entering, John said “See you tomorrow morning, bright and early.” With a cheerful smile, and a silly wave, they were gone.

In the limo home, John changed his mind about stopping for dinner and, suddenly completely exhausted, wanted to get home to bed. The car pulled up in front of the 72nd Street entrance to their building. Yoko got out first. As usual, there was a small coterie of fans hoping for a glimpse of Beatle John. A short, dumpy man, behind rose tinted glasses, said hello to Yoko. John got out and, upon hearing someone speak to his wife, turned to face the greeter.

“Oh, hello, again. Still here?” John had signed a copy of Double Fantasy for this same person earlier in the day. Mark Chapman mumbled a muffled “hi” in return. He couldn’t believe that John Lennon, John Lennon! had not forgotten him. John and Yoko entered the building.

John hailed the night man as they walked past the office. “Bon soir, Jay. How are you tonight?”

The hefty bearded Jay smiled as the couple made their way to the elevators.It was the best part of being the night desk man, exchanging pleasantries with John Lennon.

Outside, Mark Chapman turned and headed back to his lonely room at the Sheraton Centre, a twenty block walk.

*********************************************************************************

In the limo home, John changed his mind about stopping at the Stage Deli and, suddenly completely exhausted, wanted to get home to bed. The couple talked about Jack Douglas, how they’d met him, way back in 1971 when he was the remix engineer for Imagine and how Jack had always understood Yoko’s work. John went on about the morning photo shoot with Annie Leibovitz and how happy he’d been with the Polaroids she’d shown him. It was a very good day.

The car pulled up in front of the 72nd Street entrance to the Dakota. Yoko got out first. As usual, there was a small coterie of fans hoping for a glimpse of Beatle John. A short, dumpy man, behind rose tinted glasses, said hello to Yoko. John got out and, hearing someone speak to his wife, turned to face the greeter.

“Oh, hello, again. Still here?” John had signed a copy of Double Fantasy for this same person earlier in the day. Mark Chapman mumbled a muffled “hi” in return. He couldn’t believe that John Lennon, John Lennon! had not forgotten him.

As John and Yoko headed toward the building, Chapman snapped out of his trance, remembering why he’d come to New York, his mission. Stepping towards the arched carriageway, Chapman pulled a snub nose .38 from his pocket and, with no warning, shakily opened fire on the couple. Yoko was hit on the shoulder and knocked to the ground.

“What the fuck?” screamed John as he grabbed his right arm, ablaze with pain. He’d been shot as well.

Two blasts were fired before Chapman was wrestled to the pavement by Jose the doorman. John, blood washing over the sleeve of his leather jacket kneeled over Yoko, who was crying in agony, “No No No!” Her shrieks blended with the wailing sirens of the police cars descending on the scene.

“Hang on love, you’ll be fine,” John whispered as he held Yoko, both of the trembling.

*******************************************************************************

As John and Yoko headed toward the building, Chapman snapped out of his trance, remembering why he’d come to New York, his mission. Stepping towards the arched carriageway, Chapman pulled a snub nose .38 from his pocket and assumed a combat position. Knees bent, one hand holding the gun, the other supporting his wrist, Chapman called out calmly.

“Mr. Lennon?”

On December 8, 1980, John Lennon was killed by Mark David Chapman.

We've Been Good, But We Can't Last

2009-11-25T04:35:00.000-08:00

“God damn it, stop the tape! What the fuck are you guys doing?” Hot anger poured out, his voice getting squeakier and squeakier. “Get your shit together, right now!”

The other band members looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and put their hands in the air. Here we go again, another tantrum. What else is new?

“I can’t take it anymore, really. You guys want to cut this record the right way, MY WAY? If not, we can stop right now, because this is bullshit!”

“Alvin,” Dave spoke quietly, soothingly, from the engineer’s booth.

“No, Dave, no. I’m the star here; I’m the one that carries all the weight.”

“Alvin.” A hint of testiness emerged in Dave’s voice.

“Fuck it, man, just fuck it.”

“AAAALLLLLVVVVIIIINNN!!!!!!”

“You know what Dave, this time it’s not okay!” Alvin threw his headphones on the ground.

Dave left his seat behind the mixing board and came down to talk, face to face. He and the boys had been put through the wringer lately by Alvin’s unseemly behavior. Simon and Theodore were aware that their brother was into some hard stuff. Sometimes, when they sat down together to eat, a pill would fall out of the shell instead of a nut. Alvin would glare at them, daring them to start something, but they wouldn’t. Simon was too smart to provoke a fight, Theodore too sweet. But now they both had the sense that it was all going to blow up right here, right now. Simon removed his round frames and rubbed his eyes.

“Dave, if I may interject for a moment,” Simon offered professorially, prepared to help clear the air.

“Come off it Simon, you four-eyed fuck. I don’t want to hear any more of your ideas or your clever plans.” Alvin was unreachable, his enormous front teeth menacing. The Chipmunks had been together for over a decade. Though uncredited on David Seville’s number one single “Witch Doctor,” it was their background singing that caught the public’s ear and, a few months later in the fall of 1958, they broke through with “The Chipmunk Song.” Hit followed hit and, unlike most of their peers, they survived the British Invasion of 1964. Hell, they were so big they could cover The Beatles’ hits and still sell a pile of records.

Simon was undeterred. “If you look back, you can plainly see that Alvin changed dramatically during the recording of Chipmunks a Go-Go in 1965.”

“Hmm, Simon, I believe you’re right,” Dave agreed, as Theodore enthusiastically nodded his head. It was true. Four years before, when the band was recording “Mr. Tambourine Man,” Alvin began acting strangely. It was the mushrooms. It wasn’t odd that a chipmunk would eat a mushroom, it’s part of their diet, but Alvin was dipping into fungi of a distinctly hallucinogenic variety. No big deal, Alvin thought, everyone was doing it that summer. Not Simon and Theodore; they were too straight, real squares. It was then that the three began to drift apart.

They managed to hold it together for their next album, The Chipmunks See Doctor Doolittle, but the band was coming apart at the seams. In an attempt to regain their sense of unity, the three went on a spiritual retreat to Indiana, where they sought to find their inner rodent through meditation. It was pointless and they found themselves going around and around in circles, spinning their wheels. They learned nothing.

Arriving back in L.A. late in 1968, Alvin separated further when he began to spend all his time with a new girlfriend, Cathy Bara. She was trouble, always telling Alvin how he was the only talent in The Chipmunks and that he didn’t need the other two, or, for that matter, David Seville. Worse, she was into serious shit and introduced Alvin to poppies. It became more and more difficult to get Alvin to concentrate, his upper lip often dotted with residue. It proved to be a habit that would trail him for years to come.

After Alvin promised Dave he would be a good chipmunk, the band decided to try it one more time in 1969, and, it was during the recording of The Chipmunks Go to the Movies, that everything unraveled.

“I don’t have to take this shit from you two. You’re nothing but dead weight.” Alvin hastily grabbed his long red sweater with the large capital “A” on the front, and his red cap, and began to leave.

“See you in the funny papers,” he snickered as he pushed open the door.

Devastated, Dave looked at the other two. “What do you think we should do next?”

Simon spoke first. “This is an utter disaster, Dave, an utter disaster. First, Alvin gets into drugs, and now he has this horrible Cathy telling him what to do. It’s terrible.”

Theodore looked towards the ceiling, and then spoke. “I think she’s nice.”

“Theodore, just because she brings you food doesn’t make her nice. Plus, she’s not even a chipmunk. She’s a Mongolian gerbil,” Simon argued.

Theodore thought about that for a minute. “Well, I think bringing me food does make her nice.”

“Speaking of food,” Dave pressed forward, ignoring Theodore, “Alvin is the front man for the group and, without him, I’m not sure we can still be successful. Do you guys still want to perform? Simon, would you want to do the singing?”

“Oh no, Dave, no.”

“Theodore?”

Looking nervously from left to right, then right to left, Theodore quickly said, “Me neither, Dave, me neither.”

Dave sighed. “Well then boys, I think we’re through. What will you do?”

Simon was cool as ever. “Dave, don’t worry about me. I have lots of other things I can do in the music business. In fact, I recently invented a tiny silver disc that contains music that is read by a laser beam.”

“That’s great Simon, just great.” Dave was proud of this boy, a genius who gladly went along for the ride to help his brothers achieve their dream. He wondered if Simon had been held back from doing great things. “And you Theodore?”

But Theodore was already gone, chasing after Alvin in the hope that there would be food.

The Chipmunks broke up in 1969 after the recording of The Chipmunks Go to the Movies. David Seville died in 1972. For most of the 1970’s, Alvin would battle his addiction to psychedelic drugs and go in and out of rehab. Finally clean by decade’s end, Alvin emerged on TV with The Alvin Show, a midseason replacement on NBC. The show was a return to form and garnered Alvin his best reviews in years. Talk of a reunion ensued and, in 1980, Alvin, Simon and Theodore recorded Chipmunk Punk. Hailed by critics, it was a huge success and The Chipmunks were back on top. They’ve been together ever since, on record, on Simon’s patented invention, the compact disc, and on television and movies.

Maybe Baby Needs Your Vote!

2009-11-16T11:28:00.000-08:00

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Let’s Go Away For Awhile

2009-11-13T03:10:00.000-08:00

As he sat on the bed, head down, thinking about the day, Brian Wilson sobbed, a torrent of tears streaming down his doughy face. In the solitude of his Houston hotel room, Brian couldn’t bear the thought of performing on stage in a few hours. Not in the state he was in.

He told Marilyn before they got in the car that he had a bad feeling about the day, dark visions clouding his mind. Maybe some of the bad vibrations were caused by his usual dread of standing before a crowd of screaming kids. Maybe some of his anxiety was a result of the constant fighting with his new wife. Either way, Brian wanted to quit, again. He knew he didn’t relate well to people and would shell up, but today he burst from his defensive armor and exploded. What a scene!

With only two days to go until Christmas, he should have been happy, but the pressures of writing, recording and touring were sucking all the joy out of his life. Even his new marriage wasn’t providing any peace. He and Marilyn were constantly at odds. They were so young; they shouldn’t have married at all. Brian hated being on the road in general, but especially now. He and Marilyn wouldn’t have the time to work things out if they were apart.

When they arrived at Los Angeles International Airport for the flight to Texas, Brian was thankful that Marilyn didn’t drop him off, but parked and went inside with him. It was the usual holiday chaos: insanely huge lines nearly impossible to get through, screaming kids, angry adults, surly workers. Brian’s head was swimming. The mob was turning into beasts and demons before his eyes, flashing pointed teeth and snarling as he passed by nervously.

Fidgety and agitated, the sight of the Beach Boys near the gate gave him some comfort. They greeted him warmly. Wait, what was that? Was Marilyn staring at Mike? Was Mike staring back? Brian was getting juiced up by the black thoughts seeping into his skull. Were Marilyn and Mike in love? Brian was crushed, but, hanging on to his ego, he went off.

“What’s going on here with you two? You two want to fuck?”

Marilyn and Mike were stunned. Marilyn tried to calm him down; “Don’t be silly,” she said sweetly, but Brian was not in a position to be stilled. It sure wasn’t how Brian wanted to leave Marilyn, but that’s how it went. Thinking about it now from so far away sunk him deeper in his depression. Then came the plane ride. Oh man, it was awful!

Five minutes out of LA, Brian stared vacantly at the back of the seat in front of him. He counted the stitches in the seams, some of them coming apart. The hum of the plane’s engines sounded to his one good ear like a cacophony of animal screams. His hair felt as if it were pulling away by the roots. Suddenly, Brian pounded his white knuckled fists on the headrest facing him. His face was contorted, beet red.

“I want to get off this airplane,” he shrieked. “Right now.”

“Cool it Brian,” begged Al, the smallest member of the band, frightened by the imposing figure of Brian Wilson totally out of control.

With terror in his stark, wide eyes, Brian turned and looked at Al. “I’m going to crack up any minute!”

Al passed a pillow to Brian, who pressed his face into the soft whiteness and began to cry and howl.

A stewardess hearing Brian, rushed over. “We just took off sir. You need to calm down.”

Brian bolted out of his seat, knocking the slim blonde aside with a forearm. Now tearing down the aisle, screaming “She doesn’t love me,” over and over, he passed his brothers. Carl and Dennis had heard his outburst but were not prepared to see Brian run past. They both jumped up and chased him down, wrestling him to the cabin floor.

“My God! What’s wrong, Brian? Please tell me what’s wrong!” Carl implored.

“I can’t take it. I can’t take it. Don’t you understand? I can’t go on.”

His brothers restrained him long enough that he eventually quieted down. Brian sat back next to Al, still shaking. He wouldn’t eat, a further sign that something was seriously wrong. He never passed up a meal.

As soon as the plane touched down in Houston, Brian wanted to go right back to Los Angeles. Instead, he was taken to a nearby hospital and given a tranquilizer. Though groggy, he still insisted that he needed to get back to Marilyn right away and patch things up, but the band wouldn’t let him. There was a show that night, and they needed him, so they brought him to his hotel room, gave him another sedative and placed him gently at the edge of the bed where he remained with all his worries and his fears.

It was impossible to regain his composure, and added to the constant crying was a painful knot in his stomach. Everything was coming apart, that much was clear. He couldn’t perform any more, the demands on him to write hit songs were becoming too great, his family depended on him too much. It was a dream of Brian’s to sing with his brothers and cousin, but now that it was happening, there was too much pressure. Carl was sweet and supportive, but Dennis was a hot head. And Mike? What kind of cousin was he, always out to hurt Brian? Thoughts returned to the airport, and the possibility of Mike and Marilyn together.

No more. What was the point? He was distressed at playing his music, disappointed with his family and distraught about his marriage. No more.

His movement slowed by the double dose of barbiturates, Brain staggered toward the bathroom. Sluggishly he removed his belt and buckled it around his neck, looping the other end around the shower curtain rod nearest the wall where it was fastened in the tightest. Once it was secure, Brian Wilson sat down hard, pulling out his legs from beneath him. The screws popped out a bit from the brackets but held.

The sound of someone pounding frantically on the double-bolted door gave way to the strains of a teenage symphony from God.
Two days before Christmas 1964, The Beach Boys flew to Houston for a concert. After “seeing” his wife Marilyn and cousin Mike Love exchange intimate glances, Brian flew into a rage. Soon after the airplane took off, Wilson suffered a breakdown. After arriving in Houston and performing that night, he returned to Los Angeles. Doctors informed Brian that continued touring would cause additional damage to his left ear (he was deaf in his right) and irreparable mental damage. Brian broke the news to The Beach Boys who, except for Carl Wilson, reacted angrily. Over the next 17 months, Brian Wilson suffered two more severe breakdowns. He would not tour for over a decade.