MY LIFE IN THE DAY - Sally Stevens

BYWATER STREET CHRONICLES - MICK TAYLOR HOOK-UP Part Two

Sometime mid-afternoon, I wend my way by taxi to the Royal Albert Hall to meet Kansas and return John's keys to him, as well as to briefly say hi to my buddies in the Mothers, who were scheduled for performance that night.  

I initially met the Mothers during my first visit to Los Angeles, November 1968 through the end of January 1969, and lived at Jim Sherwood's house in Laurel Canyon. 

I  spend that Christmas with Jim in Lancaster, meet his Dad, Cecil, and a few of the old compadres from his Antelope Valley High school days, who were also friends/players with and of Frank's and Don Van Vliet's (Captain Beefheart).  

After driving around the neighborhood in Jim's MG, I understand why one might want to be from Lancaster in those days.  Something spooky about the high desert.  Gravity roads.  Great lonely expanses of sky and empty land.  An odd Irish castle, transported by a millionaire to be plonked down in the middle of nowhere. Unexplained deaths and disappearances.

(Photo: The Mothers 1969: L-R Ian Underwood, Frank, Don Preston; back row L-R Bunk Gardner, Jim "Motorhead" Sherwood, Roy Estrada,  Jimmy Carl Black - "the Indian of the Group," and Art Tripp.)

I also make friends with Lowell George, who had been recruited into the band by Frank to replace Ray Collins for the Ruben & The Jets project - Lowell and Ray were both high-falsetto doo-wop singers.  I don't believe Ray claimed superior guitar skills as part of his resume.  Frank did.  Lowell did.

  As rock history has recorded, Lowell and Frank never hit it off as bandmates, and during a rehearsal at the Lindy Opera House on Wilshire, Frank told Lowell to stop messing about and go put his own band together, which of course Lowell did in the coming days.   And I'm sitting on the window sill in the rehearsal room watching the whole thing go down.  (Photo: a rare performance with Frank, Lowell, and Art Tripp on percussion.)

I'd already seen the upheaval of  the status quo at work in the big British bands in the 67-69 era in London. 

The whole Brian Jones/Rolling Stones thing was a scandal in the making, and it was all about to blow high wide and handsome as we slid into the late spring of 1969.  

The Beatles were also teetering on the edge of goodbye, and the Hollies the same, with Graham Nash going in one musical/artistic direction and Allan Clarke still wanting to stick to the tried and true formula. But I digress ...

After returning the keys to Kansas, I walk into the impressive auditorium at the Royal Albert Hall. The sound-check is not yet happening,  and  I couldn't see anyone from the band, not even manager Herbie Cohen.  The crew are at work on stage, but that's about it. (Photo: Kansas and Frank.)

However, smack in the middle of the house, I see three guys sitting.  When I get closer, I see that one of them is Mick Taylor, who I hadn't seen for about two years, since we gave up the flat on the Gloucester Road.  I walk up behind them and tap Mick on the back of the head.  He's delighted to see me, as I was him of course, and wants to know what I've been up to, and so on.  We get the brief updates out of the way, and then I casually announce that I have a message for him from Mick Jagger.  At this point, Taylor obviously thinks I'm teasing him.  "Oh yeah?  What did he want, then?"  "He wants you to join the Rolling Stones." 

Mick laughs uneasily, still thinks/hopes I'm joking.  "Right,"  he says.   "Honestly.  I was at Mayall's last night, flat-sitting, and Jagger called this morning.  I've left a message for John about it.  You'll probably hear from him when he gets back into town."  "Do you have his phone number?  Mick's?"  "No.  You'll have to wait for John to get home."  I probably told him to talk to Kansas to get hold of Mayall on the road, which would have been logical. At this point, I think he starts believing me.  He had done some session work with the Stones in the very recent past, so ...  "But, what about Brian?" 

Yes, Mick, damn good question.   And why Mick Taylor was at the Royal Albert Hall in June 1969, waiting for a Mothers' sound-check is another one, because we never got to that.     

In ironic answer to Mick's question about Brian, almost exactly one month later, right before midnight on July 2, 1969, Brian Jones was found drowned in the swimming pool at Cotchford Farm, his house in Hartfield (formerly the home of A.A. Milne, creator of Winnie the Pooh, and childhood home to Christopher Robin Milne), under circumstances that have never been satisfactorily explained, although a death-bed confession from a contractor working on the house at the time indicates that in fact Brian was murdered by this individual. 

Some of the associated drama leading up to this sad ending also swirled through the doors at Bywater Street, but more about that later ...

 

 

 

 

 

BYWATER STREET CHRONICLES - THE MICK TAYLOR HOOK-UP

Returning from my first visit to Los Angeles in November 1968, in March 1969 I was based at the Cordova House Hotel in Paddington.  I'd allowed "K" to sublet my flat and use my possessions, on the clear understanding (I thought) that I would be returning to London.  "K" was introduced to me by mutual friends in the business.  Apparently, she had accompanied Chas Chandler and another rock luminary on a trans-Atlantic voyage on the now-retired "Queen Elizabeth," which was on a regular route between New York and the UK.  

 My lawyer and trustee, John Fearon, and my good friend Angela Wayne, were keeping an eye out for me while I was gone, and Angela told me that" K" had nicked my stuff, hadn't paid the rent, which got me kicked out of the flat.   I was far from happy.

Anyway, I ran into "K" in the Chelsea Antique Market. Never one to pull a punch, I called her out, to the amusement of the shoppers, after which we arranged to chat.  Turned out my television had been given to some poet,  and she had no idea where the other stuff was, vaguely saying that other people may have taken things while visiting.  

End result - I wound up with a referral to rent-free digs at her former abode on  Bywater Street, in Chelsea.   She was moving out and headed for Hampstead.

The Bywater Street place was a five-storey townhouse, just off the Kings Road, handy to Sainsbury's, the Chelsea Potter, the Chelsea Drugstore. It was being rented by the affable "T,"- a well-connected scenester -  with rooms reserved by the likes of Shawn Phillips, Lou Gossett, Jr. , Donyale Luna (g.f. of Keith Richards),as well as being a civilized hang for the cognoscenti of Chelsea in 1969, including ex-pat, New York jazz pianist Freddie Redd, producer Jonathan Weston, Marianne Faithfull, Donovan, David Ormsby-Gore, etc.  I was told that the homeowner/landlord was a filmmaker associated with Fellini, and we lived with this person's furniture and effects.  (I have pot-pourri from the house, and it's still fragrant - 42 years later.)   

So, after this transition from Paddington to Chelsea, at the beginning of June, I got a phone call from one of my Mothers of Invention pals, "Kansas," one of their trusted road crew.  The Mothers were in London at the time;  Kansas had agreed to flat-sit for John Mayall  and needed some help.  A  well-paying out of town gig had turned up, and he needed someone to sit in for him for a night.  I was happy to oblige. 

John Mayall was someone I knew peripherally, and a musician I very much admired (and still do).  More than one of his sidemen and crew had scurried across my life by that time.  Besides a sax player named Rip Kant, who landed on our couch for a while, the most notable was Mick Taylor, the 17 year old guitar genius, who used to stop by my flat in the Gloucester Road in the company of the road crew, after gigs. Their job was to deliver Mick to his parents' home and he was in no more of a hurry than anyone else.  We'd all have coffee and chat, while everyone unwound, and then off they'd go into the night.  This was in 1966, when I first moved to London.

  Mick was already a brilliant player at that time, and after some uncertain starts in live performance, Mayall had the wisdom to have Mick stand between the Marshall stacks while playing solos, so he didn't have to deal with the audience. That did the trick and by 1969  Mick had a couple of years out on the circuit with Mayall,  and was gaining a great reputation.  

So, I stayed at Mayall's flat over the railway yard on the Friday night - between the zebra-striped sheets, surrounded by a distinct African theme, masks, carvings, etc.    I believe John was actually gigging in Africa at the time.  It was a neat atmosphere, have to say.

Kansas said to answer the phone, take messages, and tell people John would be back the following week.  He didn't think there'd be too many calls, most of John's associates knowing John was gigging out of town.   

This turned out to be true, until a call came in on Saturday morning.  I struggled out of the zebra sheets and put on my best answering service voice. "Hello?"  "Is John there?" "No, sorry, out of town at the moment.  Can I take a message?"  "This is Mick Jagger." (Oh right, who else?) "Hi Mick, John's on the road at the moment.  Anything you want me to tell him?"  "Yes, I'm looking for Mick Taylor.  We want him to join the Rolling Stones." 

Blimey.  Guess Brian's out on his ear, like we've all been hearing.  What a break for Mick Taylor.  Hope he's ready for prime time. 

 "All right, I'll leave a note."  "Fanks."  Click - dial tone. 

I wrote a note, something like call Mick Jagger, wants to find Mick Taylor.  And then I left the flat, and went back to Bywater Street. I was planning on going to the Royal Albert Hall for the Mother's sound check in the afternoon.  (To be continued). 

 

 

 

GIANT ORBS AND AN UNEXPLODED MINE - ADVENTURES IN WORTHING, 1956

When I was eight, my mother decided that it was time I went off to 'camp' for the Easter holidays. 

Usually, the family - my mother, her friend John Starnes, me, and my bff Jeannette - headed to Cornwall for the long summer holiday, basing ourselves in Port Isaac and spending our time in Northern Cornwall, surfing the local beaches, visiting the restaurants and pubs, searching out Cornish piskies in the gift shops, joining the Flora Dance in Helston and so on. 

 My mother's family is originally from the area - Tavistock - and though we now lived in Surrey, Cornwall and Devon was home.  Our roots there go back to 1660 and before. Every Easter, we'd  get down to Devon to visit my godparents,  my mother's bff,  bright and breezy artistic Jill,  and her husband, affable dentist Pete Griffin, and their two kids Martin and Holly. They lived in Yelverton right near Plymouth. From there, we'd drift down to Cornwall. (Photo: Flora Dance in Helston.)

Something must have gone amiss that year, because I was unceremoniously packed off  to this school-away-from-school, located in the stuffy south coast town of Worthing in Sussex - a place I had no emotional connection to and had never even visited. Of course, my opinion was not sought, I was simply dispatched.  [Photo is Worthing in 1956.] 

The place was a "holiday home" for children whose parents couldn't be with them over Easter ... for whatever reason.   I sulked and plotted rebellion for the first couple of days.   

To its advantage, the home was located on a high point of the cliffs, overlooking the English Channel.  We'd go for escorted walks on the beach, and do jigsaw puzzles in the dining room while the rain lashed the windows - that's all I remember.  The food was substandard, the company was mostly dull, the weather was chilly and uncertain . 

And then, we found the mine.

I had made sort of friends with one of my fellow prisoners, and we'd lag behind the jolly hand-holding brisk walk along the beach with the other inmates - "Fresh air, girls!!" - in hopes of something more interesting than a forced march along the tide line, ending in a jigsaw puzzle or two back at the home, and listening to the bloody boring radio, praying for deliverance.  I was very interested in tide-pools at the time, however, Worthing offered nothing of interest, but one could hope.

That day, the tide was going out, the beach sand was dense and wet, when we spotted this gigantic rusted chain sticking out of the sand near the waterline.  It had a handle on the end.  What was it?? 

Of course, at 8 years old, we assume it's probably attached to pirate treasure, or something magical ... so we haul away on the chain like terriers, but the sheer weight of the thing buried in the sand defeats us.  

At this point in the proceedings, the supervisor returns to the scene, having noticed we weren't among the merry throng under her care. When she saw us hauling on the chain, she had the presence of mind to hurry us away, and when I asked what that chain was, she said she would telephone the Worthing police when we got back.  And she did.

Next day, we got local press and radio on our discovery.  A unexploded moored contact mine from the war.  Detached and drifting for a few years,  then washed up on the beach, buried in the sand,with only its handle and connector chain revealed.   If teenage yobbos had found it, they'd have been strong enough to detonate the mine, by pulling on the rusty chain, and blown themselves to Kingdom Come.  Let alone the surrounding area.   

We saw a photo in the local paper of the mine with various officials standing around it, before it was detonated. We also heard the explosion, which was loud.  In newspaper reports, we were simply mentioned as two local girls - which we weren't - but no matter.  At least we were intact and unharmed, as was the local population. 

So, the dreary days dragged on to our time of deliverance, then news came that I was to stay on a couple of extra days after the official end of our sojourn.  Oh joy.  The place emptied out overnight, leaving just me and another girl hanging about the place, while it rained, and there was the usual Nothing Much To Do. 

For the last couple of nights we were both put in the same dormitory - about six beds in an upstairs room overlooking the English Channel.  I don't think she and I were particularly friendly, just enduring one another's company until it was time to leave. 

On the last night, at around 2 or 3 am, I awoke to "Psst!  Psst!" and saw this girl kneeling on the radiator under the window, staring at something outside.  "What's the matter?" I was half-asleep and not sure why she was doing what she was doing.  "Come and have a look at this!"  "What?" "There's something in the sky, it's odd."  And she turns back to the window once more. 

Something odd in the sky?  Could it be yet another undiscovered weapon from the war?  Out of bed  I spring, and clamber up onto the radiator, hold on to the window-sill, and look out.  She was right.  It was not only odd, it was awe-inspiring.  Covering the entire night sky above the horizon were two gigantic orbs - one on the left and one on the right.  As we watched, with our mouths hanging open, these two orbs moved towards each other, and passed one behind the other, with stately slowness.  They then moved on across the night sky in their separate directions, until we lost sight of them. 

We decided not to tell the grown-ups, and in fact I told nobody, thinking I'd be laughed at or accused of attention-seeking and lying.   The next day, we went home, and I never went to Worthing again.  But I didn't forget the majestic orbs in the night sky over the English Channel.

I have very recently researched the existence of giant orbs, and paranormal researchers bear out that very large orbs have been seen over fields of battle, possibly containing the spirits of those who died.  The English Channel was the location of many naval and air battles, and Worthing lies directly across from the beaches of Normandy, where countless thousands of American, British, Allies and Germans lost their lives.   Other than that, I really have no idea what we were looking at, just that it was spectacular and awe-inspiring.  The photo is from the website Paranormal Plus, pending their permission.   

Paranormal Plus discusses giant orbs. 

More here on the Helston Furry Dance - May 10 of every year.

 

 

THE HOUSE ON YORK ROAD - A TALE OF THE PARANORMAL

"It's supposed to be haunted," says David Morgan.  

"What?  That old abandoned house on York Road?" 

"Yes, that's what I've heard."David pushes his pint glass forward on the bar, then quaffs the refill thoughtfully. 

It's a Friday evening at the King's Head in Guildford, Surrey, 1965, and the Public is packed to the walls with patrons, most if not all of whom know each other well.  17-25 year old range, art students, aspiring musos, the artistically-inclined and local suburban kids muddled in the middle.  The joint is jumping,the jukebox is blaring the latest Stones' hit, "Let's Spend The Night Together," for the 100th time, making it a little difficult to hear normal conversation, but this is intriguing stuff to say the least.  Me, "Have you ever seen anything? Half-pint of cider, please mate,"  to the barkeep.

Back to ghosties and ghoulies, "So, what's it supposed to be - the ghost?" "I dunno," says David, "I never saw anything myself."  "You're probably putting it off with all that woffle about the meaning of Dylan's lyrics."[ Oh, I'm so witty!] "Right, that'd be it,"  says David sarcastically, the self-appointed president of the self-invented Dylan Appreciation Society who were wont to assemble in a back-room of the abandoned mansion after-hours, to listen to David play ( in the Donovan genre - we'd sometimes do an improv talking blues, which I liked) and then they'd discuss Dylan ad nauseam, while extending the evening with hash, etc. 

Up to twenty could cram into this poky little room at the end of a long narrow hallway, completely dark, except for whatever night-light could creep through the tiny casement window.  Probably a housekeeper's sitting room in the house's grander days. There was a little iron fireplace. You sat on the floor, and it was cozy as a room in a long-deserted house can be, as long as there were a lot of people. There were "traps" hanging from the ceiling of the long dark corridor, consisting of empty glass bottles and cans  tied together, then strung on electrical cable, suspended about 5 feet off the ground at regular intervals [with which the police and other unwanted intruders would presumably entangle and thereby announce their arrival].  The canny knew to duck or hug the walls.  Not many people went in there alone.  The house had been appropriated during the war, after which it had been the official headquarters for the Milk Marketing Board.  Now it was abandoned, all three floors of it. 

Dave's not taking my witty badinage very seriously, needless to say.  I lose interest in teasing him about it, and more or less forget the conversation in the ensuing weeks.

Next time I'm at the house on York Road, it's in the company of four friends, after hours.  Nothing much to do with intense discussions about Dylan.  Basically waiting for last trains,  daring the darkness,  in the way of teenagers,unwilling to let go of the night.

All of a sudden, above the merriment, we hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the corridor towards our little room. The police patrol has found us.  We're in a shitload of trouble.  We freeze in place.  Busted.

The door yawns wide.  We cower, awaiting the beam of the torch and whatever official commands might follow. 

The traps hanging from the corridor ceiling had not sounded. 

 Nothing but silent darkness waits in the doorway.

As one, we break in sheer panic and run right through the open doorway and whatever is standing there, up the broken, moss-slippery back stairs, to the safety of the lit streets. And I keep running all the way to the station and the last train home. 

FAREWELL, MRS. BURTON

  For people of a certain age, Elizabeth Taylor will always be an icon, in the company of James Dean, Marlon Brando, Audrey Hepburn, Natalie Wood, Paul Newman - she was 'us,' in the way that true stars are.  A woman of great wit, with a giving spirit and a kind heart, a great actress and great beauty, who lived her life with enthusiasm and independence, despite personal set-backs and ongoing health problems. 

Then, like stars do, she blinked out, and on March 24 she was laid to rest at Forest Lawn Cemetery, close to her dear friend and fellow child star, Michael Jackson.  She was buried within 24 hours of her death, as required by Jewish law (she converted during her marriages to Mike Todd and then Eddie Fisher) and coincidentally died on March 22, the same date that Mike Todd died in 1958.  In true Taylor style, she was fifteen minutes late for her own funeral, at her request.  

Colin Farrell, a friend of Ms. Taylor's, who is rumored to be portraying Richard Burton in an upcoming biopic, read Gerard Manley Hopkins' The Leaden Echo and The Golden Echo, and her grandson, Rhys Tivey, played a trumpet solo of Amazing Grace.   

The great love of her life, Sir Richard Burton, a Welshman, was raised in Port Talbot in South Wales by his sister, and was known as Richie Jenkins, but to my grandmother and other housewives in the area, he was simply Richie The Bread - a Welsh tradition of identifying folks by their occupations, stemming from a limited supply of surnames, Jenkins being very common in those days. 

Family history has it that Richie The Bread would make his delivery run to wind up at Gamma's house and she'd have him in for a cup of tea and a biscuit and a bit of a chat.  She was very happy when he became so successful. 

He didn't have a mother, who had died after having 14 children, at age 46, leaving Richie to be raised by his sister in Port Talbot, and he certainly didn't have a grandmotherly person of his own to chat with, so he had my grandmother, who was also from a family of 14 children herself, and mother of 4.

My Dad, her youngest, ten years Richie's senior, became a very successful opthalmic surgeon after his war service in the RAMC, which netted him a few medals, particularly the Military Cross and an OBE.   Like Richie, Dad also left the Welsh valleys and struck out for the bright lights of London, quite a daring thing to do in those days. 

In an odd coincidence, Richie The Bread worked for Hopkins Bakery in Port Talbot.  My Uncle Percy, Dad's older brother, was married to Lillian Hopkins of the bakery family, who died when she was 92.  Sir Anthony Hopkins is her nephew and my second cousin, who carries on the acting tradition.  I have no idea if he knows of this connection to Sir Richard The Bread. 

I was told that when Liz and Richie visited the family in Port Talbot, she was unpretentious and very much liked by the Jenkins clan. 

 And so, farewell and much love to a great lady, Elizabeth Burton-Taylor, from your friends in the land of Wales. One of ours - home at last. 

 

 Richard Burton reads The Leaden Echo (video)

"WHEN YOU'RE STRANGE" REVIEW FROM 2009: THE EMPTY SEAT

On June 24, 2009, the Doors' documentary, When You're Strange, was screened for the first time in Los Angeles, at the Los Angeles Film Festival in Westwood.  It had already shown at Sundance in January. Because of the inclusion of footage from Jim's 1969 experimental film, HWY, which featured Jim as a performer as well as writer/producer, etc., the director of When You're Strange, respected writer/director Tom DiCillo (Johnny Suede, Living In Oblivion, Delirious, Box of Moonlight, as well as many episodes of Law and Order) was unjustly accused of hiring an actor to portray Morrison, albeit it by a fringe group.  Not true of course, but rankling nonetheless. 

I count myself among the group who found Oliver Stone's "The Doors" as irritating as cheap underwear.  This was probably a function of having known most of the principals on varying levels, which Stone did not, but it didn't sit well with me, and the exaltation of Jim Morrison as a mostly insenstive boor was particularly irksome.  We know he had his problems, but he lived his life the way he wanted to, achieved so much more than most 27 year olds ever do, and left this earth in a way that continues to provoke discussion and speculation.  He would have liked that.  An endless mystery.

However, from my observation,  and as his father notes, Jim was a basically decent human being, a person you'd want to know.  I wish Oliver Stone had known him.  I did, albeit briefly.

I reviewed the documentary right after I saw it, and thought I might post it here for those who haven't seen it yet.  It's available on DVD, with additional features, including a rare interview with Jim's father, Rear-Admiral George S. Morrison, who died in 2008, and Jim's sister Anne Chewning, who now controls the Morrison Estate.  When I first talked to Jim, it was apparent that he and I had the same father.  Wonderful men, no clue about what we were doing though and. in those days, vice versa. 

The day after the screening, June 25, 2009, Michael Jackson died, also under clouded circumstances, still to be resolved.  You couldn't get into Westwood that day.  It was all cordoned off. Lucky for Jim and the movie that they beat that deadline.

So, the review - amended. 

"Just got back from the screening, so here's my first impressions.

Westwood was a zoo, but I found parking very quickly, right across the street from the Regent, and although the show was sold out, I got a good seat off to the right of the main block of seats,  just me and two women who likely had seen the Doors back in their early days. We got a bit of a late start, because of the huge amount of people.

Ray and Robby made a quick entrance through a side door, but were spotted by the crowd and got applause. Robby quickly waved and sat down, Ray played to the crowd a little more, of course. I'd say the crowd was largely film types, Doors fans from back when, a smattering of young men. I was the only one with an empty seat beside me.   

The producer of the LA Film Festival got up and read a short note from director Tom DiCillo, who was unable to attend, and then off we went.

Is it a great film? Yes, for 'casual' Doors fans and definitely for those wanting to know more about the band and the times. Ferrara's footage was very well utilized, and the editing was seamless.

It opens with a segment using  HWY footage, while Jim Ladd is heard on the car radio, announcing Jim's death from the original broadcast, as Jim, at the wheel of his Shelby, gets the news.   This idea to use outtakes from Jim's film was DiCillo's, who wrote the whole radio scene with Jim hearing his death on the car radio, reported by Jim Ladd. It's worth noting that this sequence doesn't exist in HWY, where there's no sound or dialogue at all. It was created from series of unconnected outtakes, pieced together to make it look like Jim was hearing something on the radio.

From there, the exploration of the Doors begins, looking at their early days, how the band was put together,  a recounting of how they were signed to Elektra by Jac Holzman, the first two albums, the clubs, lots of footage from concerts, funny interviews with fans - one got a big laugh, where a girl asks them if they were like the Monkees!

I'd say the written material lacks in detail, but for those who don't spend their lives diarying every move the Doors and Jim made, it's basically unimportant. Depp's narration is very low-key and unobtrusive, almost subliminal.

Miami is well explored, but so is New Haven, which seems to be where Jim's challenges to the establishment really began. As Jim continues to burn out, you can see how the other Doors became more and more terrified of what might happen, as he continues his reckless progress, further hampered by the emergence of his alter-ego, Jimbo.

 It's sadly apparent that Miami broke Jim's spirit. He has suddenly realized that he is not invincible, and the look in his eyes says everything. 

There is no footage of the performance at Miami, so DiCillo and the team created the entire eight minute sequence using scraps of footage from an unknown concert. The movie only shows Jim from behind because he had a beard at Miami. In the available footage he was beardless.

Obviously, most of Jim's problems stemmed from a sense of alienation and the overuse of drugs and alcohol to cope. Pam Courson-Morrison apparently got him to a psychiatrist, but he didn't go back. Michael McClure steered him towards poetry, which appeared to refocus him and he was able to find inspiration enough to get to New Orleans, and present some the LA Woman material, but that was all he had left. Ray Manazarek notes that he literally saw the psychic energy leave Jim, when, after pounding the stage to splinters with his mic stand,  he sat down on the stage and then couldn't get up again.

And so, Jim flies into the sunset.

From there, the filmmakers simply note that, once in Paris, Jim developed a bad cough and Pam had him see French doctors, who strongly urged him to give up drinking and put him on steroids for his respiratory problems, which he probably disregarded. His death is explained simply as a heart attack after a night of heavy drinking.

There was sturdy and deserved applause at the conclusion.

Kudos to the editors, who did a magnificent job, Mr. DiCillo for an inspired vision, Johnny Depp for skilful narration, to the entire team, and to Jim, John, Ray and Robby for being The Doors. Without whom, this movie would not burn as brightly as it does.

And, if Jim had gone to any screening, this would have been the one. UCLA, Westwood, Los Angeles Film Festival. He'd have really liked it, I believe.

The empty seat was for him."

The movie won a Grammy this year for Long-Form Music Video.  I continue to recommend it. 

When You're Strange DVD

Steve Morrison talks about his son

Footage from HWY (unique - worth watching)

Tom DiCillo talks about the Grammy

Tom DiCillo info (IMdB)

TROUBADOURS, THE MOVIE - REVIEW

About five  years ago, I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Michael Walker, the author of "Laurel Canyon, The Inside Story of Rock and Roll's Legendary Neighborhood."  In the book, I'm quoted as saying the following about the Troubadour, which I visited many times from 1970-1975ish. 

FROM LAUREL CANYON THE INSIDE STORY OF ROCK AND ROLL'S LEGENDARY NEIGHBORHOOD. BY MICHAEL WALKER FABER & FABER 2006

As the Troubadour's fortunes declined and its prestige faded, the musicians who gave the club its specialness drifted away. "I stopped going to the Troubadour in 1974-75," says Stevens. "That was the last time you sensed that it was a place you'd still run into the old crowd. By then they were all kind of rich and famous. People were on the road, everyone was always out of town, so you didn't see anybody."  The days were over when Stevens could pass an afternoon with Janis Joplin at the Troubadour bar, 'Just the two of us getting mildly bombed and hitting on this surfer guy who got frightened off because we were getting a bit much for him, so we went outside and some people had left a couple bicycles against the wall, and we started riding around on the railroad tracks, screaming and falling off, having a great time. It seemed like every time you went down there something like that was going on, some little drama."

But she also remembered the jockeying of young musicians at the bar, looking for an opening, anything to get ahead.  "It wasn't, 'Oh, let's go down and we'll hang out and have a merry old time at the Troubadour.'  There was absolutely an agenda going on.  Glenn Frey - I've never seen a guy work a room like that guy could - whatever he could get, to get himself going for his career.  He was very, very career-oriented.  They all were.   Anyone who pretends they weren't doing that is fooling themselves."

Michael's book went into millions of sales world-wide, and presaged what appears to be a revival of interest in the Troubadour club and what it means to the history of music, as well as Laurel Canyon and its influence. 

The first blip on the radar was the lovely Reunion concert, featuring James Taylor and Carole King, which for me really recaptured the musical spirit of the place as it used to be, before younger bands of a different ilk took over and made it theirs, altering the architecture, changing the showroom, removing the tables and chairs, once set sideways on to the stage, [where everyone sat shoulder to shoulder, all able to see the stage without someone's head in the way], putting another bar in there, and so on.  Standing room only nowadays, and they charge you to come in and drink in the bar.  In the old days, you could drink at the bar and have your two drink minimum - or whatever your mileage was - and no need to see the show if you couldn't afford it. There were ways around that. The restrooms had to be visited, after being in the bar for a while, and then you could lurk about at the back of the showroom, catching however many minutes you could of the on-stage action, before Bob Marchese marched down from his post by the door to remind you to either get back to the bar or go buy a ticket.  He was usually pretty fair about lurking, though. 

The club had an excellent management team in the days before 1975, and Doug Weston generally left them to it, preferring to hold court at night, and hammer out legendary and hard-nosed deals during the day, with artists who turned out to be the biggest in the business, most of whom still recall the terms of Doug's contracts with a certain wry resignation.  There was no place quite like the Troub for presenting an endless flow of talent, and no club owner quite like Doug Weston.    

On March 2, PBS aired "Troubadours, The Movie," after it's successful screening at Sundance.  It should first be noted that this is more of a continuance of the initial James and Carole DVD, and spends considerable time on Carole's early days songwriting with husband Gerry Goffin at the Brill Building and her move to Los Angeles in the late 60s, and James's formative years in Massachusetts, New York and the UK.  While this is absorbing and presents terrific early footage of both artists in their very young days, it really has little or nothing to do with the Troubadour club.  

James and Carole were two of many talents who graced the Troubadour stage, though not by any means regulars in the bar - James never maintained a residence in Los Angeles, and Carole was not a bar type.  I never saw either of them there except in concert, though my then-old man was out on the road with the James, Carole and Jo Mama tour in the early 70s, so I got to know most of Jo Mama socially in those days.  

As far as the Troubadour story, we hear from a sprinkling of the usual commentators, i.e. photographer/musician Henry Diltz, David Crosby, and Jackson Browne who is puzzingly interviewed in the guitar room at McCabe's. 

Robert Hilburn (the highly-respected Los Angeles Times music editor), Kris Kristofferson, and former artist manager Dickie Davis provide insightful comments, and Lou Adler shows up to explain, among his reminscences of working with Carole, why he found it necessary to open the Roxy on Sunset, to directly challenge and ultimately close down the Troubadour.  As for the mean-spirited commentary from former Village Voice music critic Robert Christgau, why?  It's well-known that the east coast critics hated the  music coming out of California in those days, so why belabor the point?  And really who cares?  I agree with Kootch on that one.

The Eagles are awkwardly stuffed in towards the end, using BBC footage of the band in the early days, and standard photos from the brimming Diltz archive, but without their personal commentary it fell flat for me.   And why open with a great comment from Graham Nash, and then never see him again? I particularly missed commentary from Louise Goffin, Carole's other daughter, a successful studio owner and singer/songwriter.

I also wanted to hear from a lot more people who were club regulars in the day, i.e. Tom Waits, Rickie Lee Jones, Chuck E. Weiss, Harry Dean Stanton, Douglas Dillard, Van Dyke Parks, Don Henley and Glenn Frey, David Geffen, Linda Ronstadt, a few more of the staff besides just manager Paul Body and Weston's p.a. Ursula Britton, who at least tried to provide a glimpse of the club itself and the working relationship with the unique Doug.  Even a word from Mike, the perennial bar-tender at Dan Tana's, the Italian restaurant next door, who knew all the denizens of the Troub in the early days, would have been interesting.  Unfortunately, this didn't happen, and so, in my estimation, the definitive documentary on the Troubadour itself still remains to be made. 

This particular documentary had great moments, but for me it failed as a whole, simply because it was two movies attempting to be one.  James and Carole, top-flight seminal musicians of the era, both hailing from NYC though, deserve documentaries all their own, at the very least, as does the Brill Building, that great New York factory of pop music in the early 60s.  And as does the Troubadour. 

Ultimately, one story canceled the other out, and I constantly found myself figuratively pleading, "Could we get back to the Troubadour story, please?" as Danny Kortchmar held forth on James and Carole's early days, and we got to hear about The Section and so on, which really had nothing to do with the club at all, wonderful though The Section are. 

So, until such time, as far as a real recounting of the glory days of the Troubadour is filmed, this movie is an entertaining and enjoyable stop-gap, which continues to promote the worthy Troubadour Reunion Tour franchise. 

Interview with Ursula Britton.

Watch the movie here on the American Masters site.

Artie Wayne remembers Carole from their days at Aldon Music.

Photo of Glenn Frey - Deborah Chesher.

MICK JAGGER - LONDON SCHOOL OF ECONOMICS

Well,  we have to start somewhere, so this is as good a place as any. 

Like many his age in those days, Mick, [who handily passed seven O Levels and three A Levels in his GCEs - seriously good student], very briefly entertained the idea that he might follow his father and grandfather into the education game.  Or, more likely, they entertained the idea.

In the meantime, his interest in singing, and in blues music particularly, continued to distract him from Life's Stern Responsibilities.  Let alone the band, which was taking off on the local club circuit.

 
By 1963, The Stones were already very popular in the south east.  I'd seen them a few times at various shows at the Ricky-Tick Club in Guildford, watching in bemusement as local girls screamed and acted like fools, particularly over the glamorous Mr. Jones with his terrific hair. 

  I also heard stories of their gigs at the Wooden Bridge pub in Guildford. Reportedly, Mick liked to take the piss out of a local yobbo,  one Herbie Taylor, a Teddy Boy, all greasy hair, drainpipes, bovver boots, and an IQ too low to register.  I was no fan of Herbie's, who lived in a nearby council estate, or his dubious family of brothers, so this pleased me no end. 

(The photo is a reasonable facsimile of the local Teds - not Herbie, though the Ted on the left bears some resemblance.  What they're doing is anybody's guess - moving awkwardly about by the looks of it. Dancing? Practicing stomping on someone?)

During performances, Mick would deliberately flirt from the stage with whatever female Herbie happened to be with, or make other disrespectful gestures in Herbie's general direction. When Herbie was suitably enraged,  about ready to lumber up onstage to finish Jagger off, Mick would skip down, and run around the room on the table tops, pursued by the enraged Herbie, while the band played on, all to the vast entertainment of the Friday night crowd.  Ole, ole!

Anyway, in 1963, as the Stones were ready to roll, Mick wound up at the London School of Economics.  I think he'd agree that his short year provided a more than valuable education in the world of money and world politics, and I'm sure Mick, always a quick study, took away some serious information.  However,  he left at the end of year.  Nothing dramatic, just that the Stones had a record deal, and Mick had business to attend to.

Enter Gertrude Stein.  And thereby hangs my tale.

 

In 1963, my mother was engaged to Derek Bell, the illegitimate son of Leo Stein, Gertrude Stein's older brother. 

It's well documented that around 1912 or so Gertrude and Leo had a serious falling out, and that rift was not mended for thirty years.  Derek's mother was allegedly a lady who worked for Leo, and before Gertrude stepped in, young Derek's future was extremely uncertain. 

After Gertrude commandered this piece  of family business, disgusted by Leo's cavalier dismissal of the situation, young Derek was thereafter financially supported by Gertrude, raised and educated as befitted a member of the Stein family.  He attended LSE as part of his education. [Btw, Derek bore a remarkable resemblance to his aunt, with her penetrating stare, so I have no reason to doubt this story.]

Derek commanded the back-up bomber squadron to the famous Dam Busters during the Second World War, and earned the DFC for his service.  For many years thereafter he was the Managing Director of 3M in Johannesburg, and when he returned to London in the early 60s, he took up his responsibilities as a member of the Board of Governors of LSE.    He ultimately became the Chief Buyer for the Concorde, working for the British Aircraft Corporation (formerly Vickers-Armstrong), which employed many of  our neighbors in West Byfleet.   Occasionally we'd go out to Ripley on Sundays and visit the plane under construction.  All top secret of course, but amazing to see what they were doing. 

Anyway, one evening we're having dinner.  Derek had been up to "Town," [as we used to refer to London], on some business or other.  He fixes me with his eye, and asks "You know about this sort of thing.  Have you heard of a band called the Rolling Stones?" Me,"Yes, why?" 

From what I recall of the ensuing conversation, during their first year, students at LSE were allowed to write a grant proposal for project funding from LSE.  According to Derek, Mick had written a good grant proposal, using the Rolling Stones as his business model, and asking for financial aid to buy equipment so they could improve their stage sound.   Of course, not one member of the Board, including Derek, had much of an idea about the financial soundness of rock music, though obviously it was becoming an economic powerhouse, and they'd sort of heard of the Beatles,  but when it came to the niceities of the business, LSE needed an expert opinion, in this case, me.  The Board wanted to know if the Stones had any future, and I was able to say I thought so, based on what I was seeing.  Would they be a good risk?  "Er - yes," quoth the expert. 

So, Mick got some grant money from LSE which he bought gear with, after which he gave LSE the salute, and took off for the sky. 

Gertrude would have liked that.   I certainly did.

More encounters with Mick were to follow, including the one I've already mentioned in my first post. 

 

 

 

 

MICK JAGGER - INTRODUCTION

Well, the Grammys have come and gone, and the broadcast did good numbers.  Best in ten years, I hear.  I watched the first hour, taped the rest, and I'd have to agree that, on reflection, the musical performances represented the best we have  these days.  Bruno Mars and his crew were wonderful, I liked the tribute to Aretha (though I missed Annie Lennox in the vocal line-up),  the Queen of Soul looked good in her taped message, lots of good r 'n' b stuff throughout. 

And then there was Mick Jagger, strutting his stuff, still showing 'em how, tearing into Solomon Burke's Everybody Needs Somebody, with the industry audience on its collective feet, rocking along.  

Mick's one of the quintessential rock stars.  He and the Stones crew were early inventors of the art.  No collarless jackets and cute hair for the Stones - rebellion to the core.  But as carefully created and choreographed as the Beatles.  At the helm, one of the savviest businessmen you could ever hope to meet, Michael Philip Jagger, with co-conspirators Keith Richards and Andrew Loog-Oldham.  Although Mick is famously quoted as once remarking back in the 60s that he wouldn't want to be "doing this" at age 65, he has obviously changed his mind, and continues to perform at break-neck speed and with enviable agility despite the encroaching years, which seem to sit lightly on his small frame.

For some years during the 60s, I kept encountering Mick through no particular design or desire.   I like a lot of the Stones music, particularly the early work that included Brian Jones.  I'm also from the same neighborhood - south-east England.   But I wouldn't call myself a Stones fan in the strict sense of the word.  But for some reason, Mick Jagger seemed to be underfoot in my life.

For example, a short story here:

It's 1965, and I'm standing outside this block of flats somewhere in London, while a friend goes inside to do some business with one of the residents.  "Won't be long," says friend, "and he's paranoid," referring to whoever it was he was going to see.  So there I was, trying to look like I had a purpose of some kind, rather than loitering aimlessly about on a street corner. 

 Suddenly, an attractive young woman emerges from the basement flat, runs up the stairs to the street, hails a taxi,  and off she goes.  

 Two minutes after that, I look across the street, and here comes this small guy in an expensive fur parka.  I didn't recognize him.  Nice jacket though.  

He walks by me and begins to head down the stairs of the basement flat.  Well, at least here's someone to talk to, so, "She's gone out."  "Oh?" says fur parka, pausing on the top step.  "Left a couple of minutes ago."  Awkward silence while he absorbs this information - doesn't seem too happy.  "If she comes back, can you tell her Mick came by?"  "Okay.   I won't be here much longer though.  Just waiting for a friend."  " Okay. Thanks." And off he goes, back the way he came. 

 I wonder if I should leave a note for her just to pass the time, but at this point my friend emerges from the building, and we leave.  I mention the little encounter, and he tells me that Chrissie Shrimpton lives in the basement flat.  Chrissie, younger sister of supermodel Jean Shrimpton, is Mick's current girlfriend.  I realize that I'd just had another random encounter with Mick Jagger.

There'd been a couple prior to this meeting, and more were to come in the days ahead.  We'll get to all that.

But now I want to take a moment to congratulate Mick on one of his best performances,  in memory of the wonderful Solomon Burke who passed away last year.  Solomon's music was a great influence on the Stones, and he would have been so proud. 

Everybody Needs Somebody - Solomon Burke and Mick's tribute from the Grammys.

More later! 

 

 

 

 

PARDON ME, MR. MORRISON - PART SIX - THE END

To go to My Life In The Day for other stories, click here!

After the party, I got good reports of Jim's visit.  Billy said that Jim had stopped in to see him, they'd chatted amiably awhile, and then Billy got back to clack-clack.   All very pleasant, he said. 

Once Jim left for Paris to join Pam, around March 12, 1971, the LA Woman album, benefitting from the additional firepower of the WEA promotion and sales support, really took off. 

There had been very little opportunity for the Doors' audiences to hear the new material live, as it had only been performed in concert twice. After Miami, their entire concert schedule was scrapped.  Promoters were cautiously booking them by the end of the year, and their second concert in New Orleans in December 1970 marked  the end of  the Doors.   Jim appeared to suffer some sort of breakdown, picking up the microphone stand and pounding it repeatedly into the stage floor, before sitting down and refusing to continue the show.  Whatever wild spirit had possessed Jim Morrison, it fled that night into the bayou darkness and was gone forever.  Jim got stupendously drunk after the show. There were no more concerts from then on. 

Love Her Madly was picked as the first single from the album, wisely so as it mirrored the poppy sound of the Doors, and written by Robby Krieger, who had also come up with Light My Fire, at the beginning of the Doors' career. 

Although Love Her Madly did well at AM radio, and the music community in general didn't seem phased by Jim's departure for Paris, which was treated in a low-key way, i.e. going on a sabbatical, etc.,  it was San Francisco, specifically KSAN-FM, who picked the next single - Riders On The Storm.  The jocks had taken to playing the long version and the phones began ringing off the hook.  Our local promotion guy in San Francisco, Jeff Trager, was adamant that this should be the next single, called everyone at Elektra who could make such decisions.  The long instrumental was edited to a more manageable 4 minutes or so and it was released. 

 Word from Paris was non-existent, in itself a good thing.  One always assumes that no news is good news.  I saw plenty of Bill Siddons, who was constantly checking on the progress of the album.  I don't know that I even asked him how Jim was, and he didn't say.  I think we all wished that he was finding the happiness that seemed to always elude him,  and that things would turn out all right in the end, but of course that wasn't to be. 

However, if I hadn't heard one more time from Jim, I would've ended all this at Part Five. 

Fast forward to the July 4 weekend, which fell on a Sunday that year, 1971.  Accordingly, we got the Monday off and the office was closed until Tuesday, July 6.  I was one of the first there that morning.  The office I shared also housed the TWX machine, which we used to communicate various Elektra offices, also WEA, and anyone else we did business with who owned one.  A precursor to email, this rattling, chattering beast of a machine was used to type short messages and receive same, sometimes in real time, so you could communicate with the operator at the other end.  When unattended, it spat out telegram-type missives, in duplicate.  Because it was an expensive thing to use, one tended to keep things pretty short and to the point.  I was used to coming in in the morning and finding various advisories which had to be distributed to the intended recipients. 

I noticed something had come in over the weekend, which was unusual, considering it was a national holiday.  A brief two lines, "Regret to inform that Jim Morrison died July 3 in Paris.  (signed) Bill Siddons."  It appeared to originate from Clive Selwood at our London office.

And that was that.  Last word from Jim. 

I took the telex and went out into the hall, where I encountered Russ Miller,  head of West Coast operations at that time, opening his office door.  I handed him the telex without a word.  Besides saying something along the lines of "oh, shit!" Russ told me to keep it quiet as far as any announcements to outside sources and that he would contact Jac immediately.  In the distance, I could hear the phone ringing at my desk, and noticed that the switchboard was open.  One ringy-dingy, two ringy-dingy --- .  Send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.

I believe what ultimately destroyed Jim was fame and his own demons.  He had everything it took to succeed, smart, beautiful, talented. He dared the hot spotlight that annihilates every fascinated moth.  But, the question remains, is it better to burn out or to escape into the safe cool darkness to  regret what might have been?    

                                                                                  FINIS.

 

PARDON ME, MR. MORRISON - PART FIVE

Part One.  Part Two. Part Three. Part Four.

The day of the party dawned bright and clear, and by late afternoon Nina Holzman, (Jac's wife and mother of his two children, Jacqueline and Adam, aka Nipper), who was in charge of catering and organizing the shebang, had most of the administrative staff, including myself, running hither and thither, getting ready for the guests, who would start arriving after 5, the beginning of the end of the working day.  The party was more for radio, sales, WEA types, managers, etc., and not necessarily for the artists.   

The majority of the Elektra New York honchos had also arrived, and while some, like Bill Harvey, our art director and General Manager, had headed into various offices and were busy working behind closed doors, Steve Harris, national artist relations, and Bruce Harris, national publicity, were hanging about the hallway. 

 
Finally, as 5:00 approached, they decamped to the front steps, outside the double doors, now open to the street.  Both of them were dressed in black, and they looked like a couple of crows bobbing and bowing in the bright California sunshine, smoking, and watching the cars go by on La Cienega.  As I crossed the hall with a platter of some gustatory delight or other, I saw them gesturing in the general direction of the Clear Thoughts building across the street - where Themis was located - and seeming somewhat amused.  They beckoned me over. 

"Morrison is watching from that window," says Steve, indicating with a jerk of the head the round window on the second floor.  Jim had an editing bay in the building, in the office next to the round window, where he had been working on his film, HWY.  "Really?" I had a look, but couldn't tell if there was anyone there at all, as the big circular opening was screened with whorls of wrought iron.  "Yes, really.  Go over and ask him to the party."  "Why me?  Why don't you go?"  "Well, you two are friends, aren't you?" Smirk.  "Who says?" More smirking.  So much for thinking that my friendship with Jim was relatively unknown.  To avoid any more nonsense and smirks, I put the platter of whatever it was down and legged it across La Cienega, up the stairs to the landing, and found Jim sitting on the window seat, indeed spying on the comings and goings across the street.

  Me, "Hey."  "Hey. What's going on over there?"  Jim was also dressed all in black, still bearded but looking sober and thoughtful.  "It's a party for the opening of the building.  They want you to come over."  "Will you be there?"  "Of course, it'll be fine."  We could see Steve and Bruce, still fidgeting on the steps like a couple of antic ravens in the slowly-setting sun.  Jim slid off the window seat, and we clattered down the stairs and out onto La Cienega.  "They're not mad at me about Miami, are they?"  There it was, first and only time he'd ever mentioned it.  "Not as far as I know."  True enough.  Nobody had mentioned it to me.  Sue Helms had a framed photo of Jim with the lamb above her desk, which I believe he had given her.  That was all the Miami there was around the office.

Once we got into the hall, after Jim had been thoroughly welcomed by Steve and Bruce, Bill Harvey appeared from the conference room like a cuckoo from a clock, and greeted Jim like a prodigal son.  They disappeared back into the conference room, and very soon thereafter the first guests started to pour in through the doors.

I traveled down the hallway to my office, and stuck my head around the door of Billy James' office also at the back of the building. Billy was responsible for initially signing the Doors to Columbia, and was now on his second tour at Elektra, this time working in publicity.   I didn't know if he'd had a chance to see Jim at all, certainly since the Miami thing.   

He was securely hidden in his nook behind a studio baffle, doing something on his Remington typewriter - clack, clack, clack.  "Party's starting. Jim's here."  "Mm."  Clack, clack.  "I thought I would let him know you were here.  He might want to say hello.  Okay?"  "Sure."  Clack, clack, clack.  Very unlikely that the party would flow in this direction, it looked like a good place to hide out.  Clack, clack. 

8:00 or so,  I was tiring, my face hurt from smiling.  Time to leave. 

Doing my round of goodbyes, I found Jim, sitting at a long table in an almost-empty room just off the new Studio A, where  the food had been set up.  He and Babe Hill were chatting idly, picking at the remains of guacamole and chips.  Otherwise, the room was empty, as the food was all gone. Jim was a good deal more sober than the majority of the party-goers. I didn't see any alcohol anywhere. The atmosphere was very low-key.  I made my farewells and headed out.   It was the last time I would see him.  He left for Paris a few days later.

Photos: 962 N. La Cienega, present day.  No second floor when we opened;  Steve Harris, far left, the Doors, Jac Holzman peeping out behind Robby, looks like the Doors won some sort of award, circa 1966;  Jim and the lamb at Miami;  Billy James, far left, the Doors, Steve Harris once more, and Paul Rothchild - lunch at the Villa Capri, celebrating the release of Light My Fire;  Jim in late 1970, doing some editing on a Circus Magazine interview.

 PART SIX, NEXT THURSDAY!  

 

TROUBADOURS, THE MOVIE

While plans were afoot for the Troubadour Family Reunion last week, a documentary about the Troubadour's early days and the music within was making its way to the Sundance Music Festival, where it screened for the first time on January 22.  

From February 4-11, the movie will also screen at The Sunset 5 Theaters in West Hollywood, California, and then the first national screening occurs on PBS stations across the country.  In Los Angeles air time is 5pm on March 2, please check your local listings on KOCE and KCET.

Featuring James Taylor, Carole King, Elton John, Jackson Browne, Steve Martin, Cheech Marin, Kris Kristofferson, Henry Diltz, and Jac Holzman, among others, this well-received documentary continues the current interest in all things Troubadour.  An early review from Sundance.

 The movie will continue to air at Sundance through January 29, before wending its way to Los Angeles.  There's more info at the Sundance link, including a short trailer.

PARDON ME, MR. MORRISON - PART FOUR

 
  Things were getting busy at the label.  So many interesting and creative people trucked through the front hall, came in for meetings, and were calling, calling, calling.  Among those passing through the front hall were the other three Doors - Ray Manzarek, Robby Krieger, and John Densmore.  On those occasions, both Ray and Robby acted as if I was non-existent, not so much as a 'hi,' or a glance in my direction.  John, however, always attended by his long-haired dachsund Otto, was friendly and normal, perhaps because Otto would come running to see me, and get under the reception desk.  While retrieving him, John would chat for a short while. 

However, there was no sign of Jim in person. He did call in just to catch me up on things we'd talked about, i.e. he had located the two guys he had been writing a script with at UCLA Film School, before the Doors were put together, and he was going to take the script to Paris with him, to continue work.   I'd encouraged him to do that, and I was pleased that it had worked out.  

He seemed to be very focused on film and scripts during our chats, but none of them were particularly long, unlike the first call.  He was obviously busy, and I heard he was staying away from booze, which we had also talked about.  I'm quite sure this was a conversation he had with many of his friends at that time.  I had alcoholics in my family, and I suggested to Jim that he might have that problem.  Though he listened politely and responded intelligently, it was pretty obvious that he thought he could stop on his own - a common mistake that alcoholics make - and I left it at that.    If he could, he would. 

Sometime towards the end of the year, Larry Saul, our then-regional promotion director, offered me a job as his secretary.  No more ringy-dingy, no more tied to the telephone line!  

I got to work with the local promotion guys west of the Mississippi, all of whom were WEA employees, and though I missed opportunity to assist all and sundry with their incoming calls, I was now much more involved with the music than before.

Jac was bringing in artists like Harry Chapin and Carly Simon.  The Doors had completed the album, "L.A. Woman," with at least two killer songs, "Riders On The Storm," and the title track.  I no longer saw Densmore and Otto, as I was sitting in the back of the building by then, but I did get to know Bill Siddons and Danny Sugerman, the Doors manager and office assistant respectively, who came in often to consult with the sales department and the promotion department. 

January 1971, WEA had its first convention coming up in Palm Springs, which I was expected to attend.  Clothes for some of the evening events were an issue, the budget being a bit tight, but Diane Gardiner, who was working in the publicity department, sharing the next-door office with Billy James, hauled three of us secretaries over to Themis one lunch time. 

Themis wasn't open that much, and certainly never until the afternoon, but Pam Courson had some very nice clothing on sale - although nothing in my price range!  I hadn't met Pam before, but she turned out to be very pleasant, though she spent some time grumbling to Diane about Jim and how badly he was treating her.  As this grumbling was going on in a high-end boutique largely funded by him, there was a certain irony at play! 

However, Pam was very generous and gave me a black dress that I was admiring, which I wore at the convention.  I certainly couldn't have afforded to buy it at that time.  About two weeks' salary.  Here I am in the dress in January!

Soon thereafter, Jac decided we should throw an opening party for the new building - in March.   

Photos: Elektra logo, the location of Themis back in the day, a poster insert to LA Woman, and me wearing the Themis dress.

PART FIVE NEXT WEEK.  JIM RE-ENTERS THE STORY!

Read Part Three here!

DON KIRSHNER

On Monday, January 17, one of the great music guys, Don "Donny" Kirshner passed into music history.  Numerous accolades are available all over the internet, and deservedly so.  Kirshner was a man with a sure nose for talent, and to work with him was an honor and an education.

After leaving school in 1965, I was looking for work in the music business in the UK, where I was still living.  One of my great passions was for the work of the songwriters of the Brill Building - I studied every song, bought every record, immersed myself. 

And then, an ad appeared in the Jobs section of  the Evening Standard, the British national paper.  "Wanted:  hip secretary for American publishing company opening new offices in London."  Hip secretary??  American publishing company?  I was hip down to my three pairs of false eyelashes and I knew my American music.

I got the job out of 1100 applicants. Maybe because of how 'hip' I was, and I knew what the British music buyers were looking for, but mostly because I knew the song catalog backwards and forwards, loved the writers.  I had a real passion for it .  I still do.  The songs are timeless.

Don Kirshner also had a passion for it and he communicated that passion throughout his entire life.   He may have been a tough businessman,  maybe a ruthless competitor, but what drove him was how he cared about the music.  It was infectious.

So, Donny, thank you so much for hiring me, hope I didn't piss you off too much when I talked Jack and Cyril out of pitching Groovy Kind Of Love to Marianne Faithfull, but that was what you hired me to do!   After all, her loss was Wayne Fontana's gain.   

My friend and colleague Artie Wayne remembers Don Kirshner.  Artie was lucky enough to be associated with Aldon Music and the Brill Building in the early days.  He has the same passion and enthusiasm for music as Don Kirshner.

Photo: Me, terminally hip at 17. 

 

 

 

 

 

TROUBADOUR FAMILY REUNION - PART TWO

Disappointingly, I was not able to make it, due to a feline emergency, which required my attendance here at home!  However, I did have boots on the ground, and will have some photographs from the event, which I'll post here as soon as I receive them.  They sound as if they'll be worth waiting for!

I gather things went exceedingly well and, as rumored, Jackson Browne showed up to share some songs, to the delight of the crowd.  It was a night to remember for just about everyone who was there.

Stand by for the photos and perhaps some other interesting news!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part 4 of Pardon Me, Mr. Morrison on Thursday!

PARDON ME, MR. MORRISON - PART THREE

(To read Part Two, click here.)

 

 

"We need a receptionist at Elektra.  Call Sue Helms after 10 tomorrow morning.  I'll call her and let her know. You've got the job."

The skies opened, the angels sang, the light at the end of the tunnel was no longer an oncoming train, but the light of the rising sun.  I had a job in the music business!  Oh happy day!

Paul modestly waved off my burbling thanks as being nothing more than what one would do for a friend and wandered into the crowd, to take care of whatever business had drawn him down there that night. I called Sue Helms in the morning and started the following day. 

At that time, Elektra was undergoing a major transition from what Jac referred to as a "Tiffany label" featuring wonderful folk singer/songwriters. But now, largely based on the success of rock acts like the Doors and Love, they were entering a relationship with Warner Bros. and Atlantic and all their subsidiaries, in a distribution deal funded by the Kinney Parking Corporation, to be known as Warner-Elektra-Atlantic, or more commonly WEA. 

Jac was nearly at the end of the process of completing the building of a corporate headquarters more fitting to the status of the label at this point in its history.  My job would be to man the big switchboard in the grand Spanish-influenced front hall, and to help Sue Helms out with any tasks she might assign me, 

At first, however, I sat in the crowded front hall of the little studio building.  One of the first advisories I received was regarding the Doors, who had their offices handily positioned right across the street on the corner of Santa Monica and La Cienega. 

Briefly, I was told that the Doors, particularly Jim, attracted a small amount of odd people, who were likely to call and request to either speak with Jim, or claim they were one of Jim's long-lost relatives, and so on. All such calls were to be immediately referred to their offices across the street or, depending on how bizarre the call was, to be hung up on.  Duly noted. I waited for the crazies to call, but it remained quiet.   

I was the first to move to the new offices, where contractors were still finishing up.  Here I am in a trench slightly south of the building! 

I spent three days being trained on a switchboard like the one at which Lily Tomlin's famous character "Ernestine" sat.  I loved the job.  Everyone who worked at Elektra felt like family to me.  

Bit by bit, the rest of the staff moved into their new offices, and by October we got down to the brass tacks of the implications of the deal with WEA.  The studio still continued to roll - with the assist of a brilliant engineering staff.  That part of Elektra was very important to the continued success of the label.  Jac occupied himself with developing quadraphonic, as well as overseeing daily operations and signing acts.  All in all, it was a very exciting time to be in the music business. 

After my initial caveat about the Doors telephone calls, the only other information I had was that they were recording their new album across the street at their offices.  I saw engineers lugging baffles and outboard gear across La Cienega from Studio B.  I understood that Paul was now working exclusively with Janis Joplin on her album for Columbia at Sunset Sound.  Bruce Botnick, one of Elektra's staff engineers, and constant first engineer on the Doors' albums (as well as Fritz Richmond), had taken over the project at Paul's suggestion and was co-producing with the band.

Then, an interesting thing happened.  The Elektra main number was 655-8280 with nine incoming lines.  8289 was the studio night line, which was always forwarded before I closed the board at night, so people who wanted to reach the studio after hours dialed that direct number, otherwise I would patch the call to the studio during the day. 

 I noticed that 8289 was ringing out of sequence, and I wondered if anyone was working in the studio and if they were going to pick it up.  Apparently not.  One ringy-dingy, two ringy-dingys. So, "Good afternoon, Elektra Records."  "Hi, could I speak to Sally Stevens?"  Odd.  "This is Sally. Who's this?"  "It's Jim Morrison."   
 
Oh, crikey, here we go, a Doors-weirdo, as I had been warned.  "Right, and I'm Mary Queen of Scots.  I don't have time for this, so I'm going to hang up now."  Just as I was about to literally pull the plug, "No, no, this really IS Jim Morrison!"  "Okay, tell me something about me that only Jim Morrison would know about me."  Pause, then, "I got you fired from Thee Experience.  I've been looking for you for the last six months, to apologize."  

Apologies accepted, we settled into a long conversation. I had to put him on hold more than several times.  I was very surprised to find out how intelligent Jim was - almost professorial.  Well-read, well-spoken and respectful Dr. Jekyll.  No sign of Mr. Hyde from Thee Experience.  A perfect gentleman.    

He talked enthusiastically about his plans to move to Paris, how he had to finish up the L.A. Woman album first, how he would be free to go pursue his interest in film, poetry, possibly a book.   
He talked about Pamela Courson, his old lady, who was running Themis, an upscale boutique across the road from Elektra.  Scarlett to his Rhett. He talked about trying to re-connect with old friends from UCLA to continue to work on film scripts that had been back-burnered by his involvement with the Doors.  He talked about his uneasy relationship with his father, Rear Admiral George "Steve" Morrison. He talked about anything but Miami. 

This was the first of several conversations.

(To be continued.)

 Photos: Me outside 962 N. La Cienega, August 1970. Jim and Pam at Themis.

NEXT TUESDAY, REPORT FROM THE TROUBADOUR FAMILY REUNION.

 

 

 

  

 

TROUBADOUR FAMILY REUNION - RETURN TO THE SAD CAFE -11711

I consider myself an "Old Troubadourian," one of the many denizens of the entertainment industry who frequented Doug Weston's famous Troubadour on Santa Monica Boulevard at the almost-intersection of Doheny Drive, which marks the boundary between West Hollywood and Beverly Hills.    We're a kind of club ourselves.

The Troubadour had its hey-day from about 1969 to 1975. After that time pretty much all of the musicians who graced the stage and the bar stools had moved on to successful careers.  The Eagles, Jackson Browne, Linda Ronstadt and JD Souther are particularly associated with the Troubadour, though many, many other luminaries shone the light of their considerable talents in the playing room. 

By 1977, the club was in enough trouble financially that Doug Weston asked Jackson Browne to play a benefit to keep the doors open.  From there, it became a stronghold for punk, then big-hair bands, and now to a straight rock venue, with a $12 charge to even go into the bar.  The club is considered a 'brand' these days. 

Doug has long passed on, and nobody from the old days goes there just to hang out.  I've visited the place with friends at odd hours, recently with my friend Nancy from Indiana, who wanted to see where the Eagles got their start.  We were shown around by a member of the office staff who was supervising a 4 o'clock load-in. When the Eagles were interviewed for "60 Minutes," Steve Krofft conducted some of the interview in the Troubadour bar.  The very successful  recent "Troubadour Reunion," featuring Carole King and James Taylor, further revived interest, and now there's an ongoing tour of that name, and a DVD. 

Sometime last year, a group of former employees - among them Roger Perry, who ran the Monday Hoot Night for several years, and Naomi Riopelle, Pam McKenna and Lezlie Sokol, who waitressed back in the day - decided it might be fun to have a casual get-together of former employees.  At first, it was conceptualized as a picnic in the park type thing, in the summer, but it then moved to an idea about actually doing the reunion at the Troubadour itself, to include anyone who came to Hoot Night, as a player or denizen of the bar, or who hung out in the bar or played during the week, or worked at the club during the glory years of 1969-1974.  And so it was. Troubadour Family Reunion official site.

On Monday, January 17, 2011, the Troubadour Family Reunion, will take place.  There will be music, provided by players who were there back then, there will be an open bar, the kitchen will be open.  The guest list is an extraordinary collection of music industry movers and shakers, actors, comedians, and more musicians, of course.   Exactly who remains to be seen.

I'll be there, and I'll report back on the event. 

Photo by Eve Babitz: L-R (back) Ned Doheny, Randy Meisner, Don Henley, Bernie Leadon and L-R (front)  Jackson Browne, Glenn Frey, J.D. Souther.  Occasion - Jackson's 22nd birthday.

PART THREE OF PARDON ME, MR. MORRISON ON THURSDAY!!

PARDON ME, MR. MORRISON - PART TWO

 (To read Part One click here!)

 The overturned chair and its astonished passenger struck the rowdy table and down it went.  Consternation in the ranks! 

I then bent over this idiot as he lay on the floor, staring up at me in complete surprise, and raised the edge of my tray as if to bring it down on the bridge of his nose but stopped when it was about three inches from his face.  After shouting, "Don't you ever do that to a woman again!" I stormed off, leaving him lying there, presumably to be rescued by his friends. 

I went to Bill at the front door, handed in my tray, told him I was leaving, and to please go deal with whoever it was that had assaulted me.  I walked out, and walked the mile or so home.  I was pretty pissed off. I hadn't made a dime that night. 

I called the next day for my schedule and was told by Marshall's secretary that I wasn't to come back to work.  I asked why and further expressed my concerns about the identity of the customer who had assaulted me, and what the club had done about it.  "Don't you know who that was?" asked the secretary.  "No, and I don't care.  Nobody has the right to assault me."  "Well, it was Jim Morrison."  Oops. 

Not much more to say there, but I couldn't reconcile the face I'd seen in the photograph, and this hairy beast of a man who had behaved so violently for no reason that I was aware of.  However, the damage was done, and I now had no job, and no money coming in.  I didn't even get paid for the night. Thanks, Jim.

Through some connections I had made at the club, I was able to scratch up this and that to tide me over. I got a gig at the Gemini Psychedelic Supermarket aka Bizarre Bazaar on Las Palmas just off Hollywood Boulevard, where I worked at the jewelry concession.  That was a freaky-deaky place as well. I passed the time making cheapie earrings from wire and beads, and wondering how I was going to get a proper job in the music business, if ever. As the holidays came and went unremarked, my birthday ditto, I continued to work at the Psychedelic Supermarket and then, as a consolation prize, I came down with bronchial pneumonia.  

I finally staggered out to a call box and reached Carol Samuels, explaining my plight.  Within an hour she and Eric Hord, guitar player for the Mamas and the Papas, showed up. They packed me and my few possessions into Eric's truck, and I was transported to Carol's parents' house on Maryland and 6th, to recover.  Dr. and Mrs. Samuels were in Israel for some months, so we had the big house to ourselves. 

  After a couple of weeks, and a diet of mostly Cream of Wheat, I recovered enough to wonder what to do next.  Carol, who was personal assistant to Bobby Roberts, (who managed the Mamas and the Papas), persuaded me to come with her to the Troubadour, to see if I could get a job as a waitress there, but one night in the super-busy bar was enough to persuade me that waitressing was not for me any longer. 

Carol and I continued to frequent the Troubadour, a couple of times a week or more, and I kept hoping for the break that would get me into the music business again.  I met a lot of great people, but most were scuffling like myself.  We were all looking to grab the brass ring, but in the meantime, we at least had each other to complain to.  Then, one night in August, it all changed.

I was standing in the always-crowded bar on a Monday night, over which Hootmeister Roger Perry ruled.  The very popular Hoot Night jammed the place up, and the bar was packed to the walls.  I was positioned with my back to the street door to the bar, when it opened up and in walked Paul Rothchild, producer of the Doors and also Janis Joplin. 

I knew Paul through Carol, had always found him to be friendly and unpretentious.  He asked how I was doing, and I complained bitterly about Jim's behavior and how it had cost me a job, and possibly that he was out there spreading the word against me.  "Oh yeah," remarked Paul, "that sounds like Jim."  And then he added ... (To be continued.)

 Photo:  Paul Rothchild and Jim Morrison at Sunset Sound Recorders.

 (Comprehensive site on Thee Experience and Mark Rodney of Batdorf and Rodney shares his memories of Thee Experience.)

 

PARDON ME, MR. MORRISON - PART ONE

So, after 41 years, the State of Florida, in the person of Charlie Crist, the departing governor, has issued a pardon to Jim Morrison for his 1969 conviction for lewd conduct.  (Photo: Jim Morrison and counsel Max Fink at the courthouse.)

Did he whip it out, or didn't he? Whether he did or didn't, the charges were obviously nothing but the railroading of a rock star, as a result of the influence of the religious right and political oddballs like Anita Bryant.  Why Jim chose to do this in Florida, his home state, when he no doubt had considered what the consequences might be, is known only to him, but the man was always fond of risk-taking.  Of course, the problem with that is you can't always predict the consequences, and in this case, it didn't pay off. Jim was knocked off his game by forces he underestimated.  And although his crime, if it even occurred, was not much by today's standards, he was convicted of it, and not forgiven for many years.  Some of Jim's friends believe the depression brought on by the trial and its results began the downward spiral that ended in his untimely death in Paris in July 1971. 

Which brings me to my first encounter with Mr. Morrison in Los Angeles in September of 1969.

After a visit to LA in late 1968, I determined to return permanently, and in July of 1969 - the 4th to be exact - I arrived in New York from London, met my friend Angela on West 183rd Street, and we then caught a midnight plane, arriving in LA on the morning of the 5th.  By the end of that week, I began work as a cocktail waitress at Thee Experience on Sunset and Gardner, a little bit east of the Strip, a job arranged for me by my friend Joanne Carroll, another Brit, who was then living with Art Tripp of the Mothers of Invention.

Run by the jovial Marshall Brevetz, the club opened in March of 1969 and closed in December of that year.  Marshall was a Florida transplant, and the club quickly became a haven for fellow Floridian Morrison, as well as many other rock musicians.  During its short life, there were legendary shows and jam sessions at Thee Experience, but the word was out from Elmer Valentine and Mario Maglieri of the Whisky that if you played at Thee Experience, don't expect to ever play the Whisky again.  However, because Marshall was unable to pay any of his bills, including fees to bands and so on, the place went belly-up and that was that.  But it was a fun spring and summer. 

During my first week I was told to watch out for Jim Morrison and to be sure and let management know if he was there, so they could presumably personally take care of him.  I had very little idea about the Doors, or Jim, having only briefly been exposed to their music in the UK.  I had to be shown a photo of Jim, which was the famous Joel Brodsky "Young Lion" shot (right), about which Elektra president, Jac Holzman remarked "Jim looked like that for about 20 minutes."  Well, I thought, that'd be hard to miss! 

I was also told that he was a dedicated drunk, but some of the crowd I'd been hanging with in London could do their share, so I didn't take it as the warning it was probably intended to be. However, he never came in, so I stopped looking out for him. 

I was an indifferent waitress, and the patrons really didn't tip, but I hoped to make connections so I could get back to work in the music business.  Fortunately, Thee Experience only served beer and wine, so that wasn't difficult, but there was food, banana splits, hamburgers and so on.  To say the room was difficult to work is an understatement - near darkness, constant loud music, customers who were several sheets to the wind on not only booze but whatever other substance they might have encountered.  

Over the Labor Day weekend, Delaney and Bonnie & Friends came in for a couple of days, plus every guest they could load on stage, including Jimi Hendrix, Stephen Stills, Dave Mason, Frank Zappa, you name it.  I thought this would be a good time to take a couple of days off - I never had a good section to work anyway, and this line-up would drive all the big customers down to the front of the room, plus it would be Complete Chaos. 

As luck would have it, I got a call from one of the other waitresses, asking me to fill in for her, as her little boy was sick, so on the promise I could work the back section, I reluctantly went in.  It was indeed chaos, as I had suspected.  With the attraction of a holiday weekend, and a great show sprinkled with mega-stars, the joint was jumping.  I was glad to be in the back, where there was nobody to wait on, except those up in the bleachers, up to whatever they got up to back there!  They certainly didn't need a waitress, that's for sure, and I didn't want to know!

As we waitresses couldn't sit while working, I kept walking up and down between the sections, in a wide aisle, just in case someone was crazy enough to move into my section.  The front sections were jammed with revelers, and I noticed one table at the edge of the aisle, that was becoming rowdy, even by Thee Experience standards.  Someone got up on the table, and there was a lot of raucous behavior, audible even  over the band.  Further, one of the party, a heavy-set man with long hair and a big, bushy beard, kept moving his chair further and further into the aisle, as if to block my passage. 

As we weren't supposed to wait on other sections, I kept away, and continued to stroll up and down, now and then casting an eye on the table, to make sure it didn't go over on other customers, due to the continued hilarity, and wondering whether to go and bother Bill, who did security, just to have him drop by and make sure things didn't escalate further. 

By this time, the bearded guy had moved his chair smack into the middle of the aisle, sitting there all alone, facing me, like the lone gunslinger.  I had no idea what he was up to, but continued to keep my distance.  I vaguely wondered where their waitress was. Up and back, up and back.  Then suddenly, I was grabbed from behind, by the hair, and pulled off my feet backwards.  Next thing I knew I was lying across this idiot's lap, while he bellowed into my face, "GET ME A BEER, BITCH!!"

I came up like lightning, put my right foot on the chair he was still sitting in, spraddle-legged, and kicked it over, with him in it.  (To be continued) ...

http://rockphiles.typepad.com/a_life_in_th...part-two-1.html - Part Two

http://rockphiles.typepad.com/a_life_in_th...part-three.html - Part Three

http://rockphiles.typepad.com/a_life_in_th...-part-four.html - Part Four

http://rockphiles.typepad.com/a_life_in_th...-part-five.html Part Five

http://rockphiles.typepad.com/a_life_in_th...ix-the-end.html - Part Six

 

1-1-11

One of the hardest things to do, when confronted with writing a 'memoir' is to know just where to start, or at least that's my excuse! 

For a long time, friends have been urging me to write a book about my experiences in the music business and beyond.   Yes, yes, I'd say, I really should.  Then off I'd go and commit my stories to other people's message boards, snippets on Facebook, and other cyber areas, where the stories would basically vanish from sight after a short while, and I'd be reduced to, once again, bending the ear of long-suffering listeners, (like my friend Artie Wayne, who told me this morning to set up a blog and get on with it!), or making more amusing little posts doomed to cyber-oblivion. Time keeps slipping, slipping into the future, and so I resolved to give it a whirl. 

My name is Sally Stevens.  I was born in London, moved to Los Angeles in the late 60s, and have been in the music business since 1964.  The rest of it will hopefully be revealed over the coming days. 

This is me at my desk in the promotion department of Elektra Records, circa 1971. 

Just wanted to get things going, be back tomorrow!  Happy New Year!

(To reach Artie Wayne click here!)