July 5, 1969, I had just returned to LA. I first arrived in November 1968 and stayed for a few months, going back to London in February 1969 and leaving thereafter on July 3, after getting a last phone call to tell me that Brian Jones had died the previous night.
On that cheery note, I flew to Toronto, friends picked me up at Lake Erie, crowded with July 4 holiday-makers. A huge storm blew up, which drove everyone to the border; when we got to Buffalo, the sun was shining, I went to a block party, changed into more suitable clothing, then hopped the bus to NY where I met up with my friend Angela on West 83rd Street. That night we flew out of La Guardia and landed at LAX at 5am.
I moved in at Holly Drive with Kris and my friend the same day, and started work at Thee Experience on July 6.
Scarcely a month later, August 9, 1969, horror struck at 10050 Cielo Drive, with the slaughter of Sharon Tate and her friends, at the order of cult leader Charles Manson.
Fingers were pointed here, there and everywhere. Anyone who had anything to do with that house took off, producer Terry Melcher; Pik, a boyfriend of Cass's was also suspected - he left the country. People stopped hitchhiking around town, paranoia hung like a noxious fog over the once-cheery peace and love parade.
About two weeks after the murders, Carol told me that her father and some of his colleagues, were having an afternoon gathering, to celebrate the 'cure' of a schizophrenic patient, Eric. Carol's father was a well-respected psychiatrist, working with other psychiatrists and psychologists in the field of schizophrenia, transactional therapy, and also very involved in the founding of Esalen. And we were invited to perform a couple of songs for the guests. One would be Me and Bobby McGee, which I could play pretty easily. Harmonies, of course.
So, on a late August/early September weekend afternoon we arrive at 10050 Cielo Drive. Didn't mean anything to me, nice house.
The place was empty of furniture, freshly painted and carpeted, except for some Abbey Rents chairs and trestle tables. Two young people sat away from everyone else at a small table by the window, dressed in black. Actors Christopher Jones, a diagnosed schizophrenic, and everyone's "Juliet" for all seasons, Olivia Hussey.
Various medical types got up and made speeches, then Carol and I did our short performance which was well-received as I recall. We had champagne and cake. Eric, the patient, was presented for everyone's view and made a little speech.
After that, Carol and I left and went to the Troubadour, where I was asked if I had felt anything about the house; I didn't except it was very devoid of energy. Wasn't sure about the huge American flag hanging over the balcony. I was not happy to hear that I'd gone there without knowing what was going on.
Rudy Altobelli, the actual owner of the house, allowed this gathering to take place. He was a regular at Esalen. As was Manson.
None of this negates what a great song Bobby McGee is, and I hope it did something to clear the atmosphere.
Next time I encountered it, was at Sunset Sound, Janis at the helm and Paul Rothchild at the board.