Howe agreed to oversee some early demos, but believed that someone familiar with hard rock would be a more appropriate producer. He chose Kim Fowley, a promoter and notorious character from the local music scene whose passions were more in line with underground art movements. His flamboyant bravado had earned him a reputation as Los Angeles’s answer to Andy Warhol. As unorthodox as his style could appear, his intuition for hot musical acts often attracted record executives.
In later years, Fowley would be best remembered for discovering Joan Jett and the Runaways, but in the late 1960s, he was still looking for a foray into studio production. “Kim was what I call a ‘Sunset Boulevard character,’” remembered Howe. “He was hanging out in all the different clubs and pretended to be extremely intellectual. He would often call me or hang around my office scouting for acts to record. I thought that he and Warren might hit it off.”
As Fowley recalled, “One day, Bones had me come over to his office and said, ‘I want you to help me solve a problem—this is Warren Zevon.’ And he played me some of Warren’s work, which at that point was the lyme and cybelle stuff and some commercial stuff. He called Warren, ‘a troubled, but brilliant guy,’ and thought we might be a good fit together in the studio. After I heard the music, I said to Bones, ‘Oh, he’s literary, huh? So, I’ll just let him be Ernest Hemingway with a slide guitar, or F. Scott Fitzgerald down in the Delta.’”
That initial impression of Warren wasn’t far off. In the few years since lyme and cybelle ended, Warren had been writing new songs at a furious pace, always refining his style. He had matured as both a songwriter and as a composer. The new material ran the gamut from blues to folk rock, from classically influenced to experimental. His love of literature also influenced his creative evolution, with lyrics sometimes reminiscent of film noir atmosphere, but shot through with his own wry wit.
While many of those songs would never see the light of day, Warren used the best of the bunch for his Imperial demos. In the coming years, he would also use them as raw material for more mature work.
For his first meeting with Fowley, Warren presented the full cache. “I went over to Beachwood Canyon and there was Warren with Tule,” Fowley remembered. “Tule was a beautiful, pale, redheaded goddess. Of course, Warren is drinking cognac at four in the afternoon and starts expounding on everything from Damon Runyon to Dashiell Hammett just to see if I’m literate or not. But, I am, and we were kind of like kindred spirits and, at first, we really got along. After he played all this material for me, I told him, ‘Just be presumptuous in your lyrics and drink a lot and steal from black musicians in the Delta and you’ll be fine.’”
Warren’s synergy with Fowley was genuinely strong and the two began spending time together around Los Angeles, usually at the Whisky or the Troubadour. Fowley gave Warren session work on his own solo album Good Clean Fun and a project he was producing for the Underground All-Stars, Extremely Heavy!
On one occasion, the two attended a Doors concert at the Hollywood Bowl. It was Warren’s only time seeing Jim Morrison in person, but the already-legendary rocker’s poetic persona and swagger fascinated him. During their very first conversation, Fowley had asked Warren, “Are you prepared to wear black leather and chains, fuck a lot of teenage girls, and get rich?” While Warren most certainly wanted that kind of success, it was apparent that Fowley’s vision differed from his own. Bob Dylan would never wear chains. In addition to coordinating the upcoming studio dates, Fowley attempted to play Pygmalion, giving instruction on how to dress and walk like a rock star. Egos began to clash as soon as the recording sessions began.
A number of seasoned musicians were brought into the studio to help out, including the Byrds’ bassist Skip Battin and drummers Jon Corneal, Drachen Theaker, and Toxey French for various songs. Imperial hired LA-based photographer Richard Edlund to shoot Warren’s headshot for the cover. Affectionately dubbed “Darkroom Dick,” or “Dark,” for short, Warren and Edlund would remain friends for years.
The strongest material for the album came from songs Warren had long been refining. “A Bullet for Ramona” and “She Quit Me” were compositions he had started just after leaving lyme and cybelle, while “Gorilla” and the heavy sound collage “Fiery Emblems” were products of his experimenting with David Marks. He had penned “Tule’s Blues” for his muse, Marilyn. The influence of both classical composition and pulp crime literature was evident in the music and lyrics.
Although Warren had begrudgingly agreed to use one of Fowley’s own songs as the album’s title track, creative differences quickly became the unraveling of their collaboration. Fowley left the production of Wanted Dead or Alive with just over half of the sessions recorded. “Warren wanted to play all the instruments himself and couldn’t take direction,” recalled Fowley. “I eventually went up to him and I said, ‘Warren, you’re unproducible. Why don’t you just produce this thing yourself and make it easier on everybody? No hard feelings.’ I went home and called him the next day and told him I had the clap and needed to take a week off, so he should keep going without me. I told the label something like, ‘Because of Warren’s artistry, I think it’s appropriate that he complete the album himself.’ So I helped him select some of the songs and do some arrangements and he went off on his own. But Warren took forever to finish that record and took too long, spending too much of Imperial’s money. It’s not as good as his later work, but at least he indulged himself and got it finished.”
Warren later claimed he had a different reason for wanting to finish the album alone. As he put it, he had suffered “a sudden attack of taste.”
On the morning of August 7, 1969, Tule went into labor. Warren helped her into the VW bug and rushed her downtown to Good Samaritan Hospital. He carried her up the steps, gave her a kiss, and—having a studio session booked for that afternoon—left her in the care of her mother, Mary. He then rushed to the studio and tried to focus on the recording at hand.
Mary called him there later that afternoon with news that he was now the father of a beautiful, healthy baby boy. Ecstatic, Warren ran out and bought cigars for all the musicians. While sipping the Boone’s Farm wine that a bandmate had produced in celebration, Warren looked across the studio at the Jordan amplifier the band had been using and thought it had a nice ring to it. He had found the perfect name for his son.
Jordan Zevon immediately became his father’s major incentive to make it big.
Knowing that Warren would need more money to support Tule and their new son, Bones Howe pushed for one of Warren’s songs to be incorporated onto the soundtrack for the upcoming film Midnight Cowboy. He selected “She Quit Me” as the submission, believing that its moody, noirish lyrics would suit the somber drama. The track was considered for the film’s theme, but was ultimately bumped in favor of Harry Nilsson’s “Everybody’s Talking.”
It was of little consequence to Warren. Although the song’s title and lyrics were slightly retooled to match the gender of bluesy songstress Lesley Miller’s cover version, the soundtrack became a bestseller and earned Warren his first gold record. He proudly presented the framed award to his father.
William Zevon displayed it on his wall for the rest of his life.
No one was prouder of Warren’s recent successes than his father.
William had since moved out of Los Angeles, taking an apartment in the suburban section of Gardena. There, he spent his days hanging around a few legal poker parlors—the Rainbow Club and the Monterey—and was soon a known figure among the local underworld. In January 1969 he remarried, this time a young cashier from the Monterey named Ruby Collins. Ever the charmer, William doted on his bride with expensive jewelry and a brand-new Cadillac.
But that love of flash and high living came with a cost. William’s recent exploits throughout Gardena’s poker clubs soon brought more attention from law enforcement than he had received in decades. Only a few months into his marriage to Collins, an FBI informant claimed that William spent most of his time collec
ting gambling debts on behalf of Los Angeles mob boss Nicolo Licata. There were also mentions of loansharking and fencing stolen jewelry. Buying cars for his son and new wife hadn’t helped matters. For the next year, he was under constant surveillance, with FBI agents monitoring his every move. When it got to be too much for Ruby Collins, she divorced him. But, like Beverly Cope before her, she eventually returned. After William suffered a massive heart attack in 1971 they remarried for a few years, although that second shot didn’t last either.
Alone once again, William took both the FBI attention and the heart attack as warning signs. Now in his seventies, he was older and wiser. He retired from all the seedy activities that had previously defined him. For the rest of William Zevon’s life, gambling remained a mere hobby.
Besides, he already had a lifetime of great stories to tell his new grandson.
Warren had become a father, but that did little to curb his penchant for late nights, booze, and drugs. He insisted they fueled his creative energy. Those activities had always been a part of his process, but with the stress of producing material for a follow-up album and two mouths to feed, they had become habitual. As the stress mounted, Warren’s behavior sometimes took a dark turn. Some nights, he would disappear—usually crashing on friends’ couches or checking into seedy motels with bottles of whiskey and hordes of drugs, immersing himself in the atmosphere that inspired his pulpish lyrics.
But the combination also had the potential to fuel his temper. “There was one time that Warren was arguing loudly with Tule in front of the Troubadour,” remembered Fowley. “He was jealous of something and was calling her awful names and she was crying. I saw him walk away and leave her stranded and it’s about two in the morning. So, I gave her a lift to my place and the next morning, made her breakfast and sent her home in a cab. I thought twice about that because Tule insisted Warren would hurt her. Warren found out from people at the club that she left with me and was furious. He calls me and insists that I’d slept with her, going, ‘That’s my girl, motherfucker.’ I tried to calm him down, saying, ‘I don’t fuck my friends’ girls, and besides, she’s not dirty enough for me.’ But he was convinced I slept with her. We didn’t talk again for about twenty years.”
Other friends had learned to weather the storms of Warren’s erratic behavior—sometimes even enable it. Although David Marks had not played a part in Warren’s first album, he had remained a close companion and creative sounding board. “That was around the time that Warren was living on and off in hotels and just not going home,” Marks remembered. “If he wasn’t crashing with me, he would end up at the Tropicana or the Hollywood Hawaiian, which was really dingy—the way he liked it, especially for his writing.”
One night, Warren couldn’t pay his bill at the Hollywood Hawaiian and called Marks for help. Ever the perfect partner-in-crime, Marks drove to the motel’s back alley and watched as Warren threw his belongings out the window and snaked down the fire escape. The experience would lead to one of his best-known songs.
Years later, Warren made amends. He returned to the hotel and paid his longstanding bill, along with bestowing autographed copies of his album.
Unfortunately, the success of Midnight Cowboy’s soundtrack did nothing for Warren’s solo debut. As he would famously later recall, “Wanted Dead or Alive was released to the sound of one hand clapping.”
His talents were evident to all his friends and collaborators, but mainstream success continued to elude him. Without a charting single and with dismal sales, the album was quickly forgotten. Frustrated, Warren knew it was time to buckle down once again. He had copious amounts of songs in progress, but focus would be crucial to landing a real hit on the radio—a mark of success that he had once briefly glimpsed with lyme and cybelle.
Yielding to Warren’s pleas, Bones Howe convinced Imperial that he deserved a second shot at recording an album. Whereas Kim Fowley had helmed a good portion of Wanted Dead or Alive, for its follow-up, Howe was able to negotiate a deal that promised Warren the producer’s chair from start to finish.
Many of the songs that Warren had in the bag were more melodic and lyrical, which marked a promising start on the early demos. But his love of experimentation was still strong as ever. With Marks on guitar and Warren himself utilizing a custom-made amplifier designed by “Darkroom Dick” Edlund, the entire second half of the sessions soon evolved into a lengthy instrumental steeped in ambient psychedelic sounds.
The title for the album remained up in the air. At one point considering the project to be an extension of “Fiery Emblem,” the dissonant closing track of Wanted Dead or Alive, Warren toyed with naming his sophomore effort An Emblem for the Devil. Its other possible title, A Leaf in the Wind, came from a line in “Studebaker,” a melancholy work-in-progress of which Warren was particularly proud. He could rock out when he wanted to, but the song’s poetic lyricism demonstrated that, at heart, he could also write like a Tin Pan Alley poet laureate. Songs like “Steady Rain” and the Faustian “The Rosarita Beach Café” further displayed Warren’s earliest fusions of romantic storytelling with Raymond Chandler’s neon-lit lingo.
Howe joined in on the fun, taking to the drums on the folk-rock foot-stomper “You Used to Ride So High.” Impressed with the early demos that he heard, the producer was nonetheless confused by the mix of genres that Warren was concocting. “Warren and I were not on great terms at that point because he was being rebellious,” Howe recalled. “He really wanted to get away from being a pop artist and cut off any idea that he was pop-oriented. And with the tracks I heard, he had certainly done just that.”
With a sizeable budget, the musicians had their jollies letting loose in the studio. All involved were shocked when Imperial’s executives were less enthusiastic. To the group’s great disappointment, the label abruptly canceled the album’s release. The contract with Imperial was voided.
As a new decade was beginning, Warren knew he had to reinvent himself once again.
CHAPTER THREE
(1970–1976)
BONES HOWE HAD NOT BEEN ABLE TO SWAY IMPERIAL’S DECISION to cancel Warren’s second album, but he soon received a phone call that validated Warren’s growing reputation as a songwriter.
During his time producing the Association, Howe had crossed paths with a young representative from the William Morris Agency named David Geffen. The twenty-eight-year-old agent’s smooth business savvy was matched only by his ambition to climb within the ranks of the music industry. When Geffen hadn’t been able to secure a recording contract for his client, a young folk singer named Jackson Browne, he and fellow representative Elliot Roberts partnered up to form Asylum Records. Howe knew that the two were assembling their Asylum roster and were on the hunt for new talent.
Having heard about Warren’s songwriting skills through the industry grapevine, Geffen wanted to sign him. “I still had a contract with Warren at the time,” remembered Howe. “David called me up and told me he had heard Warren was a talented songwriter and he wanted to make a deal to have him write some songs for Asylum. After that last album hadn’t happened, I thought this was a good deal, so I arranged it.”
Warren was in excellent company. Geffen’s early list of talent was a veritable who’s who of artists representing the currently popular smooth California rock sound. Jackson Browne, the Eagles, Joni Mitchell, Linda Ronstadt, J. D. Souther, and Tom Waits—whose debut Bones Howe was assigned to produce—all found artistic solace on Geffen’s songwriter-driven label. Warren’s literate lyrics and complex, yet catchy, composition style seemed a perfect fit.
Geffen had also struck a deal for his new label to be distributed through Atlantic Records, guaranteeing his artists plenty of exposure. When Asylum was taken over by Warner Music Group in 1972, Geffen then arranged a merger with Elektra Records to form the Elektra/Asylum hybrid. The company, like its founder, was soon a powerhouse in the entertainment industry.
Warren’s status as a house songwriter for Asylum may have brought in some inc
ome, but the work remained sporadic.
Luckily, Bones Howe wasn’t the only friend who had Warren’s best interests at heart. The collaborations with David Marks may not have yielded any finished musical output, but their friendship soon led to another crucial connection. Aside from his eclectic musical projects around Los Angeles, Marks had wisely allocated some of his old Beach Boys residuals toward other financial investments. He had purchased an apartment complex in one of the more stylish residential areas north of Hollywood Boulevard and instilled his parents as the building’s managers. Yielding to Tule’s never-ending concerns about Warren’s erratic behavior, Marks helped the couple set up camp in one of the Franklin Avenue apartments.
As part of his usual routine, Marks would often swing by the building to see that things were running smoothly. These frequent visits prompted many of his big-name friends to follow suit, casually dropping by on the chance that he might be around and inadvertently turning the property into an unofficial hot spot. One of the building’s regular visitors was Phil Everly, who had become close friends with Marks and his parents. “Warren and Tule and Jordan lived in my apartment building for a while, right around the time that he was trying to finish that album and got dropped,” remembered Marks. “Well, my mom was pals with Phil—he really liked my folks and would visit them there all the time. So, my dear little mother liked Warren and spoke to Phil and got him a job on the road with the Everly Brothers.”
Phil and his older brother, Don, had enjoyed their greatest success years before the Beatles had crossed the pond and forever changed rock and roll. Hoping to recapture some of the old magic that had defined their heyday of the early 1960s, the Everlys had a major tour in the works. While there was still a demand for performances of their youthful classics like “Wake Up Little Susie” and “All I Have to Do Is Dream,” the brothers were now in their thirties and their boyish innocence had long since worn thin; years of speed addiction and constant public bickering had hardened them both.
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