Warren and Calderón would become lifelong friends and consistent songwriting collaborators.
While waiting for John Rhys’s promise of a solo album to come through, Warren took a number of lowly lounge player gigs at various country clubs and the types of seedy bars that would have done Charles Bukowski proud.
He quickly tired of the indignation. Although not usually one for confrontation, Warren’s frustrations with Rhys and his waiting game were at an end. There were already lingering squabbles over future profit arrangements between the two. Enough was enough. He called for a meeting and the two had a heated argument, resulting in Warren angrily cutting Rhys out of all future deals. But, in the heat of the moment, he had forgotten that Rhys had funded the initial demos that were still floating around town.
Having let his emotions get the best of him, Warren never saw the high-quality demo tapes again.
The Rhys sessions had been a dead-end and the sporadic studio gigs had yielded no recording contract. Following Warren’s mandatory court appearance at the beginning of March for the drunk-driving arrest, he and Crystal decided that there was nothing truly linking them to Los Angeles any longer.
For a few weeks, they crashed at Phil Everly’s guesthouse, saving every penny while liquidating any assets of value. Most of Warren’s instruments and equipment were sold off for quick cash. After looking through travel deals in the newspaper, the couple settled on the cheapest flight they could find: two one-way tickets to Madrid for the last week of May. Upon arriving, they had no future plans.
While on a layover in Denver awaiting a connecting flight, Warren’s name was paged. To his surprise, it was old friend David Marks calling him at the terminal. “I hadn’t spoken to Warren in a while,” remembered Marks. “At a certain point, our addictions had become destructive and we, kind of, just parted ways. It was subtle. There had been one tiff over the phone that had been fueled by alcohol and cocaine, and [we] hadn’t spoken since. But I heard he was leaving LA for another country and I found out the information and had him paged right there in the airport. I had to wish him bon voyage.” The two made peace before Warren faced his uncertain future.
Hopping from Madrid to Barcelona, Warren and Crystal took a train southwest to Sitges, a small beach community often referred to as “little Ibiza” for its artsy, countercultural atmosphere. Warren was enthralled by the exotic surroundings.
Following a tip from the Canadian couple with whom they had shared a hostel, the Zevons sought out an Irish bar called Dubliners. The English-speaking pub was owned by David Lindell, a former American soldier of fortune who had moved to Spain following years of mercenary work in Africa. To Warren, Lindell was like a real-life Humphrey Bogart character. The two liked each other immediately.
Martin guitar in hand, Warren was made the Dubliners’ musical entertainment for 200 pesetas—plus tips. For the remainder of the summer, he and Crystal lived as romantic expatriates. Each night, he entertained the Dubliners’ regulars with his own songs and popular requests while Crystal sat beside him and passed the hat. Lindell and his German wife, Lisa, provided the couple with breakfast and dinner, and Warren’s role as the pub’s very own Hoagy Carmichael footed the room and board.
He reveled in the adventurous nature of the trip itself and the experience of the foreign land. Like the pulp novels and film noir movies he had gobbled up over the years, he was a stranger in a strange land, crafting his own mysterious travelogue. The Graham Greene and Ross Macdonald paperbacks he had brought along for the journey only fueled the fantasy.
Nothing indulged Warren’s love of intrigue more than the former mercenary he had befriended, the Dubliners’ owner. Each night, Lindell shared tales of foreign combat with his inquisitive American friend and, before long, the two were sitting side-by-side after hours, toying with song ideas. Together, they came up with a macabre tale that was part pulp fiction and part ghost story: a catchy murder ballad about a headless mercenary who returns from the grave, seeking revenge on the men who had betrayed him.
Warren ran with the idea. The seeds had been planted for one of his most iconic and enduring compositions.
While there had been an air of hopelessness in Warren’s exodus to Spain, back in Los Angeles, things were slowly moving in his favor.
Over the past few years, Jackson Browne had released a string of radio hits for David Geffen’s label, and the charismatic young performer now carried his share of clout in the music scene. Under Browne’s Asylum agreement, he had been given both the power to produce his own albums and to scout for other potential talent. With that in mind, he had never forgotten the literary, electric demon that was his friend, Warren Zevon.
Browne and Warren had stayed in contact for years and both knew many of the same musicians; a few of the session men on Warren’s recent demo tapes had first appeared on Browne’s previous two albums. It was only natural that, at some point, the mutually gifted singer-songwriters would collaborate.
Toward the end of July, Warren received a postcard at Dubliners. The card’s face showed an idyllic California beach landscape while the flip side contained a single, handwritten message: “Come back home and there will be a recording contract.” It was signed simply, With love, Jackson.
To Warren, Browne’s dispatch wasn’t just hopeful—it was a solid promise of success if he and Crystal were to abandon their newfound bliss abroad. Considering the melodramatics of the past few years, it wasn’t an easy decision for either of them. The loss of both foster children had hit Crystal hard, while Warren’s stagnant music career had affected both their finances and their relationship. Then, of course, there were his ongoing bouts with drugs and alcohol. All were burdens that Spain had helped to dull.
Crystal knew, however, that if Warren were to miss this opportunity, he would regret it forever—and deep down, he hadn’t just been writing a wealth of new material for tourists. When a second message arrived, this time from Phil Everly, offering Warren work as an arranger on a solo album that he was completing in England, the Zevons tearfully said goodbye to Lindell and to Spain. They headed for England.
Warren completed his work-for-hire duties on Phil Everly’s Mystic Line by the end of August.
Other than the promise of Browne’s postcard, he and Crystal had no further plans upon their return to Los Angeles. For the first few days, they crashed at his father’s apartment in Gardena. Although William remained Warren’s biggest champion, the tension between father and son quickly took its toll on both. Since Jordan was born, William had given Warren more money than he could remember—and there always seemed to be drama and arrests. Instead, William loaned the couple enough money to rent a small place of their own on North Cherokee Avenue and bought them a used car to get around.
With no job lined up, Warren immediately set to work pruning his cache of new songs to present to Browne. By the time he was ready to triumphantly proclaim his return from Europe, there was almost enough material to fill two albums. But, there was one small problem. Browne hadn’t meant his postcard as anything more than mere words of encouragement between friends. Warren, however, had taken the message as a concrete promise of a record contract, something solid that would be put into motion upon his return from Europe.
Browne was forced to quickly make good on the insinuation and promptly went to David Geffen. It took some finagling to broker the deal. Despite Browne’s insistence of Warren’s talent, Geffen was convinced he was merely trying to help out a buddy in need. Ultimately, Browne was allocated $60,000 for the production of Warren’s Elektra/Asylum solo debut. Geffen had one stipulation—Browne would have to produce the album himself.
Warren was given a $6,000 advance for signing, plus the option to renew the contract based on the debut’s chart performance. He would soon be back in the high life.
Time couldn’t move fast enough. While Warren waited for the advance to be finalized, money remained tight. Browne’s Asylum connections had afforded the Zevons invitations to swanky Hollyw
ood parties with the likes of Don Henley and Joni Mitchell, yet, to save every penny, the couple stayed home most nights and played cards.
Crystal’s worst fears became realized when Warren quickly fell back into his old habits. He had now added pills to the steady mix of alcohol and recreational drug use, making for more fighting and more depression—especially as he waited for the Asylum studio dates to be announced. He had begun to consume vodka at a rate of a quart a day.
On the night Warren signed for his advance, an intense argument erupted that made Crystal finally realize the true extent of her husband’s addiction. In a drunken rage, Warren hit her. The couple had already weathered more than their fair share of shouting matches, but it was the first time Warren had gotten physical. Shocked and confused, she summoned the police. Hoping to keep Warren out of jail, she immediately redacted her statement. Still terrified, however, she fled the apartment and hitchhiked to Phil Everly’s house. He allowed her to stay for a few days while she ignored Warren’s calls and contemplated her next move.
When she and Warren finally spoke, he swore he’d change. In an effort to keep his promise, the couple moved into a new apartment at the Oakwood Garden Apartments, signaling yet another fresh start.
Crystal soon learned she was pregnant.
A few weeks later, Jackson Browne showed up at the Zevons’ new place with good news. Production on Warren Zevon was scheduled to begin the first week of November. The sessions would run throughout the holiday season, culminating in a summer release.
Elektra/Asylum’s studios were located on North La Cienega in West Hollywood. With Browne at the production helm, many of his most talented and famous friends could be depended upon to stop by and make cameos. Like the John Rhys demos from the previous year, the sessions were booked for evening and overnight hours—only this time, by choice. Nighttime seemed to be the right time to get the likes of Lindsey Buckingham, Glenn Frey, Don Henley, David Lindley, Stevie Nicks, Bonnie Raitt, J. D. Souther, and Carl Wilson to swing down to party and jam. Warren also enlisted Phil Everly to add some backup vocals, along with new friend and songwriting collaborator Jorge Calderón. Every session, the full group would assemble for Browne and Warren to select the most appropriate lineup for each individual track recording.
Apart from Warren himself, no one knew the material better than Waddy Wachtel. Warren insisted on his old friend as the album’s lead guitarist. “Warren had been playing a number of those tunes for me for a long time,” Wachtel remembered. “Stuff like ‘Hasten Down the Wind’ and ‘Carmelita,’ I knew those back from the Everly tours. So, Warren pretty much put me in Jackson’s face and said, ‘He’s got to be on this, he knows the songs and the parts.’”
It had been five years since Warren had entered the recording studio to lay down new material, yet he had never once stopped writing new songs. He entered the studio armed with a spectacular array of lyrics and compositions that critics and listeners wouldn’t be able to ignore. Warren envisioned this new work as a “concept album,” and experienced in chronological order, the songs told an entire epic of the American West.
Warren opened the album with a rollicking yarn of the frontier. He had originally written “Frank and Jesse James” in honor of Don and Phil Everly, crafting the story of the infamous bank-robbing brothers as a romantic metaphor for the Everlys’ roles as aging legends in a changing musical landscape. The composition was heavily influenced by Warren’s classical roots, and he deliberately incorporated complex syncopated chords for a playfully antiquated sound. It properly matched the throwback feel of the Old West itself. The composition was the closest to Aaron Copland that Warren ever got—whether he welcomed such comparisons or not. For the lyrics, he had pored over history books at the local library to get his facts straight on the lives of the real outlaws, and his ability to condense copious amounts of historical accuracy into such a structured pop framework proved a testament to his natural storytelling skills. More importantly, it was catchy. For the last year, Warren had even used “Frank and Jesse James” as a showpiece for friends and acquaintances to demonstrate his playing style. Especially proud of the song, Warren had initially recorded it on the Rhys demos over a year earlier.
Browne already considered “Frank and Jesse James” to be a potential radio hit. For this definitive recording, Browne enlisted seasoned pros Bob Glaub on bass and Larry Zack on drums. He rounded out the lineup with David Lindley, who added his distinctive flair to the track playing banjo and fiddle. Flattered as being inspiration for the song, Phil Everly came on board for background vocals.
Warren was never one to shy away from dipping into his own autobiography for lyrical content. Almost every love song he ever wrote had a specific girl in mind, and later, his own personal struggles seemed to be worked out therapeutically through his songwriting. “Mama Couldn’t Be Persuaded,” however, was not only the first true autobiographical song he completed; it was also the most humorously embellished for narrative’s sake. He had the initial idea for the song a few years back while in Las Vegas for the Everly Brothers’ doomed final tour. Inspired by Don Everly’s casino winning streak, Warren scrawled the story of his own parents’ courtship on hotel stationery. For the song, he shifted focus to William Zevon’s professional gambler background, and Beverly’s parents’ lifelong disapproval of him. Life hadn’t been easy for young, preadolescent Warren, but his song’s rocking reimagining made the years of domestic squabbles fun to sing about. The lyrics painted a colorful portrait of the unnamed “gambling man” as a harbinger of the seedier side of life, while playing the role of the charming scoundrel; the “Mama” of the title can’t resist the smooth-talking lothario, much to her family’s dismay.
If Warren Zevon is to be taken as a spiritual chronology of the New West, “Mama Couldn’t Be Persuaded” offered a look into the post-Depression era that linked the Old West of the James brothers to the modern neon landscape in which Warren and his generation now lived. For the track, the same studio lineup as “Frank and Jesse James” was used, creating a sonic continuity and further establishing the narrative structure that the full album would contain.
“Backs Turned Looking Down the Path” was a song written at a faster pace, but with no less autobiographical influence, than the other tracks on the album. Warren had started the initial work on it just prior to leaving for Spain with Crystal and had continued to tinker with it up until their first night in Madrid. At the time, he had confided to his new wife that it was the song he believed that he would be best remembered for. Although the song clearly reflected the hopeful wanderlust that Warren and Crystal had felt in leaving Los Angeles less than a year before, the resulting track was more reminiscent of his earliest style as part of lyme and cybelle.
Recorded at the end of January 1976, the folkish tune was one of the last tracks for the sessions and was given a more modern treatment with a switch in lineup: Lindsey Buckingham was brought in for additional guitar work, along with Browne himself, who played slide guitar; Marty David took over on bass and former Steve Miller Band player Gary Mallaber took over on drums.
“I knew Jackson for a while and had recorded with him on For Everyman,” Mallaber remembered. “In LA, there was this amazing collective of songwriters and performers that kind of knew each other from hanging around the Troubadour and, eventually, all collaborating together. I got to be part of that ‘roundtable’ and then was brought in to meet Warren.”
According to Mallaber, although it was Warren’s album, Browne was the driving force in the studio. “Jackson, as a producer, always knew exactly what he wanted and who to use in chopping down that creative forest. So, for Warren’s album, he really assembled the best collective that, I think, he knew would work. Much of the work was primarily divided between the other drummers and myself, and I think that Jackson and Warren always had it in mind to utilize certain players for their strongest suits on specific tracks.”
In later years, Warren would joke that when he performed “Has
ten Down the Wind” in concert, he could tell who his real friends were by counting the number of walkouts during the song. Not that it was a weak tune. On the contrary, it would later be heralded as one of his lyrical masterpieces. Originally written during his tumultuous split from Tule, Warren playfully explained later that the song was so personal, he had to write it in the third person. The ballad of lost, confused, young love did aim for the heart, especially presented as the first ballad introduced on the album. Its John O’Hara–inspired lyrics were enough to convince bestselling songstress Linda Ronstadt not only to cover the song later that same year, but retain the song’s title for her own album. Waddy Wachtel played lead guitar on both versions.
For Warren’s version, Wachtel was joined by the initial lineup of bassist Bob Glaub and drummer Larry Zack; Lindley added his slide guitar and Phil Everly contributed backup vocals.
Following the slow, mournful vibe of “Hasten,” the next track brought listeners right back into the world of real rock and roll. Warren had recorded “Poor Poor Pitiful Me” as a demo track for John Rhys. The new, definitive version—with Browne at the production helm and a band twice the original size—rounded the rousing, tongue-in-cheek lament to bad relationships to new heights.
Warren later claimed that the song had been inspired by Desmond Dekker’s reggae Rasta hit “Israelites,” a song he sometimes covered years before with Danny McFarland during their Berkeley days. Laden with in-jokes and downtown Los Angeles references, the song’s unnamed narrator makes his way across town where the girls only get fiercer and more dangerous, culminating in a humorous S&M episode at the famed Hyatt House. At that point in the track, Warren adds in dry spoken-word, “I don’t wanna talk about it,” before the band blazes back in before the fade-out. The core lineup was joined by Bobby Keys on saxophone and Lindley on fiddle. Jai Winding played piano to let Warren let loose vocally. For the rest of his career, Warren would often use the song as an encore to bring down the house.
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