Unrequited Infatuations

by Stevie Van Zandt

  It took us a while to realize the movie had ended. As we finally got up to leave, we noticed Johnny Waasdorp was still staring at the screen, mouth open. His mind was completely gone.

  We got him home, and over the course of the next few days he slowly returned to us, but in the form of a seven-year-old child. He never came back any further than that. We gradually lost touch with him, and some years later heard that he had killed himself. A sad loss of a great friend and enormous talent.

  Stick with the Internet.

  At a certain point in 1969 or so, Bruce called me and asked if he could switch to the Telecaster.

  I know that sounds funny, but growing up when we did, your guitar was your identity. And I was the Telecaster guy. Bruce had his weird converted bass guitar for a while and then a Les Paul, which probably proved to be too damn heavy.

  I said OK. I had been trying a Stratocaster out lately and liked it. And anyway, guitar playing was starting to feel kind of over. The Rock world was about to undergo a major transformation.

  In 1969 the Beatles had already broken up, but we didn’t know it yet. A world without them was going to be psychologically traumatic, and not just for me. They were our generation’s leaders, teachers, and inspiration. I don’t think the Stones ever quite recovered from having to try a little harder as the number two band in the world.

  We were lucky to have had them as long as we did, keeping in mind we met them halfway through their career. They were together for twelve years and put out thirteen glorious albums in seven years of recording. Keeping a great band together that long isn’t easy.

  Cream did three and a half albums.

  The Jeff Beck Group with Rod, Ronnie, Nicky, Mick, and then Tony did two.

  Moby Grape did three.

  Buffalo Springfield had broken up by the time their third record came out.

  The Youngbloods did two, lost Jerry Corbitt, did one more.

  The Byrds lost their main songwriter, Gene Clark, by their third album but still managed four more classics.

  With a handful of exceptions, the great bands averaged between three and four albums.

  Why? Because what made those classic bands classic was the amount of talent. The Temptations had five lead singers! With that much talent, it’s hard to keep things together unless you have a Manager who understands that the band matters more than any individual. And that’s rare.

  Most Managers encourage the lead singer to go solo. More money for them both. And it’s easier to control the situation. But the records are never the same. When the harmony voice joining Dave Mason is Stevie Winwood, it’s better than when it’s not. Traffic is one of the exceptions—they lost Mason after their second album, then did three more great ones.

  Only the Rolling Stones, half of the Who, and two-fifths of the Yardbirds remain working from the original bands of the British Invasion. Lead singers abound, which is great, but it’s not the same thing.

  No matter how you sliced it, as the new decade began, the simultaneous evolution of sociopolitical consciousness and the nascent Artform of Rock was starting to come apart at the seams.

  The optimism that began at the Human Be-In and the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967 got damaged at the Chicago riots in 1968, but made a comeback and peaked at Woodstock. It was now unraveling with Altamont, Manson’s murders, and the Beatles’ breakup.

  As the election of Richard Nixon represented society’s reluctance to change, and the failure of Rock to change it, the once-bright ’60s limped to a politically disappointing dark end, and Rock and politics would go their separate ways for a while.

  At the same time, the Renaissance of the ’60s would end appropriately with a work of unparalleled genius that would complete the promise of Sgt. Pepper, sum up the entire Rock Era of the ’50s and ’60s, and reveal the pinnacle of the Artform of Rock:

  The Who’s masterpiece Tommy.

  So how do we follow that?

  four

  Southside Johnny and the Kid

  (1971)

  In this jungle we’re slaves to politics,

  And we call ourselves civilized,

  If you ain’t got the muscle,

  Fear gonna run your life.

  —“FEAR,” FROM VOICE OF AMERICA

  Big Danny was having trouble concentrating.

  Being a seven-foot-tall, flaming-red-haired, 380-pound real-life leprechaun may have come in handy when negotiating the tense situations encountered in the course of daily existence, but his intimidating girth could not help him now.

  He had the option to build more houses on Boardwalk and Park Place, but Obie already had hotels on Marvin Gardens, Albee was building on St. Charles, and Eddie Larachi had swallowed up the railroads and Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Big Danny checked again. He was low on funds. It was hard to think with 120 dB of Rock and Roll being blasted into the echoey old barn that was now the Asbury Park Hullabaloo Club. But that was part of the challenge of being a Monopoly Player onstage with Dr. Zoom and the Sonic Boom! This was his job, and he could handle it. He had to. It was the only gig in town.

  The fragmentation of Rock wouldn’t happen until the early ’70s. In the ’60s, there were a series of overlapping monocultural trends that happened like clockwork: the British Invasion in ’64, Folk Rock in ’65, Blues Rock in ’66, the Psychedelic Summer of Love in ’67, Country Rock in ’68, Hard Rock in ’69, and (mostly white) Southern-Gospel-Soul-Rock in ’70.

  Each major city had one main FM station that reinforced the shared artistic sensibility, so the whole country happily, fearlessly, explored the new artistic vistas right along with the Artists as the new Artform created them.

  Some Renaissance artists would enter in the year the specific genre fit them—Jimi Hendrix in Psychedelic ’67—and some would move from trend to trend, bringing their genius along with them.

  Before the Beatles, Artists considered any hit a miracle, and they (and their record company) showed their gratitude by releasing a slightly rewritten version of the same hit as a follow-up single.

  The Twist?

  Let’s Twist Again.

  Perfect.

  Simple as that.

  But the first nine albums by the Beatles were a constantly changing story. They weren’t thinking Art. They just did what came naturally. But by doing so they did something they don’t get enough credit for—they invented the concept of musical evolution.

  And in doing so, influenced everyone who followed, artists and audiences alike.

  Each new Byrds album branched out into new genres. Every Who and Kinks release broadened the subjects Rock bands could write about. We waited for the next Stones single to vent our teenage frustration and to hear the new guitar tones. Bob Dylan would climb straight up reaching for his artistic persona through Blonde on Blonde before abandoning autobiography altogether and settling on his everyman troubadour persona for the rest of his life while continuing to surprise us to this very day.

  The Beatles, incredibly, went from “Love Me Do” to “I Am the Walrus” in six short years, and we as an audience went with them, while we as artists/singers/musicians evolved on the backs of their amazing growth and those yearly genre trends, taking a little from this and a little from that as we built our own future identities.

  In late 1969, Bruce started Steel Mill, a band that combined Blues Rock, Hard Rock, Southern Gospel Rock, and Roy Orbison’s cinematic technique of going new places in a song without repeating where he’d been.

  It was Bruce, Vini Lopez on drums, Vinnie Roslin from the Motifs on bass, and Danny Federici on the rare (because it was so gigantic and expensive) Hammond B-3 organ.

  The closest thing to compare it to was a combination of early Rascals, Deep Purple, and Rhinoceros, with one voice instead of two.

  When Steel Mill started to get popular on the East Coast, Bruce went west to audition for Bill Graham’s new Fillmore record label. He didn’t get signed, but on his way back he called me. “Vinnie’s not working out,” he sai
d. “Would you mind switching to bass for awhile until we figure it out?”

  My time with Gingerbread had ended and I had nothing better going on. “Sure,” I said.

  I got the new Dan Armstrong see-through bass and a huge Ampeg amp that I feel like I’m still paying off and jumped in. Our audience kept growing, especially in Jersey and Richmond, Virginia.

  I’m not sure where the connection to Richmond came from. Maybe Tinker. But we were big down there. Richmond always felt like spring. Twenty degrees warmer than Jersey. Beautiful buildings and trees. Clean. The girls were lovely, less cynical, and, in those liberated times, very friendly. It was paradise. Bruce and I would drive down there in my ’62 ragtop Austin Healey with the bug-eye headlights. No heat. No shocks. Five hours or so, but we didn’t care.

  Steel Mill was the first time we experienced the thrill of having what I call “live hits.”

  Bruce’s songwriting was improving all the time, and if we got back to a town often enough, certain songs were so immediately accessible that they’d become favorites.

  Steel Mill peaked on September 11, 1970, when we returned to the scene of my first experience onstage, the Clearwater Swim Club in Highlands.

  There had to have been a thousand people there, maybe more, all having a great, mellow time. For no discernible reason, the Middletown police had bought riot gear, even though there was no crime in Middletown whatsoever, never mind riots.

  The pool was set down in a valley, and all I remember was looking up and seeing what I’d seen in a dozen Westerns: we were completely surrounded by Indians up on the surrounding hills!

  But these Indians were cops in military riot gear, and I had a Ghost Dance moment as they charged down the hill and brutally attacked the audience. They were beating everyone in sight with clubs and shields for the capital crime of having long hair and possibly smoking pot!

  In the melee that followed, Danny saw two cops arresting someone and pushed the PA system down on them.

  Now Danny was… well, picture an older Dennis the Menace, the kind of character who unscrewed the metal plate that held the elevator buttons as we left a hotel because he’d thought of a creative use for it on his B-3.

  Article about the “riot” at Clearwater Swim Club after a Steel Mill concert

  The Courier

  Anyway, some cops saw him push the PA, and the chase was on. He escaped and had to go on the lam for a while until things cooled off.

  For once the neighborhood was on our side, acknowledging the psychotic police chief, Joe McCarthy, had gone too far.

  Even though we were getting bigger and bigger, Bruce surprised the hell out of me and decided he didn’t want to be the lead singer anymore. He found a guy named Robbin Thompson from a Richmond band called Mercy Flight.

  Great guy. But what the fuck?

  I guess Bruce was having existential doubts as to which identity would both work commercially and feel comfortable for the rest of his life. I’m still having those moments.

  Predictably, that move totally confused Steel Mill’s audience and killed whatever momentum we had. Next!

  Whoever ran the Asbury Park Hullabaloo Club, also known as the Sunshine Inn (I seem to remember John Scher, who would become the main Jersey Promoter, being involved), got word to us that they could use a house band to open for the big acts coming through town.

  We decided to put a band together that included everyone we knew, both guys and girls. Whoever didn’t play an instrument could sweep up between songs. Or blow up balloons. Or play Monopoly or Risk onstage. That way, everyone could get some bread. We named the mobile commune Dr. Zoom and the Sonic Boom.

  That’s when Johnny got his nickname “Southside.” He had started dressing like he did on his first album cover, with the hat and shades. Like the Blues Brothers five years later. Bruce started calling him Chicago Johnny. “No,” I said, “the action’s on the Southside, where the Checkerboard Lounge is, Pepper’s, Theresa’s, Florence’s, the 708, Turner’s.” And so it was.

  I remember opening for Black Sabbath and Humble Pie. I wish now I’d made a point of meeting Steve Marriott, just on the basis of “Itchycoo Park” alone, but I wasn’t as big a fan of the Small Faces as I would become. We especially looked forward to the J. Geils Band, because Geils had slicked-back hair on the band’s first album cover, a cool rebellious throwback look. But he disappointed us profoundly by joining the modern world like five minutes before we played with them. Tragic. But Peter Wolf was one of the greatest front men we’d ever seen. Still is. I have a fond memory of opening for Big Brother and the Holding Company and of Bruce running for his life from Janis Joplin, who wanted to fuck him. She scared him to death.

  Every month or two, the same group of guys more or less would turn into a different band.

  We had the Sundance Blues Band, with Garry Tallent on bass, Big Bobby Williams on drums, Davie Sancious on keys, Bruce on second guitar, and me on lead vocals/guitar.

  We had a soul group called Funky Dusty and the Soul Broom, with me leading.

  We had a country thing for a minute called the Hired Hands with Albee Tellone up front, which is when I first picked up the mandolin and spent a few months trying to figure out the impossible pedal steel guitar.

  We then decided to get into the final ’60s genre: southern (mostly white) Soul.

  Southern white Soul covered a lot of territory, from the marriage of Blues and Country by the Allman Brothers Band to the Band’s creation of what would eventually be called Americana.

  But it was Blues combined with Country and Gospel that got our attention: Delaney and Bonnie and Friends, then Taj Mahal (decidedly not white) with Native American Jesse Ed Davis (decidedly not white) on guitar, Ry Cooder, Bonnie Raitt. The ultimate example was Mad Dogs and Englishmen, with Joe Cocker up front and Leon Russell leading the band.

  Cocker, the former plumber in the tie-dyed shirt, was a blue-eyed English Soul Man, channeling Ray Charles so intensely that his spastic body appeared to be completing some kind of invisible electric soul circuit.

  And the band behind him included horns and chick singers. The Rolling Stones picked up on what was next and included horns and chick singers on their incredible Exile on Main St. album and tour.

  We found our own chicks and horns. I think Bruce actually went to a local Gospel church to find the girls.

  It was around that time that I convinced Bruce to start using his own name.

  It was quite recently that he was still debating whether he wanted to be a lead singer at all. This time, I wasn’t having it. “Look,” I said. “You’re gonna be the leader and lead singer and main writer. That ain’t gonna change. It’ll still be a band, but it’s time for you to be recognized.” That was me. Always looking out for my own self-interest.

  What a putz.

  It took a few weeks, but I would not back down. He knew if anybody criticized the idea, I had his back. He finally got over his embarrassment, and we became the Bruce Springsteen Band.

  We continued to go down to Richmond regularly, still in my Austin Healey. The take was split nine or ten ways, but I don’t remember even thinking about money in those days. Didn’t need it. Never spent it. We were as free as we’d ever be in our whole lives. No responsibilities. Typical rent was $150.

  Richmond was where the road to stardom would end for the Bruce Springsteen Band. Vini Lopez earned his new moniker, “Mad Dog,” by punching our trumpet player in the mouth (where else?). Before the show.

  It was the final straw. We’d tried everything. The ship was sailing and we couldn’t get a ticket. We were twenty-one, twenty-two, on the verge of too old to be discovered.

  Bruce went home to New Jersey to think. I stayed in Richmond, where Southside and I formed a devolutionary Country-Blues Folk duo, Southside Johnny and the Kid. We played Robert Johnson, Son House, Jimmy Reed, Fred McDowell, a cool arrangement of Elmore James’s “Look on Yonder Wall.” Davie Sancious sat in if there was a piano around, and Garry Tallent occasionally
also. We were edging our way back toward being a band, when…

  Rrrrrrrrrring.

  “Stevie, it’s Bruce. Come on back. I got signed!”

  five

  The Business

  (1972)

  A masterpiece is a thousand good guesses.

  —THE UNWRITTEN BOOK

  The band era had peaked and fragmented. Nobody was coming to New Jersey to sign us.

  So Bruce wises up and gets signed as a Singer-Songwriter, what used to be called a Folk singer, by the legendary John Hammond, no less! The guy who tried to book Robert Johnson at Carnegie Hall for the From Spirituals to Swing concerts. He’d been a few weeks too late. Johnson had just been poisoned by a jealous husband or a pissed-off girlfriend. Hammond signed Benny Goodman and Billie Holiday. He integrated Jazz by encouraging Benny Goodman to use Count Basie and Lionel Hampton. He signed Aretha Franklin to Columbia Records for the first phase of her career and then Bob Dylan, known as Hammond’s Folly when his first album didn’t sell. The label wanted to drop him. “Over my dead body,” Hammond said.

  The tradition went back to the troubadours of antiquity and coalesced in the Greenwich Village Folk clubs of the ’60s where Dave Van Ronk, the Mayor of MacDougal Street, held court at places like the Bitter End, the Gaslight, the Night Owl, Gerde’s Folk City, the Purple Onion, the Kettle of Fish, Café Figaro, the Village Gate, and Cafe Wha?

  Those folkies followed the path of Woody Guthrie and included Pete Seeger, Fred Neil, Tom Paxton, Phil Ochs, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Tim Hardin, Tim Rose, Tim Buckley, and Tiny Tim among others.

  Then came Dylan, who revitalized and revolutionized Folk music before plugging in and becoming a Rock star. Donovan, Leonard Cohen, and Joni Mitchell had success in his wake, but it was the Beatles signing James Taylor to their new Apple label, which refurbished Folk as the new Singer-Songwriter genre.