♦ ♦ ♦
During that week, nights were spent with the Bolans or Janet and Lucy, Frank’s groupie actresses, dining out or clothes shopping at Biba. Keith appeared, ready to work or to play, he didn’t care which. That changed the dynamic a bit. Supergroupie Miss Pamela had flown in to do a small part in the film and wound up spending her off-hours in Keith’s company, which made me vaguely jealous for reasons I couldn’t yet understand. Things were chaotic. Frank was having heated meetings with Tony Palmer, the video director hired to bring Frank’s vision to the big screen. But Frank thought that the directing duties were to be split up: Frank would direct the musicians and the actors, even the dancers, and Tony would call the camera shots and be responsible for the look of the film. The entire movie was to be shot on videotape and later transferred to film—a never-before-used technique for a major studio production. But Tony wanted to direct the actors, and that was us. And we belonged to Frank. So Tony Palmer quit too.
Now United Artists was faced with a decision. Would they let Zappa keep running up exorbitant studio charges with a dubious cast and no director, or would they just shut down the project and swallow their losses?
If I had taken the time to care, I would have been a basket case. So I didn’t. I just enjoyed England. We sang on three T. Rex tracks on Friday, January 22—one of the songs was called “Hot Love”—and on Saturday, Frank announced that he had just hired a new “Jeff” and it was Noel Redding from the Jimi Hendrix Experience. He could certainly play the bass parts. He just couldn’t act. We rehearsed in the suite at the Kensington Palace and Frank looked crestfallen. This was not going to work. Maybe if Wilfrid did the acting and Noel did the bass parts—two Jeffs. Why not?
Rehearsals, such as they were, were over and it was time for us to leave our London digs and move to the Windsor Castle Hotel nearer to Pinewood. When we arrived at Pinewood on Monday morning, we discovered that Wilfrid Brambell had spent the entire weekend drinking himself into a stupor, not understanding the obscenities he had been hired to say, and that, regretfully, he had quit the film also. Apparently, this was one dream that was about to self-destruct. Frank joined the rest of us in Ringo’s dressing room to speculate on our futures. Things were bad and there was no sugarcoating the situation. We were screwed. We had no ideas between us. We were resigned to going home. Then Frank said, “How about this? The next person who walks through that dressing room door gets the part of Jeff. Period. Whoever it is.”
It was a risky statement, but we all took it seriously, whether Frank had meant it or not. No one spoke for the longest time. It felt like a spaghetti western in there. All of us watched the door for signs of movement. And then, it happened. There was a cursory knock, the door opened a crack, and in walked Ringo’s chauffeur, Martin Lickert, a twenty-something, longhaired hippie type with a psychedelic sweater and a Beatle accent. He was perfect!
“Can you act?” Zappa asked the petrified kid as we closed the dressing room door behind him. “I dunno. I never tried,” came the shaky answer. “Do you play an instrument?” Frank queried. “Um, yessir,” came the answer back. “Just a bit of bass guitar.”
Unbelievable. Some higher power really wanted us to make this movie.
So Martin Lickert was signed to play the role of Jeff, we all breathed a sigh of relief, and 200 Motels was back on track.
♦ ♦ ♦
The week was a blur of cognac, no sleep, Pamela and Keith, and the orchestra recording their pieces on tape and then behaving like schoolboys between takes because they considered the entire project to be a joke.
And then there was Theodore Bikel. The world-renowned folksinger and actor had been signed to play the role of Rance Muhammitz, the sinister liaison tasked with acquiring Mr. Volman’s signature in exchange for his soul and some mystery burgers.
In one scene, Frank had him acting as a game show host spinning a big wheel to determine the fate of Larry the Dwarf, played by Ringo. The entire scene was written to be done in a single shot with the orchestra, the King’s Singers—who were our chorus—and Mark, Janet, Lucy, and I reciting our lines onstage along with Theo. But Theo’s lines were filthy—at least, in his opinion—and he flat-out refused to say them. Frank followed him back to his dressing room, begging him to reconsider. Finally, after two hours of dead time, Bikel agreed to say the lines, but only if he wasn’t on camera for them. If he saw a red light on one of those video cams, he’d be gone.
Comes the rehearsal, the cameraman doesn’t get the memo and the red light goes off right in front of Theo’s face. And he walks, yelling the entire way to his dressing room. What a pro! I think, at that point, Frank told him that it had only been a rehearsal and that the footage would never be used. He lied.
Making 200 Motels was one of the greatest experiences of my life. I took to it like a duck to water. I dug the stupid early mornings and the urgency in our abbreviated time frame. I loved being called to the set and spending off moments walking the 007 stages in the adjacent studio. I thought to myself, “I could get very used to this!”
I hung out with Linda Ronstadt, who flew in with her new producer, John Boylan, and ate lunch in the commissary with Tony Curtis. These were strange times of sealed tuna sandwiches and torchlight parades. New songs like “Penis Dimension” and “Shove It Right In.” On Friday, February 5, 200 Motels wrapped shooting and Keith held the cast party, which continued into the wee hours of the morn. On Sunday, we were back at Kensington Palace and the newspapers were already talking about the protesters in front of the Royal Albert Hall.
It seems that someone had gotten a hold of the movie script and Her Majesty’s powers that be were planning to block the Mothers’ performance of 200 Motels with the Royal Philharmonic at that stately venue scheduled for the very next week. The concert was sold out. There was only one thing drastically wrong with this picture: There had been no rehearsals for a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. At all. None. We never even talked about it.
So it was not without reservations that we found ourselves in a taxi on the way to Albert Hall to confront the protesters and reporters. In fact, as Herb and Frank organized the band’s response to the questions of the frantic newspeople outside of the amazing building, it occurred to all of us that, despite the headlines, it was never intended for us to perform at that concert. It had all been an elaborate publicity stunt. Herb knew that the British government wouldn’t let us perform the obscenities that were in 200 Motels in such a hallowed hall. Frank knew it too. The only people who didn’t know it were us. We were on a need-to-know basis, and it was determined that we didn’t. Need to know, that is. Herb was a genius. We made headlines all over Europe for a concert that was never to have happened in the first place. It was brilliant.
♦ ♦ ♦
I flew home to L.A. on February 9, the same day a major earthquake hit Southern California. Perfect. Velvert Turner’s credit was proving to be a problem at the Laurel Canyon rental, so his producer, Tom Wilson, a great guy and former Dylan recordist, cosigned his lease and made me breathe a momentary sigh of relief. Melita relaxed, but we still weren’t communicating. I called Lin for a bit of encouragement but got very little. Then I called Pamela. She had spent all this time with Moon during the movie, but she knew that I had fallen for her—big-time. And now she was the only girl I could really talk to. So we spoke. A lot. She was there for me. I appreciated her immensely.
Melita and Emily busied themselves. Bolan called to tell me that “Hot Love” had become his biggest hit ever in the UK, and Jerry Good, the producer of 200 Motels, wanted to meet with me and Mark about some other project. We met with Elliot Roberts, who managed Joni and Neil Young, listened to Judee Sill’s album, watched the Mothers’ Dutch documentary, and spent time fixing up the Woodland Hills house. Realtors were still around, taking pictures and adjusting our home’s price constantly as we prayed for a speedy sale. We were going underwater and no amount of Zappa money was going to save us.
We overdubbed the movie s
oundtrack, adding vocal layers and doing the voices for the animated section still to be completed. And still, there were the depositions. We were still in court with the Martin-Phillips case. I was getting $500 advances from Herb and spending half of it on elaborate dinners out or champagne and caviar from our local Chalet Gourmet. I was used to this lifestyle and was not about to give it up.
In April, Bolan came to town and phoned one afternoon after I had met with Frankie Avalon about production(!) and had gone to the Ice House with Russ Giguere of the Association and Paul Williams to see Jerry Yester’s new band, Rosebud, featuring John Seiter on drums. Bolan was in L.A. specifically to put Mark and me on some new rock tracks he had recorded. Marc had just signed with Reprise in the States; they had just released “Hot Love” as a single and had flown Bolan and Tony Visconti to Hollywood to finish up their new titles.
On February 17, the whole lot of us went into Wally Heider’s studio in Hollywood, armed with cognac, champagne, and copious quantities of Aztec Marching Powder to sing “Bang a Gong (Get It On)” and two other tunes. The little curly Brit was about to become a rock ’n’ roll legend. And therefore, by proxy, so were we.
EIGHTEEN
Anybody Got Any Dope?
So many things were going on simultaneously that I should have been a lot more successful than I really was. During the day, I slept until 11 or so unless given a reason to rise earlier. Melita usually took Emily with her while running errands, or, when a hellacious fight was brewing, she would take her and spend days at a time with Helen in West L.A. So I would make my phone calls, secure my daily drugs, and make the necessary visits to the lawyers or to Herb’s office in an attempt to somehow get the cash to get through the month. Realtors kept bringing prospective buyers through at all hours, and Emily grew and cried and as we finished the overdubs on the 200 Motels album. We were also talking serious management with Herb.
At least, he was serious. Don Preston announced his intention to leave the group—perhaps prompted by his very limited on-screen participation in the movie, but he also wanted to play even stranger music—and the film’s producer, Jerry Good, wanted Mark and me to consider doing an animated feature for his company. It appeared that things were winding down for this bunch of Mothers, but when we least expected progress, Frank gave us all copies of his latest opus, “Billy the Mountain.”
Without Jeff Simmons in the group, Frank asked the boys in the band to come up with suggestions for an actual replacement bass player. So it was welcome to the Mothers of Invention for our dear friend and fellow Turtle Jim Pons. The fact that he had been my best man didn’t enter into the equation. There were tons of bass overdubs to do on the movie soundtrack, since Martin Lickert’s live performances were not exactly Zappa-level stuff. Plus, Jim’s low voice was a real asset, for the background harmonies as well as in the animated sequence. Now there were three Turtles in the new Mothers, and we needed a keyboard guy to replace Don. We’d had no keyboards in the Turtles, but Judee Sill’s husband and the coproducer of “Lady-O,” Bob Harris, was available. Frank gave him an audition and he was instantly in the band as well. Things were damned comfortable. At work.
♦ ♦ ♦
At home, Melita and I fought throughout Emily’s birthday, so I got high at Paul Williams’s house so I wouldn’t have to deal with the shitstorm. The next day, I drove Pons to Las Vegas and we caught George Jones and Tammy Wynette—don’t tell me I don’t love country music! The mini vacation did me a world of good. Exactly one week later, I picked up Jim, Bob, and Frank and drove out to Claremont to debut the new lineup at Pomona College. Both Lixie and Pamela were there. I should have anticipated trouble.
We began the next tour in late May and oh, how we did party on that tour! I look back at my daily diaries (which I have kept since 1968 and which have been invaluable in the preparation of this book) and I am astounded at the substances, legal and otherwise, that my toxic little body has absorbed in pursuit of the perfect truth. Or just to get loaded. And I am blown away by not only the amount and frequency of my forays into the hallucinogenic, but the circumstances under which I allowed myself to function.
I think that it hits me hardest while reliving the Zappa years, on account of Frank’s famous anti-drug stance. It would be naive of me to think that the brilliant Mr. Z didn’t know what was going on. He was a man of his word, however, and I was allowed to live in my polluted little world as long as Frank’s much larger one wasn’t affected. The cocaine and the marijuana guaranteed that I was, at least in my mind, living the life I had always dreamed about—one of sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll. I didn’t realize that I was searching to fill a huge void in my life. But I sure didn’t have to wait for long.
There wasn’t a lot of sleep to be had. Given the choice between sleep and all of the other post-concert options that were open to us, the decision was obvious. We plowed through the Midwest: Illinois, Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin. We’d fly to most shows and take a regular seated charter bus to the closer ones. After the shows, it was always the women and/or the impromptu jam sessions that lasted until dawn. We were lucky to average four hours of sleep a night. Frank, ever the father figure, would stop in almost nightly to see how his lads were doing, but his visits were brief and he never participated in our antics. Not yet.
♦ ♦ ♦
On Saturday, May 29, 1971, I met a girl.
It began as a causal encounter, sort of. The concert was in Rochester, Michigan, at a beautiful outdoor venue, the Baldwin Pavilion at Oakland University. Livingston Taylor opened the show. In attendance that evening were the members of an alternative-lifestyle group that lived and loved together. They grew food on their land and set up kitchens to feed the hungry hippies who lived only for music. They called themselves the Rainbow People’s Party and lived in Ann Arbor at a residence they referred to as Hill House. One girl, in particular, caught my eye and changed my life. Her name was Dianne MacKellar and she had the bluest eyes I had ever seen. Long brown hair and a smoky, squeaky voice that stole my heart. I took the freethinking lady back to my room, spoke passionately about her politics, made mad love to her, and watched her pass out. Normally, that would have been considered the perfect evening. But I hadn’t wanted her to pass out. Something in me snapped.
I had no idea that there were girls like this in real life. There certainly hadn’t been in my previous world. Dianne was the embodiment of hippie freedom. Oh, she shaved her armpits; that’s not what I mean. But she had bigger plans than I had. I only wanted to make music—Dianne wanted to change the world. She didn’t care where she lived or even who she was with. She was a gypsy and she dressed appropriately. A vision in her see-through white shirt, ropes of obligatory ceramic beads, ground-hugging mirrored skirt, large hoop earrings, and an all-over tan that said, “Come sunbathing with me,” she had me before I had even heard her sweet honey voice. I was in love.
But there was work to do. Aysnsley’s new wife, Olivia, flew in to hang for a while and we did amazing shows. And then it was back to my old stomping grounds: New York City and the One Fifth Avenue hotel. I was a bit nervous, understandably, and, as usual when a big show loomed on the horizon, my voice was raspy. We were to do four shows over two nights in early June at the Fillmore East, our first shows there since the previous fall and the first with the new lineup including Jim Pons. It would be another trial by fire, where we’d be judged by an audience of the ultrachic. We would be auditioning all over again, but Frank had a plan. The last time we’d played there, Joni and Grace had turned up. This time the invited guests would send massive shock waves throughout the building.
♦ ♦ ♦
On Saturday afternoon, I walked solo through the Village during the Feast of San Gennaro, treated myself to a sausage and pepper sandwich, and bought a new, round, flat, clay hash pipe. Then I walked over to the Fillmore, did two shows—which went very well, according to my diary—and walked back by 4 A.M. The following morning I awoke to a phone message, did some interviews courtesy
of Barbara DeWitt, and then met Mark in Frank’s room and waited for his afternoon visitors.
At about 2 P.M., John Lennon and Yoko Ono arrived. Frank really didn’t know John very well and none of us had ever met Yoko before, so things felt a bit stilted and formal at first, like everyone was waiting for a second shoe to drop. John remembered the Turtles’ encounter at the Speakeasy, mumbled a quick but heartfelt apology, and at least broke the ice a little bit as Zappa started noodling on his unplugged Strat, searching for something that he and John could jam to at the show later that night. Yoko shifted uncomfortably in her overstuffed chair. John cleared his throat.
“Anybody got any dope?” the former Beatle asked innocently.
Frank was quick to reply. “I don’t do that stuff, but these guys do.” And with that, he motioned toward me and Mark. What the hell was he expecting me to do? I shot Zappa a look, but he answered with a reassuring, “It’s okay. Go ahead.”
“Really, Frank?” I was incredulous for a reason. “Be right back!”
I ran down to my room, fetched my new hash pipe and some pot, and was back in Frank’s within a minute. My hands were shaking a little as I filled the virgin pipe and passed it and my lighter to John. He drew deeply and passed it to Yoko. She took a hit and held the pipe out to Frank, who politely declined. So the pipe returned to me for refilling, then to Mark and back to John.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. Not only was I smoking weed with my hero, but Frank, my father figure, was watching me do it. And without even the famous Zappa raised eyebrow. I don’t think I’ve ever been that high in my life. I was sailing.
The cycle continued as John was given an acoustic guitar to mess around with. He sang a blues song or two and Frank obliged him with lead guitar parts to complement John’s verses. Yoko wailed a few times and Lennon actually told her to keep it down. We were in a hotel room, after all. Frank played some amazing licks that Lennon couldn’t keep up with, and then John settled on a riff that would become the song “Scumbag.” I ad-libbed the ridiculous lyrics. We smoked some more and talked some more and agreed to meet later at the theater. I put my pipe back in my suitcase and brought it home with me after the weekend. I still have that little pipe. It’s one of my most treasured possessions.
Shell Shocked: My Life with the Turtles, Flo and Eddie, and Frank Zappa, etc. Page 16