Singing and speaking, Max believed, come from the same instrument, so singers and actors alike found his teaching valuable. Stacy Keach was his student for a time, as were Harris Yulin and Sigourney Weaver (who says her friends laugh when she says she studied with Judy Collins’ singing teacher).
He would sing “Vissi d’arte” or “The Last Rose of Summer.” His voice was no voice at all, but I got the idea. I would repeat the phrase. He would nod. I would repeat the phrase again, this time thinking of the clarity, of the smooth transition, the long line, thinking through to the end of the phrase, as he would remind me to do. I would start an “ah,” the vowel clouded, trying to get from low to high or from high to low, past the break. Max would sing it clearly. I would try again. I would rest, just looking out the window, thinking, “This is mad. This man is crazy, maybe. What am I doing here? I should be at Max’s Kansas City, getting drunk with Paul Butterfield, not here in this apartment, staring at an Arshile Gorky painting. I am a folkie.” But I spent a few hours a week for the next thirty-two years of my life in Max’s living room, learning from an eccentric, enormously intelligent man who would teach me everything about singing with the whole voice. I went in with a voice that was breaking up, hoarse on a regular basis, full of dark tones and compromised clarity. And then one day a few years after I first walked in that door, just like that, I sang the “oh” and the “ah” in a seamless ribbon of tone from top to bottom, no break, no cloud, and no clutter. Just music.
“Clear as a bell,” he said, and smiled, a rare thing for Max.
CLARK continued his visits to New York at least a couple of times a month for weekends and holidays. He had already made his bedroom in my new apartment into his own. Peter was not an unreasonable person, and since we had practically an amicable divorce, there was no need to legislate my visits while I was trying to get full custody of my son. The judge had instructed us to make arrangements between us for Clark’s benefit.
At the final custody hearing in late 1964, Ralph’s therapist had testified to my fitness as a mother, and encouraged the court to grant me custody. My mother, Marjorie, and Harold Leventhal would both be there to speak on my behalf. My lawyers had been sure that I would not lose my case.
But in May 1965, I learned that I had lost custody of Clark. I remember standing in my new apartment, looking out the window at the passing traffic on 79th Street, weeping. I hurled the telephone across the room and, throwing myself down on the couch—my new couch, next to the piano that I would not be able to play for weeks—I just cried my eyes out. I plummeted into a deep depression, fearing I was going to go under.
My lawyers told me that one of the main reasons I had lost custody was because I was in therapy. Today, you might lose custody because you are not in therapy.
I got very, very drunk.
Of course.
I TOLD Harold I just could not go on with the trip we had been planning to the USSR. I imagined getting into bed and never getting up. I contemplated suicide. Again.
“I know this is terrible for you, but you must pull yourself together and do this trip,” Harold said in response to my whining. “This is one of those times when you find out just what you are made of. I know you can do this!” Harold could always bring me back to reality. A lot had been done to prepare for this tour by canceling or postponing all my other concerts for the summer. If I didn’t go, I also wouldn’t have income for months.
“This is a break in the Cold War,” Harold said. “It is a historic time. The promoters over there are eager to hear you, not just because you are an American folksinger, but because you are Judy Collins.”
Harold was very persuasive. “You must go. It means a lot to those who have not seen or heard much Western music in decades.” He had been able to get our visas, no mean feat in those days. The Tarriers would also be on the trip, another reason Harold told me I must not cancel. He would go with us as far as France, where we would have dinner one night with Big Joan Baez in Paris, where Al was working for UNESCO. From there we would go on to Poland with Arlene Cunningham, who worked for Harold and would be our road manager on the trip at last. I surrendered.
I called my ex-husband and asked him if I could have Clark for the month of August, after I got back from the USSR. Peter was strangely agreeable, and I was thrilled. That meant that I would be able to take a house out on Long Island, where we had friends, and Clark and I would have a good long stretch together in late summer. I told Harold I could manage it—just. I would go.
I would be with my old friend Eric Weissberg, who had played guitar and banjo on many of my albums. Clarence Cooper, a rail-thin man with a sweet, wood-smoky voice and heart problems, would also be part of our group on guitar. I adored Clarence, a shy and gentle man from Virginia. Clarence recorded the blues and gospel record Going’ Down the Road, for Elektra in 1954. I had known Coop since he replaced Alan Arkin and Bob Carey in the Tarriers, and had worked with him in Chicago. He appeared frail, and by the following year he had retired from the Tarriers. George Wein would ask Clarence’s help in putting together the blues and gospel shows for the Newport Folk Festival.
Also with us was Al Dana, who had replaced Marshall Brickman in the Tarriers. Our technical manager, John Gibbs, had a light heart and a light touch, and I knew he would make the music sound right and the hotels as comfortable as possible.
I had grown up reading Dostoevsky and Tolstoy and Pasternak—Crime and Punishment, The Double, The Brothers Karamazov, War and Peace, Dr. Zhivago. I felt a closeness to Russians from reading all those books in the night, reading until I could not keep my eyes open. In my classes at the New School I had learned to say hello, goodbye, and thank you in Russian; from Ethel Raim, Walter’s ex, who made records with a group called the Pennywhistlers. I had even learned, over the course of the first six months of the year, to sing a song in Russian.
I called my mother and asked her if it would be all right if I took my sister, Holly, with me. I thought if I could just have my beloved sister along, I could make it. Holly was eleven and was thrilled at the prospect. She and I were very close, but in some ways, she felt more like my child than my sister, being only six years older than Clark. Mother agreed that Holly should join me for this trip, and I really don’t think I could have done it without her. She was articulate and great company even at eleven. She loved Clark; we talked about him all the time, filling the gap left by his absence. I was grateful for her presence in my life, and for the knowledge that the three of us would be together at the end of the summer.
After Paris, we flew to Warsaw, where we landed in the airport in Krakow, sang a concert that night, and then boarded a bus. In the morning we drove through the beautiful countryside, past houses with roofs of grass, chickens pecking among the flowers, women in their patterned aprons waving, men in work clothes, horses nodding as they pulled plows, children everywhere. Throughout Poland, our concerts were advertised as “Judy Collins and Her All-Negro Band.” Clarence, tall and dignified, was followed around in the towns by a gaggle of little blond boys and girls who had never seen a black man before. In Rzeszow, Poland, we had to delay our show for the night, postponing it till the next day, because the town needed the electricity that would have run the lights at the concert in order to operate the coal mine, its single source of income. At our stops along the way, when we needed a drink or a rest, we found what my sister Holly called “memory water,” a cold, bottled drink that was thirst- and sorrow-quenching.
About halfway through our travels into the lush, green Polish countryside, our bus passed a sign on the highway that read “Oswiecim”—Auschwitz. I knew we had to stop to pay our respects to those who had suffered unspeakable atrocities beyond those arches.
The man behind the wheel of the bus made gestures that indicated he had no idea what we wanted. Our translator intervened. A skull and crossbones greeted us with “Halt! Stol!” Barbed wire clung to the walls of dark buildings; rooms were piled high with shoes and eyeglasses, teeth and clot
hes; a sign spelled out “Krematorium.” We saw the open doors of ovens where bodies had been burned, and then peered into the shower rooms where the victims had been gassed after giving over their few precious belongings, murdered while the butterflies bobbed gently among the Queen Anne’s lace in the yard.
In stunned silence, we made our way to the only bright spot in this place of horror, a low-slung brick building where the children had painted brilliant colors, clouds, happy faces, and rainbows on the walls before they, too, perished.
Holly and I were weeping by the time we climbed back onto the bus, our eyes down, our minds numbed. Our driver said he was sorry we had stopped, but we disagreed, knowing it was important to have borne witness, to grieve, and to honor in some small way the victims of the Holocaust.
I was glad Arlene Cunningham had come on the trip. She worked for Harold and was a true professional and totally discreet—so much so that I would not know until much later that she had been an assistant and friend to the actor Montgomery Clift for many years, up until his death. She is a truly brilliant woman who later married my friend Dan Kramer, photographer and famous for the cover of the Dylan album Bringing It All Back Home, as well as many other iconic photos of the 1960s.
We flew to Moscow, and from there to the seaside cities in Russia. I taught Holly the Russian for tea and cheese and sang my Russian song in all the venues, where the audience would scream with delight, clap, and laugh at my Russian accent. Then they would demand, stomping their feet on the floor, that I sing it again. (When I got back from the trip Pete Seeger asked me to sing on his program Rainbow Quest. So I sang “Dorogoy Da.” My Russian was better by then.)
In Odessa, in an outdoor arena near the Potemkin Steps, the audience threw apples at me on the stage. This time, we had been advertised in Odessa as “Judy Collins and Her Rock and Roll Band,” and when that didn’t pan out, the sailors off the big ships in the Black Sea were not pleased. They wanted to rock and roll, and there we were, singing gentle folk songs. It was the first and, thankfully, the last time—so far—I have had to dodge apples on a stage!
Our translator, the zaftig Nadine, went onstage every night to introduce us in Russian and English. For these brief appearances, Nadine had borrowed a corset from the Bolshoi Ballet costume department. Holly and I cinched her into it before our show, pulling the strings while Nadine held her breath and braced herself against a wall with the two of us at her back, straining like mad dressmakers with their favorite mannequin. I don’t believe Nadine ever corrected the misimpression that we were a rock-and-roll band, the Tarriers and I, but she was good company and seemed to like our music. But she only ever gave us three choices in the restaurants, and since my Russian was not yet so hot, we never ate anything but beef Stroganoff, chicken Kiev, and lamb (shashlik).
I loved the Russian audiences. They were wildly enthusiastic and gave us standing ovations that sometimes lasted ten or fifteen minutes. People showed up with flowers, pictures of themselves and their families, and books about the cities we visited for us to take home to show our American friends. In one city on the Black Sea the audience stood in a pouring rain with umbrellas raised over their heads—umbrellas of every color—while we sang and sang, even after the main show was over, doing encore after encore. Sopping wet, they then gathered, a thousand or so of them, to greet us as we left the stage and went back onto our bus. The crowd swarmed over our bus, clapping and shouting, “We love you!” We were wet and happy. It took half the night to get back to our hotel.
I remember standing in line for hours in Moscow’s Red Square, staring at the ancient minarets and waiting to see Lenin’s tomb. I would drink to the revolution! I suppose I would actually drink to anything in those days. I had brought a bottle of strong dark vodka with me from Poland, and as it soon ran out, I decided I had to get as much booze as I could at the dinners because I was embarrassed to ask our translator to order bottles in the hotels and shops on the road.
We stayed in the Peking Hotel and drank slippery Russian vodka out of shot glasses, hurling the fiery silver down our throats. Finally, someone told us how to say “More vodka, please”—it was one of our Russian promoters, I think—and thank God! I was dying there, going into withdrawal. Clarence and Al Dana and I drank, and Arlene might have put a few away. Neither my sister, of course, nor Eric did any boozing. The Russians, who drank as much as I did, didn’t bat an eye. I was drinking half a fifth easily by then, but they couldn’t read my mind, and I was finally going to have to say “More, much more!”
In Moscow we sang at the Moscow Opera House, a white building adorned with curlicues, ribbonlike scrolls, and wedding cake filigree. The crowds were enthusiastic, applauding, stamping their feet, hollering, and carrying on until we did a number of encores in this great hall, where so many artists have performed, including Van Cliburn and Byron Janis, pianists who were often able to bridge the cultural gaps between the USSR and the United States. Our reviews, read to us by our translator, were ecstatic.
On our last day in Moscow Nadine and the reporter who’d traveled with us left us at the door of the American embassy. We were to be given a big party to celebrate the end of our trip, and we begged them to come, but they told us they could not because if they did, they would be accused of spying. The Cold War, we learned, had not thawed as much as we had been led to believe.
The party was at Spaso House, the residence of the U.S. ambassador to the USSR, Foy D. Kohler. He was from Ohio and was our host that night. When we told him we were upset that our translator and the journalist could not join us at the embassy, he just laughed and remarked that the countries had come a long way but still had far to go. He, too, told us that if our Russian friends appeared at the U.S. embassy, they might be accused of spying, but also they might lose their membership in the Communist Party, and that would be very bad for them, since the Party was the only means of advancement and acceptance in the USSR.
We had a fine time at the embassy that last night in Moscow. The Americans and Russians who were there really knew how to drink. There was vodka aplenty! I was poured onto the plane home the next day, trying to look my best.
It had been a bittersweet trip, but by the time I was through, I was glad Harold had insisted I go. My sister, Holly Ann, had been such a lovely and enthusiastic presence. Her beauty, wonderful mind, and spirit helped me with the pain I was feeling about losing custody of Clark. She brought me smiles and kept me company all throughout the trip.
We visited great and fascinating countries whose histories were filled with shadow and light and whose people had welcomed me with their flowers, their cheers, and open arms. Someday, I promised myself, I would return.
But for now, I couldn’t wait to get home again to noisy, dirty, fabulous New York City—and to my son.
Chapter Nineteen
The Coming of the Roads
Now that our mountain is growing
With people hungry for wealth …
—BILLY EDD WHEELER, “The Coming of the Roads”
AUGUST on Long Island was blissful. We spent time with friends and enjoyed fish dinners, lobster, and white wine at Gosman’s in Montauk. Clark loved holding the chickadees in his hands when they came to the bird feeder. We had long lunches in the sun at Amagansett, as well as visits with my therapist, Ralph, and his son Josh, who was Clark’s friend. Holly and I were still talking about our Russian trip and had brought back beautiful old enameled Russian boxes for everyone.
At the end of the summer I returned Clark to Peter in Connecticut and eased back into the rhythms of life in the city.
I resumed my lessons with Max next door. Though I was living uptown, I remained as involved as ever in the vibrant Greenwich Village folk music scene. At the Village Gate, the Village Vanguard, or the Gaslight, I might drink the night away with Steve Katz, Jim Morrison, Dave Van Ronk, and Dave’s wife, Terry. There is a photograph of me, Mimi Fariña, Joan Baez, Dave and Terry Van Ronk, and my friend Linda Liebman. Dan Kramer shot this picture in
the Van Ronks’ apartment early in 1966, around the time I was getting the songs together for my sixth album. Mimi and Dick were living in Carmel, but remained closely connected to the New York scene. They were recording for Maynard Solomon at Vanguard and would stay with me when they were in town.
I was also getting to know Phil Ochs better. He was a Texas kid, from El Paso. A good friend of Al Kooper, he and I would sit down at some bar in the Village to listen to the band, or get together at my place, where he would sing me his songs.
Phil called himself a topical and protest singer. He performed at everything from antiwar rallies to Carnegie Hall. He was a good-looking fellow, very social and fun to be with. He always had a smile on this face in those days, and an urgent energy that seemed to burst out in every direction. I loved being with him because he had a ferocious sense of humor. We laughed a lot at the world and how our lives had become so focused on the war, Mississippi, and social justice. We had to laugh, for sometimes these things seemed difficult. Phil was a critic but also an optimist, he would say. He would write and sing about anything that moved him, which was one of the reasons I liked him so much.
He and I often shared a pint—more than a pint in my case, but he kept up. He was outspoken in his writing, and his 1964 album for Elektra, All the News That’s Fit to Sing, had brought him more attention. Phil knew I was planning on recording his great song about the race riots, “In the Heat of the Summer,” on my new album. He came by my apartment to sing it for me, throwing back his beautiful head of hair. His voice was somewhat ragged, both moving and dynamic.
So wrong, so wrong
Judy Collins Page 17