Not Fade Away: A Backstage Pass to 20 Years of Rock & Roll

by Ben Fong-Torres

  Soon after the services for Barry, I heeded others' advice and dove back into work. Needless to say, Barry was everywhere. My first story back, about the Miracles, wound up with the headline: What's So Good About Goodbye? My next major feature was on Santana, a dysfunctional band of Latin rock pioneers built around a sensational young guitarist, Carlos Santana.

  They were managed, at the time, by concert promoter Bill Graham, with whom Rolling Stone had a rocky, sometimes outright bruising, relationship. Although he'd tossed me out of the Fillmore West one afternoon-he didn't like the tone of an article I'd written about one of his side ventures-we had a civil relationship. Once comfortably immersed in an interview, Graham couldn't help but open up completely-even emotionally.

  Graham loved telling about young Carlos sneaking into the Fillmore; about his upbringing in the Mission District of San Francisco, where the Santana family settled after immigrating from Tijuana.

  Somewhere in that story, as he spoke about Carlos and his brother Jorge, I remember breaking down. I had to apologize to Graham, who murmured a sympathetic, "It's OK."

  It wasn't. And it wouldn't be the last time thoughts of our family's loss would disrupt my work, throw me off track. It happened again, just now.

  1. THEY'LL SMILE IN YOUR FACE

  M I N G o, THE C o N C; A P L AY E: R, keeps a pasteless toothbrush in his mouth all through the trip to the restaurant: at the cafe (partly owned by estranged Santana member Gregg Rolie), pint-sized timbales player Chepito spends a good half hour directing offers to groupies at other tables-"Fourteen inches, gringa, fourteen inches"-and hurling spiced cauliflower sprouts at Herbie, the production manager: across the table Tom Koster, who's taken Rolie's place in the group, on keyboards, thrusts out a judo chop-straight left hand: "Lookit this ring. It's been on this finger nine and a half years." He pulls out his wallet, taps it on Chepito's arm several times. He wants to show pictures of his baby boy. "Fourteen inches!" Chepito Areas yells over Koster's right shoulder. ("I love sex!" he exclaims later. "It's my only problem!") And Carlos, in a booth with Mike Shrieve (the only other original Santana member left) and new bassist Doug Rauch, has turned away from his salad. He is watching the two young men on the little stage, playing decent banjo and guitar, harmonizing on Beatles and Cat Stevens tunes. Decent music for a sandwich bar in Seattle, Washington, and Carlos Santana almost looks intent.

  That's fine. It means that while the rest of the band, and gringas, roll off to see Tower of Power, Carlos will keep his appointment-to talk, to break the silence for the first time since the formation of Santana.

  For the first two years of that silence-interrupted, of course, by three gold albums full of speed-paced Latino-based music that went from imitative to innovative-there wasn't that much you would want to know. A bunch of kids taking drugs, flashing blades, from the brown-collared Mission district of San Francisco, making noise and plenty of money. And outside their music, a member would say now and again, Santana had nothing to say.

  But in the third year of that silence, the stories began to circulate: dope and other busts; Chepito near death from a brain hemorrhage: the band leaving for a tour without him; disaster, deportation from Peru; the band splitting up-bass player David Brown quit, then fired; congaplayer Mike Carabello fired; organist and lead vocalist Gregg Rolie split, along with Neal Schon, who'd joined the band after Abraxas, to share lead guitar with Carlos; lawyer and accountant-Where's the money%-fired; Carlos turns to Jesus, jams with Buddy Miles, prays together, plays together with Mahavishnu orchestra leader John McLaughlin, hires five new band members, changes musically from "Evil Ways" to Yogananda vibrations, songs of reincarnation in a Caravanseral; dumps communal manager Stan Marcum, who'd dumped Bill Graham two years before; and, finally, just last week, Carlos Santana has cut his hair-from Jesus long to Mission High, Mahavishnu mid....

  But now Carlos feels ready to explain himself, to open up, and the old members, old associates, are quick to follow. So, in the last two weeks, sad, funny, and sordid tales have been spilled out to me, from inside a hotel room, a lawyer's office, an attorney's visiting room at county jail, a recording studio, a courtroom hallway, a manager's office in a castle-like Marin County house, and Bill Graham's office overlooking the remains of the Fillmore West, the succeeding promoter's To Be Announced marquee broken up by missing letters. Dozens of stories about sex and drug habits, money and music problems, personality conflicts and power struggles. And for whatever reasonmostly having to do with maintaining pride and/or possessions, almost none of one person's version of any story agrees with anyone else's, when they get down to who did what to and with whom.

  IMAGINE YOU'RE I N THE HEAT O F SUMMER in the city, in the barrios, and a fierce fight ensues for some reason-say a combination of macho love and mucho moneyamong the Latinos; the Chicanos and the Puerto Ricans and the Nicaraguans, battling it out with fists and knives. Other browns and whites and blacks join in with chains, guns, brass knuckles. Some parents, a squad of police, and several attorneys try to break in to achieve a peace with honor and take depositions. And there are these four gurus, one to each corner, humming and meditating. All on a flimsy stage set up on a flatbed truck by the Neighborhood Arts Program.

  And for theme music for this little party, try the harmonizing O'Jays and their song, "The Back Stabbers."

  II. WHY THE FREEWAY IS SO CROWDED

  WE BEGIN WITH C A R L O S S A N TA N A, here in Seattle with the five-eighths new Santana, in his 26th floor Hilton Hotel room, which he has gone to great lengths to turn into a meditation room. Coltrane on cassette, Spiritual Sky brand coconut incense burning, the only light coming from a tapered white candle near the door, illuminating an oval laminated plaque bearing the likeness of Jesus Christ. In my sacrilegious way, I ask for some light across the room, at the table where we'll talk, and proceed to move the candle. No sooner than I've replaced the candle, Carlos has dipped into a duffel bag, found another candle, and lit it, to maintain the glow near Jesus.

  This is before the haircut, and he still looks like the Carlos Santana you saw grimacing at the Fillmore, at Altamont, at Woodstock, and at your local ballroom. He wears a knit shirt, white bellbottoms, is barefoot. Talking, he'll massage his left toe now and then, but mostly he looks off, out the bay window, to the Space Needle in the distance. On a medallion around his neck he wears the likeness of Sri Chinmoy. His voice is low, quiet, sometimes almost tearful as he talks about getting the spirit. He has a house in Marin, a German-styled house on the Panoramic Highway that puts Mill Valley up against the forest-like Mount Tamalpais-where he often goes "to relate."

  "Larry Coryell stayed over at my house twice. and he went upstairs and he meditated in his room, and he had a picture of Sri Chinmoy, which is Mahavishnu's guru, and I must confess, the first time I saw it, I was really afraid of it, because I believe in Jesus as being my guru, to a certain extent. When I meditate the voice that I hear seems to come from Him within my real self, because I believe that Christ lives in everybody. Larry showed me Sri Chinmoy, and he showed me where he was coming from, where he was channeling his music. He taught me, not through words or anything, just through him being himself. He'd stay in the house and him fighting himself so he wouldn't eat certain foods, he wouldn't think certain thoughts. And I feel that I started to realize that everybody imitates everybody. So why not imitate the master, and I started reading more about Jesus, and about Paramahansa, which is-they're all windows for us to see the light which is God, and when you imitate those divine people, then it's just a way of you becoming... like a tree, you know. You grow straight to the sun instead of growing crooked and going back to the earth."

  Did he find himself imitating Jesus Christ?

  "I try as much as I can every day. I try to-just to see the best things in people and to have a vast understanding of what God wants us to be instead of what our minds want us to do."

  For Carlos, it's a matter of mind opposed to soul. "Mind's music" would be commercial music, on the "Ea
rth Top 40," soul-based music would be in the "Universe Top 40," the most pure, away from the system. With the new band, he says, "When I speak from my soul, they understand. When my mind gets in the way, they walk away."

  But how do you explain that to ten thousand kids whose minds and souls are melded together in some kind of all-chemical blend of speed, reds, smokes, snorts, and other psychedelics and who paid $5.50 each to hear the good old shit, right off the Earth Top 40. Fuck Jesus Christ, man, give me Superstar.

  "Through meditating I'm beginning to be a little more confident in knowing which way to channel my energy and what to think of those brothers and sisters who put me in that place-in reality I'm just exactly what they are. Eventually they will come, because most people are like that-you know, monkey see, monkey do. That's why the freeway is so crowded sometimes. Very few people are chosen to make their own way and to influence others."

  "His phrases kill me, man!" Michael Carabello and Neal Schon laugh it up at the Columbia studios where they're mixing Attitude, the album Carabello and many friends have been doing since the first cracks in Santana a year ago.

  "Like `mopping a floor,"' Schon reminds Carabello. "Remember that lead in...what song was that-it's on the Abraxas album. He plays the lead on it and says, `It sounds like you're mopping the floor.' He comes up with some crazy, you know, the way he puts it, that used to make me laugh all the time."

  More laughs to come, but first: Since it's Carlos' changes-and the response to those changes-that are the heart of this rock operetta, let's hear from his father, Jose Santana. Mr. Santana does not speak Ingles, but we went to see him anyway, since he works regularly playing violin in a Mariachi band in the Mission District. There, in a tavern called La Terraza, he blends in with two other violins, two trumpets, and two guitars. There is no bandstand, and Jose Santana, in simple Mariachi uniform of bolero jacket, silk shirt, and slacks, is planted in front of the painting, answering requests from one booth of customers, playing ballads like "Celito Lindo" and waltzes and merengues, chiming in, sometimes, with the Mexican way of gospel calls: Eso! Eso! ("That's it!")

  Mr. Santana told his story with warmth to Edgar Sanchez and Gloria Alcazar of El Tecolote, a community tabloid, last spring.

  III. `PAPA! IT'S CARLOS ON THE RADIO!'

  "WE CAME TO THIS COUNTRY in the year 19 62, " he began. "In Mexico we lived in the small town of Autlan, in the state of Jalisco. I have always worked in the music business, and all my sons were born in Mexico. Of my sons, two have turned out to be musicians. These, of course, are Carlos and the smaller Guillermo (Jorge), who plays with the Malibus (who became Malo).

  "Carlos began to play guitar in the year 1961. When Carlos was nine years of age, he studied in a school of music, after he went to the regular primary school every day. In that music school they wanted Carlos to learn to play the clarinet. He did not like the clarinet, so he began to study violin. But in 1961, when I first came to this country by myself, I bought an electric guitar and amplifier. One year later, when I returned to Mexico, I gave them to Carlos. He became very enthusiastic about the guitar. `Papa, papa, I don't like the violin any more. I like the guitar!' he used to tell me.

  "When the family [wife Josefina, four daughters, and three sons] was ready to immigrate, Carlos did not want to come. He said he liked Mexico too much to leave it. We postponed our trip a few days while we tried to persuade our son to come with us. Then, all of a sudden, Carlos hid from us. No matter where we looked for him we could not find him. Finally, after having given up on our search, we very dejectedly came to this country.

  `A few months later, we found out that Carlos was working at a place called El Convoy in Tijuana. Four of us made the trip to Mexico. We went into the place and grabbed him and brought him with us. We did not force him to come. We convinced him by crying.

  "On the trip here, he was mad. He did not even say a single word during the whole trip. Since the day of his arrival, all he did was cry, cry, and cry. Then he locked himself up in his room for a week. During this week he refused to eat.

  "When he finally came out, we put him in school. He already knew how to speak English, so he did not have any problems. Within a month he had made many friends...

  "Soon after that, he formed a small band with some of his friends. He also kept studying. After school, he worked downtown in a restaurant. The poor guy used to wash dishes-you know, the kind of jobs they give to youths.

  "Then he graduated from Mission [High School]. One day, soon after, he told us he was going to stop living with us and get a room by himself. I asked him why, and he said: `Because I want to see if one day I can do something.' He didn't take anything with him-not even his clothes. For two years we knew nothing about him. Some people told us that they had seen him, and that he seemed to be turning into a hippie. Of course, I felt a little bad about that, because after all-he was my son. You know, we were not rich or anything like that, but at least we had food to eat.

  "Then one day one of my sons heard one of Carlos' songs being played on the radio. `Papa!! It's Carlos!' my son excitedly told me as we listened to the song. The radio announcer kept saying `Santana! Santana! Santana!'

  "Then, a few days after gathering information, we found out it really was him. But he did not call us or write. He was living over on Precita Street with a bunch of friends. He had formed a new band. Whatever house they moved into, they were forced to move out, because the neighbors complained of too much noise...

  "He finally called us one day, a week before he was going to play at the Fillmore West. Over the phone he said: `Mama, they are going to give me an opportunity to work at a place down there on Market Street.' My wife told him, 'Carlos, I don't know why you like that hippie music.' His reply was: 'Yes, I like it, and I am going to continue playing it until I make a record one day.' 'You're crazy!' his mother told him. He told us one day he was going to make an album 'so I can help you out.' He invited us to go see him.

  "There was a mob of people there. I had never gone to one of those places. We saw a bunch of lights and a lot of strange things in that place. We saw many hippies, too.

  'After the show we came home very happy, because during the intermission we spoke to him for the first time in two years. We asked him to come to our house as soon as he could. When he came to our house the next week, he told us he had some compositions ready for recording.

  "My son kept on with his band. Finally one day he came to tell me that he had just signed a five-year contract with Columbia.

  "When that long-play came out-since my music is so different from his-I couldn't understand it. But here, my sons and daughters used to say: 'Oh, papa, how beautiful.' They used to put on the record and dance.

  "To tell you the truth, I did not even know when one of my son's numbers began or finished. I listened to the record many, many times, to see if it made sense. Now, after having listened to it many more times, I like it."

  How has your life changed since your son's success?

  "When I first came here, only I worked to maintain the family. Now, my son gives me money. I only work at night now. My only pretension is going out to eat once in awhile."

  What's in the future, Mr. Santana?

  "Well, I wish I didn't have to stop working, because a job is a very necessary thing for adults so they can stay in good health. I am in perfect health, and I feel capable of continuing to work. But it seems that every time I talk to Carlos, he asks me when I am going to stop working, because he wants to become completely in charge of the whole family."

  IV. CARLOS SANTANA'S TB BLUES

  WHILE JOSE S A N TA N A WAS SPEAKING, Carlos and the band were touring Europe. Later, Carlos would buy his family a comfortable home in Diamond Heights. Here in the spring of 1971, Carlos was also attempting to take charge of the Santana band. He didn't do it very smoothly, and that European tour was the beginning of the end of what we know to be the original Santana.

  What Mr. Santana did not seem to know is that during those two
years Carlos was away from home, he'd gone to Tijuana. where he was learning the blues and playing Mexican and pop-rock music, trying to get enough money together to trade in his old Gibson for a new Stratocaster.

  Carlos: "In Tijuana, my brother used to work for this place called La Palma where they make tortillas, and the son of the owner had a set of drums, and his name is Danny, and there was this other kid named Gus. We learned together how to play music that was happening at the time, a little bit before the Beatles. We would play for parties and weddings and stuff like that.

  "I wanted to join this band-that was really what was happening at the time. This cat who was influenced a lot by Ray Charles and Little Richard and B.B. King. His name was Xavier. He inspired me to get into my instrument. He didn't really teach me as much as people say. He was sort of stingy. He used to play, and if I was looking where he was playing, he turned the other way, so I wouldn't see the chords he was playing. But it was cool, because when you want to, you achieve."

  Carlos, you see, never meant for Santana to be known as a Mission District or street band. `All through junior high and high school, I didn't hang out with my race, or what you would call my race. Your race is like a fence, you know. I always tend to hang out around with the people who are more soulful-or at least not always thinking about quads and carburetors and chicks and parties. I would always choose people who had something to say about B.B. King or Jimmy Reed or some cats who would start singing in the streets, and so I never really put myself on a fence. I thank God now that my mind was a little more broad."