by Al Kooper
One day, with some time off, I ventured out of our protective web on a shopping expedition to Buckley’s, the largest record store in town. I decided to make it on foot from the hotel, as it was a nice day and it was just a straight walk down the main drag about three-quarters of a mile from the hotel.
About halfway there, I spotted a bunch of kids hanging out on the corner looking for trouble or me, whichever came first, I thought to myself. They were about eighteen-nineteen years old, but real mean looking; about three of’em. I didn’t even have what you would call long hair then; I actually looked straight. Had on black Beatle boots, black pants, shirt and tie for good measure, and a black leather car coat. This was my basic uniform in that era.
I decided to cross the street so as not to even walk past their line of vision. I was running across the street to make the light and right off they were imitating my run as they spun off after me. I should’ve continued running, but I didn’t know if it was early enough to commit myself to my paranoia. It was. All of a sudden, there was a hand on my shoulder.
Now, it was midday in downtown Nashville, there were lots of people and traffic in the street, and we were on the main drag, but inherently I knew that if these guys started wasting me, nobody was gonna pay much attention, ’specially if they heard me say “Ow” with a Yankee accent. Also, in case you didn’t know me in those days, let me explain that I was never a contender for the Golden Gloves. I was about six-foot-one and weighed about 145. In short, a meek, walking stick of broccoli.
So a hand was on my shoulder spinning me around, and the reality hit me: If I didn’t nail this first guy first, I’d be going straight to Baptist Hospital. Just as he was about to say something funny at the conclusion of the spin-around, I upper-cut my fist into his groin. He hit the dirt groaning. His friends, deciding that valor was the better part of punkdom, stood their ground, and it was sort of status quo for a second there, but we all turned into cowards. I started tear-assing down the boulevard looking for sanctuary and a telephone. About two or three blocks down, with the boys hot on my trail, I found a well-populated bookstore and barreled into the phone booth. I called Al Grossman (Dylan’s manager) in his hotel room and told him what was happening and where I was. He said sit tight, they’d be there in a minute.
I hoped so, because the punks were now outside the store. They spotted me in the phone booth inside and set up guard outside the front door, figuring I would have to leave at some point. (Better some point than gunpoint!) After about five minutes of mock-chatting, I edged out of the phone booth and pretended to browse around the bookstore.
Mistake.
One of the punks entered the shop and was heading right for me. I could see it all happening: books flying, jail cells, death notices. Concurrent with the guy entering the shop, Lamar arrived in a fat Caddy, screeching to a halt in front of the store. He jumped out of the car, spotted me through the window, then casually strolled into the store. The kid headed right for me, and my adrenaline was at the bursting point. I grabbed him by his collar and said, “Look, you motherfucka, you and your friends get the fuck off my back or I’m gonna get MAD!”
He looked at me incredulously just as Lamar rounded the corner and pulled me off the punk. “Al, you better stop picking fights, ”Lamar said. “I’m tired of bailing your ass outta jail every other day!” All the while we’re edgin’ outta the shop. The kid was probably still thinking “What the fuck?” as we dove into the Caddy (probably a gift from Elvis) and headed back to the hotel, laughing hysterically.
The combination of Dylan, his current material, and the Nashville musicians was near perfect. There was me and Robbie, Charlie McCoy, Henry Strzelecki on bass, Wayne Moss, Jerry Kennedy, and Joe South on guitars, Hargus “Pig” Robbins on keyboards, and Kenny Buttrey on drums. They were extremely flattered to have Dylan in their midst and gave him every consideration they could. The janitor emptying ashtrays at the sessions in later years turned out to be a young, struggling Kris Kristofferson.
We worked at Columbia Studios. Dylan had sketches of most of the songs, but he completed the bulk of the writing there in Nashville, most of it in the studio. When he felt like writing or rewriting, everyone would repair to the ping-pong tables in the canteen. Sometimes, in the case of “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” or “Visions of Johanna,” he would sit in there for five hours without coming out and just play the piano and scribble. The atmosphere was as if clocks didn’t exist. The musicians were truly there for Bob and if it meant sitting around for five hours while he polished a lyric, there was never a complaint. I was not used to this, being raised as a three-songs-in-three-hours New York kid, and I preferred this ambience much more. It relaxed everyone, especially Bob, and the results are obviously there on my favorite Dylan album of all time.
Bob had a piano put in his hotel room, and during the day I would sit and play the chords to a song he was working on, like a human cassette machine, while he tried different sets of lyrics to them. (Incredibly, cassettes hadn’t been invented yet!) It was good ’cause I got the jump on learning the tunes and was able to teach them to the band that night without Dylan being bothered with that task. My favorite of the lot was “I Want You,” and each night I would suggest recording it to Bob, who saved it as the last song recorded, just to bug me.
There were some little things about the sessions that were funny. There was this keyboard player named Pig. He looked like your everyday plumber or executive (late thirties, well-scrubbed WASP look) except that he was blind. He was so unuptight about it, that after awhile you would forget it.
Dylan had this problem with him. He couldn’t talk directly to him because he couldn’t call this sweet guy Pig. So he would say to someone else (usually yours truly): “ ... and tell the piano player to play an octave higher.” Then he would look in Pig’s direction and sorta smile, ’cause that way he avoided calling him Pig.
The definitive Pig story is told by Bob Johnston. Seems that Pig and the boys tied one on one night after a late session, and they were driving home when this uncontrollable urge came over the inebriated Pig.
“I wanna drive. You so-and-so’s move over and let me navigate this Cadillac!” he erupted.
His buddies, bein’ drunker than Pig, pulled the car over and put Pig in the driver’s seat. In a moment they were goin’ down the highway with a blind driver and a car fulla drunk rednecks. The guy ridin’ shotgun was sayin‘, “A little to the left ... good ... uh, now a little to the right ... a little faster ...,” and they’re actually pulling it off until they see a red light flashin’ behind ’em and the familiar siren of the Tennessee Highway Patrol. They get Pig to pull the car over, and that’s where the story usually ends. The rest is left up to the listener’s imagination, if he can imagine. Usually, he’s laughing too hard.
One night I was sitting in the control booth while Dylan was in the studio unmoving, writing again. Al Grossman had made a habit of pitching quarters into the soundproofed ceiling, and now everyone was doing it. I just knew that when we left town some enterprising engineer was gonna turn up a bass track to full volume and all them quarters were gonna rain down on the control room like a Las Vegas jack-pot. Anyway, Grossman, Johnston, and I were pitchin’ quarters in the ceiling, and this local newspaperman had somehow gotten in the control room. To his credit, he didn’t say a word. He was in there about an hour and a half just staring at the motionless Dylan through the glass when he finally said, “Damn! What’s he on, anyhow?”
Grossman, not wanting the facts to get distorted in this guy’s potential scoop, tells him, “Columbia Records and Tapes, actually.” The guy was ushered out shortly thereafter.
Dylan was teaching us “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35” one night when Johnston suggested it would sound great with a brass band, Salvation Army style. Dylan thought it over and said it might work. But where would we get horn players at this hour? “Not to worry,” said Charlie McCoy and grabbed the phone. It was 4:30 a.m. when he made the call. Now I am not exaggera
ting when I say that at 5:00 a.m. in walks Charlie’s friend, a trombone player. He was clean-shaven, wearing a dark suit and tie, wide awake, and eager to please ... and ... he was a helluva trombone player. He sat down and learned the song, Charlie played trumpet with him, they cut three takes, and at 5:30 a.m. he was out the door and gone.
Charlie McCoy blew my mind several times that trip, but my fondest memory was when we were recording “You Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine.” There was a little figure after each chorus that he wanted to put in on trumpet, but Dylan was not fond of overdubbing. It was a nice lick, too. Simple, but nice. Now Charlie was already playing bass on the tune. So we started recording and when that section came up, he picked up a trumpet in his right hand and played the part while he kept the bass going with his left hand without missing a lick in either hand. Dylan stopped in the middle of the take and just stared at him in awe. It’s on the record with no overdubbing two takes later; bass and trumpet! This guy is everything great you ever heard about him. That’s him playing the lead acoustic guitar on “Desolation Row” on Highway 61 Revisited, as well. If it makes music, he can play it.
The credits are vague on the Blonde on Blonde album. Maybe I can fill in a few holes for the reader. Joe South is playing bass on “Visions of Johanna.” He has a very special style of playing bass, sort of hillbilly funk. His unique guitar style is most discernible in the mix on “Memphis Blues Again.” He and I have some nice organ-guitar trade-offs in that one. Wayne Moss plays the cool sixteenth-note guitar parts on “I Want You.” The other amazing thing about cutting that album was the firsthand knowledge that you were making history. After I cut the Highway 61 Revisited album, I heard those songs everywhere. I will probably hear them all my life, anywhere I go. They were instant classics because they are prime Dylan. Imagine how it felt playing on a session where, by virtue of the fact that you had already done it once before, you knew that whatever you played would last forever. That’s a heavy responsibility for a punk from Queens. Thank you, Bob, for giving me that opportunity.
Verve was wavering about releasing the first Blues Project album. Tommy was so much a part of the live recordings, Verve felt that since he had left, to release the album in its present form would misrepresent the band. It was hurriedly decided to return to the Au Go Go and record some additional material with Steve and me singing lead. Back to the beginning, almost. We booked a week during the afternoons (the nights, unfortunately, were taken already) and announced on the radio that we were recording live, and lots of kids came for free after school. It was weird gettin’ it on at three o’clock in the afternoon, playing a whole set, then going outside while it was still light out.
Anyway, we got what we needed, and shortly thereafter our first baby, The Blues Project Live at the Cafe Au Go Go, was delivered to record stores all over America. Although, in retrospect, the sound quality was not unlike playing a shirt cardboard on your turntable, it more than served its purpose. For one thing, it was the first rock album to appear on the charts without benefit of the requisite “hit single.” This made the industry look up from their ledgers and take notice.
At the same time, adventurous FM stations (based on the successes of WOR in New York and KMPX in San Francisco) were switching their normally staid formats to progressive rock programming. Many kiddies were rushing out to buy new radios so they could be “with it.” The FM stations took The Blues Project to their hearts and played our album vociferously at a time when the AM stations completely ignored us. The record actually sold. I remember Verve’s first ad, which was placed in all the trade publications (Cashbox, Billboard, etc.). The headline read: “This Album Has Already Sold 22,000 Copies/That’s 18,000 More Than the Street Thought It Would!” What they failed to tell you in the ad was that it was also 19,000 more than Verve thought it would sell. Times have changed. Can you imagine a company today bragging loudly in a full page ad that their new group has sold 22,000 CDs? Preposterous!
Nevertheless, Verve began to show some confidence in the band. They flew us to L.A. to appear at the MGM annual sales convention. The high point of that trip was when five starving hippies and one starving manager invaded Trader Vic’s restaurant and ran up a two hundred dollar dinner tab and charged it to MGM with a belch and a satiated smile. Our appearance at the convention was well received, and the record company pencil-pushers caught a glimmer of the potential in what we were doing. We made our L.A. debut at the Troubadour, but not many showed up to notice. Fucking snobs!
While we were in L.A., we also went into the studio to work on our next album. Jack Nitszche, who wrote arrangements for Phil Spector and The Stones, came down to produce us, but we were so into it that I’m afraid we ignored him (fucking snobs!), and he left the studio throwing his hands up in frustration.
I don’t remember this, but Andy Kulberg says that Nitszche brought us a demo that night of a song he wanted us to record. We all sat there as it played over the speakers, and Danny looked at him like he was crazy when it ended.
“We don’t play music like that, Jack ... ,” Danny said and basically turned down the chance to record “Wild Thing” before The Troggs or Hendrix did. In essence, he also turned down Jack’s services as he was out the door later that same evening.
Billy James, a friend of mine from the Dylan days and also head of public relations for Columbia Records West Coast, helped us cut a few tracks, but for political reasons he was credited as Marcus James, his eight-year-old son—probably the youngest producer in record biz history. We cut a song I’d written called “Fly Away,” and a Chuck Berry tune, “You Can’t Catch Me.” Then we hit the road. Or actually it seemed that the road hit us.
In the mid-sixties long hair on males was only regarded as commonplace in New York City, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. Everywhere else it was as life-threatening as it appeared in that Easy Rider film. We took our by then long hair and ridiculous clothes out into Middle Amerika and she bitterly retaliated:• In Cedar Rapids we were hissed and booed as we deplaned.
• In Boston some guy tried to run me over as I crossed the street.
• In Canada they threw whiskey bottles at us as we left the stage.
• In Maryland we were refused lodging in two hotels.
• In Detroit we were refused service at an airport coffee shop.
Not being into martial arts, we retreated into the sanctuary of drugs. I mean, we tried to keep ourselves as incoherent as possible at all times so we wouldn’t realize what indignities we were being put through. It was real lonely. I realize that you’re probably slapping your head and saying: “What a fucking cliché!”
Wait a second. Let me explain.
It’s 1966 and we’re playing in your small college-town gym. Everyone has brought a date to the show and consequently there are no “singles,” if you catch my drift. (There was an unspoken double standard in rock at the time. Musicians were expected to have dalliances with the various groupies that were proffered to them. It didn’t impinge on any emotional ties to your wife or girlfriend. It was therapeutic—like a massage. But God forbid that a neglected woman at home should seek the solace of a companion for a physical tryst—she’d be thrown out in thirty seconds. With all the indignities of touring at this time, if some camp follower smiled and offered anything, I admit I took it.) You’ve arrived, after driving all night, at your Holiday, Days, or Ramada Inn room, where the staff lets you know that you are most assuredly not welcome. You rush out to a soundcheck, where a skeleton college crew is totally unprepared, and the simplest matters wind up taking hours. You’ve got maybe enough time to return to the hotel and shower (lunch, dinner, forget it—they wouldn’t serve you in the restaurant even if you had the time to eat) and then race back to the gym. Then it’s wait around while the first act goes on late, plays twice as long as they’re supposed to, and makes the audience really irritable just in time for you to go on:
Your big hour.
Now that was golden.
It was, for sure, the on
ly enjoyment in the entire schedule. God forbid you played a lousy show; then suicide seemed like the logical alternative to the boredom, frustration, and futility. After a quick perusal of the premises for a smiling female (nope!) it’s back to the hotel where the kitchen is (you guessed it) closed and it’s 11:30 p.m. and all you can pick up on the TV is waving American flags and priests.
So practically all of us got high a lot. I’m surprised we weren’t junkies. It’s probably a miracle of sorts that no one in the band was inclined that way, but mostly we smoked hash, grass, and opium, and took some occasional mescaline. Imagine being revered on stage for that wonderful hour and then being rushed back to your hotel cell. You felt like some talented animal in the circus after they tore the Big Top down. It made us closer to each other, ’cause we were all in the same boat. If deep down we hadn’t really dug each other, we could never have pulled it off (we did that a lot, too; but in separate rooms!).
Blues Project ‘66 (middle period). (Left to right) Andy, Steve, Danny, Dutch Boy AI, Roy. (Photo: Linda Eastman-A1 Kooper Collection.)
With our record out and on the charts, our modest level of fame spread out of the general Eastern area and across the Great Divide. The agency booked us heavily and we went out and got ‘em all. Sometimes for convenience we would charter small aircraft (five to eight seaters)—Buddy Holly Specials, I called ’em. The first pilot to fly us in a charter was Stanley Pell, the brother of famous West Coast arranger Dave Pell. He owned a STOL (Short Take Off & Landing) Aero-Commander Number 68 Romeo that sat six plus pilot and copilot. We had an afternoon appearance at a college in Waterville, New York, and an evening’s engagement at Steve Paul’s Scene in New York City. William Morris suggested we rent a plane and turned us on to Stanley, who flew Dionne Warwick and some of William Morris’s other clients.