Backstage Passes and Backstabbing Bastards

by Al Kooper

  We were out there playing, too. We played at the San Francisco State College Folk Festival with Richard and Mimi Farina, Mark Spoelstra, and Malvina Reynolds. We drew quite a few people to the Newport Folk Festival of 1966, as well. That was a weird gig for me. Just prior to my departure for Newport, I was feeling particularly awful and went to the doctor. He took some tests and said, “Son, you have mononucleosis. I heartily recommend that you enter the hospital.”

  We were playing at the Scene in New York until the Newport gig, and right after that we were booked into an important new New York disco called the Phone Booth. I made a deal with the doctor to take lots of medication, rest as much as possible, and not to kiss anyone above the waist, and as soon as the Phone Booth gig was over, enter the hospital (they’d probably carry me in).

  All through Newport, of course, I was running a fever and having to keep a low profile. Miraculously, I made it through reasonably intact. The night we opened at the Phone Booth, the band had installed an army cot outside the dressing room. It was a good thing they did, ’cause toward the end of the first show I passed out cold.

  I was rushed to the hospital (I told ya they’d carry me in) and was glad to be there. Paul Harris, a friend from Queens who had been the recipient of all my studio work when The Project became too time-consuming, was called in to replace me at the Phone Booth on two hours’ notice. He fit right in and saved the gig. After a few weeks of hospitalization, I was good as new (which was just to the left side of healthy compared to normal people).

  Because of our insecurities about not having a charismatic-type lead singer, we hired on a young lady named Emmaretta Marx, who could sing quite well. Emmaretta was not Jewish, but she was black. She would bound onto the stage halfway through the show and liven things up a bit. She also brought along her own “roadie,” a Jean Shrimpton-ish mod delight named Gail. This meant we had to carry two extra people and pay higher hotel bills, so Emmaretta was definitely on trial.

  Gail caused a little friction in the band, ’cause everyone fell in love with her at the same time and didn’t bother to tell the others (or Gail, for that matter) about it. A few indecent proposals from a bunch of emotional cripples sent Gail fleeing straight into the arms of Frank Zappa. She soon became Mrs. Zappa, eventual mother to Moon Unit, Dweezil, and Ahmet Rodan. Emmaretta turned out to be a passing Project performer and, after missing more rehearsals than she could afford to, was returned to from whence she came.

  We were packaged on blues shows quite often, and ended up becoming friendly with those performers whom we had once revered from a distance. Muddy Waters, B. B. King, James Cotton, Otis Spann, and Howlin’ Wolf became close friends of ours. Usually, if we played on the bill more than one time with these people, they would drift into the dressing room to find out what we were all about. All except Chuck Berry. Early in our careers, we backed up Chuck Berry at his first New York solo concert. He was a scary guy and a tough leader, and never did he encourage any friendship. He was strictly professional:

  “All you do is watch my foot. When it go up in the air, get ready. When it hit the ground, if you playin‘, stop. If you ain’t, start.”

  That was his mantra.

  It’s A Mod, Mod, Mod World. Gail and AI backstage somewhere in America. (Photo: Alice Ochs.)

  When we were in town, we hung out mostly on Bleecker Street. A few of us would make the journey uptown to Steve Paul’s Scene or Max’s Kansas City, but that was mainly for whoring. Usually, it was the Au Go Go, the Dugout, or the Au Go Go’s competition across the street, the Bitter End. But for laying back, about two blocks down Bleecker was Alice Ochs’s apartment.

  Alice was Phil Ochs’s ex-wife, and she lived with a girlfriend in a cozy apartment that overlooked all of Bleecker. Every folkie and folk-rocker hung out there, and Alice would sit in the corner with her Nikon and snap away as 1965, ‘66, and ’67 rolled by. We used to get a few extra bucks from Verve and take Alice on the road with us so she could keep on takin’ all those pictures, many of which enhance this book.

  While in San Francisco, we played at the first concert thrown by a hippie cartel known as the Family Dog. They had rented out a huge ballroom on Sutter Street called the Avalon and booked three rock groups for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. We headlined over two local bands, The Sons of Adam and The Great Society (which at the time contained the talents of future Jefferson Airplane copilot Grace Slick and her brother-in-law Darby). It was April 12, 1966, and the weekends that followed gave local rockers an alternative to Bill Graham’s shows at the original Fillmore. Eventually they went the way of all hippie business ventures, and Graham resumed his stranglehold on rock in Northern California.

  Back in New York, The Blues Project finally had its big showdown with the Butterfield gang from Chicago. It was on our home turf. They muscled in on the Cafe Au Go Go, and, frankly, what could we do? We had to face ’em head on. So from July 1 to July 3, 1966, we were on the same bill at the club. It was the first time we had ever squared off against each other on stage. We were primed and they were primed. We alternated headline status each show.

  Town Hall, ’65. Chuck Berry: “You see my hands? When I play this G chord, so do you!!” Blues Project: bewilderment. (Photo: Don Paulsen.)

  After our first set, Bloomfield came into our dressing room. “We heard you guys were shit and played real pussy. Well, it ain’t true. You kicked ass out there and we just wanna acknowledge that.” We still tried to get up there and kick their ass, but it was completely evenly paced throughout the entire gig. It was amazing. We would get up and play a hot set and they would play a burner. We would slip and play a fucked-up one, they would go out and die. The weekend culminated in a massive jam during the last set on the last night. The gunfight was over and no one had been injured.

  By then, we were at our peak. We were New York’s most beloved underground band, the toast of Cleveland, Ohio, les enfants terribles of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and invaders from Mars to the rest of the country. We would often need good security to guarantee trouble-free exits from concert appearances.

  My favorite memories from this time period were from a ten-day stage show we did for Murray the K. It was over Easter vacation and began March 25, 1967. Murray the K’s Easter Rock Extravaganza featured The Blues Project, Cream, Wilson Pickett, The Who, Jim & Jean, The Chicago Loop, Mitch Ryder, The Mandala, The Hardly Worthit Players, and The Jackie the K (Murray’s wife) Dancers. It was the American debut for The Who, Cream, and the Canadian rock group Mandala, all relatively unknown commodities here, and it was convenient and inexpensive for Murray to fit them into the framework of this fifties-style rock ‘n’ roll revue. I had played many shows like this with The Royal Teens. You play your one, two, or three hits and get off quick. Five shows a day, shuffle, shuffle, etc.

  Ludicrous, huh?

  You bet.

  Murray tried to media it up by shooting film on each of the acts and running the clips during set changes. But in order to make a profit, he had to keep the time of each show down, so many of these trailers hit the cutting room floor. A nice idea, though.

  We shared a dressing room with Cream and got friendlier with them than with anyone else in the show. It was their first U.S. trip, and diving directly into this show must have given them a more than distorted look at life in America. I remember the first day they showed up. Ginger Baker walked into the dressing room. We were introduced, and trying to make conversation, I said: “So what do you think of America so far?” He looked rudely at me and replied: “How the fuck should I know? I’ve only been ‘ere thirty-five fucking minutes, ’aven’t I?” Our relationship went uphill from there, and by the last night of the show, we were throwing eggs and whipped-cream at each other, that old American rock ‘n’ roll ritual that denotes mutual respect.

  The show took place at the now defunct (an oft-used phrase in this book) RKO Fifty-Eighth Street Theater in Manhattan. On Easter Sunday, in between shows, Jack Bruce, Steve Katz, and I strolled over to
Central Park, where New York’s First Annual Be-In was taking place. It was the counterculture’s free Easter party, and we thought we’d have a looksee. Everyone in the area was attired in glorious flower-power finery; women were passing out wine, candy, popcorn, cakes, and dope. As I stuffed a few handfuls of popcorn into my mouth, it occurred to me that perhaps some folks might’ve combined dope into the food (San Francisco style), and maybe discretion was in order for any acceptance of free handouts. I mentioned this to Steve and Jack, but they hadn’t eaten anything.

  After we got back to the theater, I discovered I had shut the barn door after the horse was loose. Boy, was I gooned out. It’s hard to pinpoint what I was experiencing, but I do remember it was positive all the way. The band wisely decided to play the next show without me. Our roadie took me out into the audience and, for the first time in my life, I watched The Blues Project play. A pleasant trip.

  One afternoon, Eric Clapton, Steve Katz, and I ran out between shows to Mannys, the local music store. We dallied a little too long and were nervously checking our watches as the return cab pulled up at the stage door. I got out first and ran for the door. Steve was right behind me and as he left the cab he accidentally slammed the door right on Clapton’s hand! Eric began to scream in pain, and Steve turned around, ran back, and opened the door. Miraculously, Eric hadn’t broken any bones or even punctured his skin for that matter. Steve felt like a jerk, however. Can you imagine that kind of guilt?

  Cream was having a time of it. For a band that later became known as the stretch-out group of all time, fifteen minutes to do three tunes was a bit restrictive. They did “I Feel Free,” “Spoonful,” and alternated closing with “Traintime” or “Crossroads.” It was uninspired compared to the shows they would later whip on people. (Wheels of Fire is playing in the background as I’m typing this, and I’m grinning.)

  The Who were another story. I had read all about them in the imported English papers, so I knew what their story was. I’d seen pictures in the English import rags Rave and Disc, and was looking forward to seeing their guitar-smashing climax firsthand. They were chosen to close the show, and wisely so.

  At the first show everyone in the cast stood in the wings to see what all the fuss was about. Well, they launched into “My Generation” and you could feel it coming. Keith Moon flailed away on these clear plastic drums, and it seemed like he had about twenty of ’em. It was the first time any of us colonists had seen the typical English drumkit. There are usually six to eight tom toms of various sizes as compared to two or three in most American drumsets. And huge double bass drums, one of which said “THE” and the other, of course, “WHO.” Moon just beat the shit out of them for fifteen minutes nonstop.

  Two guitarists of varying degrees share more than secrets backstage: (Left) Eric Clapton and Steve Katz, 1967. (Photo: Alice Ochs.)

  Pete Townshend (“He’s a God in England,” Eric Clapton said to me before they went on) leaped in the air, spinning his arms wildly and just being the most generally uninhibited guitar player ever seen in these parts. Roger Daltrey broke a total of eighteen microphones over the full run of the show. And John Entwistle would just lean up against his amp and take it all in.

  They reached the modulation part of the instrumental, and Townshend spun his guitar in the air, caught it, and smashed it into a placebo amp. No cracks in his Strat, so he aimed for the mikestand. Whackkkkk. Crack number one. Then the floor. Whommmpppp! The guitar was in three or four pieces and he still got signal coming out of it! All of a sudden, Moonie kicked his entire drumkit over, and the curtain rang down in a cloud of artificial smoke. Just then I realized my heart was beating three times its normal speed. I figure that, as a critic of the show, my electrocardiogram would have been the best testimonial I could have offered.

  Between shows, The Who’s roadie, Bob Pridden, would glue drums and guitar bits together in the dressing room, all the while constructing smoke bombs and signing microphone repair bills. He had his hands full to say the least. For The Who it was business as usual, even if it was at fifteen minutes a clip.

  Wilson Pickett was a strong figure in the R&B world, racking up one hit after another and creating many classics (“In The Midnight Hour,” “Mustang Sally,” “I’m A Midnight Mover,” “I Found A Love,” and later a great version of Free’s “Fire And Water”). He was interested in alternative music, and this was the first time he had encountered it firsthand, so he hung out with everyone as much as he could.

  Mike Bloomfield and Barry Goldberg came down to catch the show one night. Mike had just quit Butterfield and was scouting new musicians for a concept he had in mind for a band. While listening to Pickett’s set, he became hopelessly infatuated with the playing of Wilson’s eighteen-year-old drummer. Bloomers took a shot and stole that drummer right out of Pickett’s band. For young Buddy Miles it was a gamble, but a relief from the chitlin’ circuit that had occupied most of his eighteen years.

  So many incestuous things were going on. Little did Buddy know that years later, when he would front his own band, he would call upon Jim McCarty, the guitar player who was with Mitch Ryder at the show, to join his group. Little did Mandala know how they would divide and make a name for themselves individually (Dom Troiano joined The James Gang, Penti Glan and Josef Chiriowski would later provide powerful backup for Lou Reed and Alice Cooper).

  It was during the run of this show that I received a call from my ex-wife Judy’s family that our son was being born. March 29, 1967. I rushed out to Long Island Jewish Hospital and ran up to Judy’s hospital room. She was asleep and looked like a girl who had crossed the line to womanhood and was the worse for wear as a result of it. I stood in the room solo, staring at her, and wept. I had been a bastard for my timing in leaving, but that’s why it’s incorrect to marry at age 21. Still, the guilt poured out of my eyes. I walked to the nursery and stared at the Kooper baby. This was one of the roughest moments in my life. Judy’s family glowered at me and did not speak a word. I got back in a cab and began my return to Murray’s show with my head in my hands. The dark, humorous part of this was that over the next few days people kept handing Joan cigars and telling her what a great recovery she had made.

  After Murray’s last show every night, those of us who could still stand up made it over to Steve Paul’s club and jammed all night. Many incredible nights of music went down during that week. It was the memorable Spring before the impending Summer of Love.

  One night I was sitting in my favorite bar in the Village, the Dugout. It was the best place to kill a summer’s night, and I always ran into a few friends I would miss while I was on the road. I was living platonically at folk-singer Judy Collins’ apartment on the Upper West Side in between my own apartments. Judy, the number two female folk singer behind Joan Baez, was a wonderful, generous woman. Her apartment was the folk music salon of the mid-sixties. People like Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Phil Ochs, and others would make the pilgrimage to her digs and enjoy her hospitality and earth mothering. This particular night in the Village I was sitting with a new girl in town. She had a crush on Roy Blumenfeld, the drummer from The Blues Project. Unfortunately for her, Roy had a girlfriend who was on to her and extremely jealous. So, this gal is crying in my beer for about three hours, and I don’t mind ’cause she’s kinda easy on the eyes and nothing else is going on anyway. So they’re closing the bar and throwing us out and I offer to walk her home. It was about a fifteen-minute stroll, and it was a beautiful summer’s night. Since I was covered in the ashes of my failed marriage, this was a pleasant diversion.

  When we got to her door, she invited me in to hear some of her new songs. She was a folksinger. Canadian. Half of a duet with her recently divorced husband, they had achieved a mild popularity and a cult following in various American border cities. She, being real pretty, had me bounding up the stairs like a hound dog, figuring if the songs were lousy, maybe I could salvage the evening some other way. In a few minutes that became the furthest thing from my mind.


  Her songs were incredible and totally original, which was a surprise in those days, but quite refreshing. She would finish one, and I would say more, more. And she had enough to keep going for hours, most of them brilliant. One song especially killed me, and I thought it would be great for Judy Collins—that a nice way to pay her for her hospitality would be to turn her on to it. Being impulsive, I asked my host if I could use her phone, and I called Judy up. It was 5:30 a.m. by now, and Judy was pretty pissed off.

  “I have to get up soon and drive all the way to the Newport Folk Festival, and I wanted to get some sleep for a change. I can hear this song when I get back from the festival, Al,” she said diplomatically.

  Bang! A great idea hits me. “Judy, why don’t you, room permitting, take this girl with you to the festival. She could play the song and others for you on the way up and make your trip that much more pleasant. Then, being that you’re on the board of directors, you could see if maybe they could fit her in the schedule somewhere to play, huh?” Silence at the other end. “Judy?”

  “Kooper, you bastard. Yeah, I’ll do it. Gimme her number. Bye.”

  Just to make sure, I gave the woman Judy’s number and told her to call Collins in a couple of hours. I split immediately ’cause I was exhausted and never made it to Judy’s place, preferring to crash on a bench in Washington Square Park in the steamy, summer morning rather than get hell for waking her at 5:30 a.m.