by Al Kooper
Well, as the saying goes, the rest is history. The girl (Joni Mitchell, of course) played at the 1967 festival, thanks to the last-minute urgings of Judy Collins, and stole the whole show. Judy eventually recorded the song I thought she would like, “Michael from Mountains,” and also had a huge hit with “Both Sides Now,” another of Joni’s songs. Joni never thanked me, but when I heard the album Ladies of the Canyon, that was thanks enough. Maybe I should thank her.
I was expanding my horizons and growing in many directions. For one thing, I couldn’t understand why we couldn’t make records that sounded as good as those other ones on the radio. I knew it was just a matter of concept and time spent in the studio. I’d just written a Top Forty-type song that I knew the band could do in a way that would endear us to those 45 rpm-buying teenies out there and give us the exposure we needed. I convinced Tom Wilson to let us take a whole day just to record this one song. To his credit, Danny was docile, and though he hated this kind of musical gesture, he played what was required and even pitched in on the background vocals.
We were in the studio from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. We worked out the arrangement beat by beat, bar by bar, until it fit the confining time limit of the pop single. Wilson would let us go for awhile, then come in and channel us if we got on the wrong track. It was a key day for me. I was thinking Motown when I put on my organ part, Beatles when I played the synthy solo, and I was trying to imagine myself as a freaked-out Mark Lindsay (lead singer of Paul Revere and the Raiders) when I sang the lead vocal. That oughta cover all the bases, I thought. But most of all it was liberation day in the studio, and from then on no one could ever rush me through three takes again. The song we cut, “No Time Like the Right Time,” came out and actually made the singles charts (a first for us and, unfortunately, a last) and soared to Number 73 on the Top 100. But mainly, it was the beginning of the end for the band because Danny hated it as much as I loved it.
Joan and I moved from East 35th Street to Waverly Place in the West Village. We had a pretty crummy place in a better location. We were on the ground floor, which made it a lot easier for the rats to come and go as they pleased.
Progress, dammit, that’s what I was into. I wanted to augment the band with three horns, and got turned down cold by everyone. Danny said we hadn’t scratched the surface of what we could do in our current configuration, so why add people and raise our overhead even more? I had no comeback for his financial argument, but the die was cast. I had been writing songs that I knew were best expressed with horn backups. Danny was on my case for trying to sing like a black man. Sort of hypocritical, being that he was as guilty of that as I was.
Rehearsals were becoming apathetic and nonproductive. The other guys were, in my estimation, getting lazy and fat musically. I realized I couldn’t play somebody else’s blues anymore. I had my own music now, and it was time to sing my song, not Jimmy Reed’s or Muddy Waters’. All this pressure was building up inside me with no outlet, compounded by my usual high drug intake. Something had to give.
One night, in the middle of a blistering argument with Joan, I all of a sudden shut up and became catatonic. I didn’t say a word for four days. It was like a dam cracking, except that it was me cracking (up). I actually felt a snap inside my head and then relief at not having to speak anymore. It scared Joan. I mean I just sat propped up in bed all day, staring at the wall, real quiet.
I remember they sent Sid Bernstein around to see me. He put his infamous, large, soft hand on my hand and talked to me, almost oblivious to the fact that I wasn’t replying.
“Rest up, kiddo,” he recited. “There’s absolutely nothing you have to do this week, so there’s no pressure if you just lay back and take it easy. By next weekend, you’ll be fine and we’ll play that Chicago gig.”
I couldn’t believe him. I wanted to jump up and scream, “It’s over, you mother-fucker! It’s over! Look what’s become of me. I can’t stand another minute of this shit. Go away!” Of course, he had no way of knowing this; he just thought I was tired. Sid was so busy keeping us afloat businesswise that he couldn’t see the heavy emotional drama going on in the band. But it was over. The “leave of absence” I was about to take would be the first step in the end of the band as it was.
When I finally started talking, I called up my dad and borrowed two thousand dollars from him. First time I ever asked him for anything. Blew his mind. He did not fail me, even though he had to borrow it from someone else ’cause he was a little short at the time. Not much, mind you; about 5 feet 6 inches. Joan and I quickly packed it up and caught the next plane to California to “rest.”
Los Angeles had always seemed to me a kind of mythical place where that magical “it” was always happening first, whether it was sun-baked beaches in the pages of Life magazine or bands like The Byrds and Buffalo Springfield that were providing the freshest American alternative to the English stranglehold on rock ‘n’ roll. The music business had begun its slow migration from Broadway to the Coast, and residence in L.A. was becoming a symbol of affluence. Sort of like, well, you’ve graduated from New York High School, now four years in the Los Angeles College Of (not so) Hard Knocks, and then maybe we’ll ship you to London for your post-graduate work.
The paradox was that I found the thought of residing in that California “paradise” depressing and more than a little like giving up. The New York sensibility has always regarded California with suspicion. If your system is geared to New York’s nonstop adrenaline rush, the relaxed California life-style can seem as if you’re playing a 45 rpm record at 33. Usually, if New Yorkers want to follow that slow a pace, they retire to Florida. My impression was that it was almost too easy to get by in Los Angeles and, although my overloaded mental and emotional circuits definitely needed the rest, I couldn’t really feel comfortable about a move that I subconsciously equated with retiring to a condominium in Boca Raton. Nonetheless, I’d barely gotten it together to where I could roll out of bed before Joan had us winging our way westward.
We checked into the Hollywood Sunset Hotel (then the most favored pop hotel and now a retirement apartment complex) and fanned our address books in search of anyone who might put us up. Joan had a friend in Oakland named Anne, who was gracious enough to offer us lodging for as long as we needed it. So off to Oakland we flew, only to be confronted with a scene that we weren’t even remotely prepared to cope with.
What Anne had neglected to mention was that her house was the number one crash-pad in Oakland. Joining us in our Northern Califomia holiday retreat were every speed freak in San Francisco, an eccentric rock band and their various women, and Anne’s old man, whose sole claim to fame was that he had once managed The Chambers Brothers. Talk about horror shows? This scene was like a distillation of all the negative stereotypes that the media was then promulgating about the hippie phenomenon. If this was the wave of the future, get me back to 1650 Broadway!
In order to get to our sleeping quarters, we had to stand on the kitchen table, then boost ourselves up through the kitchen ceiling and into the attic (which had just enough space to allow you to walk around in a small circle hunched over). Our new-lyweird suite came furnished with a single blood-stained mattress that had no sheets, compliments of the management. Well, I admit that it wasn’t the Beverly Hills Hotel (no matter what hallucinogenic drug you were on) but, I mean, they didn’t even ask us to chip in for food!
God, it was depressing. I’d use up the days making small talk with the endless procession of wasted faces that passed through the house, At night I’d sit up in that attic and crumble into Mr. Hyde. It was de rigueur to cry oneself to sleep; it seemed to suit the environment. When they film this part of the movie, it’ll be in black and white.
One day, in an effort to relieve my boredom and depression, I went to Mill Valley to visit my old friend Mike Bloomfield. We spent the day playing records and talking, and soon it was dark. Mark Naftalin, a buddy and playing mate of Mike’s, dropped in, and the three of us sat in the kitchen t
rading stories about old blues players. Michael’s dog was lying on the kitchen floor, crying the whole time we were sitting there. We were real stoned, having smoked the required fifty-seven joints that California people do in the course of a day (higher tolerance than New Yorkers). Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice right away that the “cookies” Michael was munching on while he talked about Howlin’ Wolf were Fives, a popular California brand of kibble for dogs and cats. I called this to his attention, secretly hoping his sense of something had been dulled temporarily by his stoned state.
“Oh no, man, I eat these all the time. ’S good. Want some?” His father was a fucking billionaire and he was eating dogfood?
“Sure. I’ll try some....”
When no one was looking, I snuck my handful down to the dog, and he stopped crying. Yikes!
The Oakland/cockroach side trip was getting us nowhere, and was not exactly the kind of rehabilitation I’d had in mind when we fled to California. I mean, it told me everything I wanted to know about a certain kind of life I didn’t wish to lead, but in that respect was just another addition to an already crowded list. I certainly wasn’t doing too much to straighten out my considerably twisted brain. Each day I’d twist it a little more in an attempt to find an escape from my escape. My address book had burn marks on the pages from all the time I spent staring at the names and numbers in it over and over again.
Finally, we lucked out. I chanced a call to David Anderle, an old acquaintance in L.A., and he consented to have us as his Hollywood houseguests. Relief! David was a music biz person I’d met while in The Blues Project. He had been a promotion man for MGM in L.A., and during the convention at which we’d played, he was kind enough to take me to his doctor for a much-needed (feel free to use your imagination) penicillin shot. What I needed now was a shot of privacy, and his home was the welcome syringe.
At various times since the MGM days, David had managed a singer named Danny Hutton (who almost made it big with a local hit, “Roses and Rainbows,” and later went all the way as a member of Three Dog Night), babysat for Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys (taking care of him as opposed to his kids), encouraged Van Dyke Parks, and painted fabulous portraits of the people who moved him. David’s first love was painting, and anyone who’s ever seen his work comes away wondering what strange allure the record business could hold for a man so artistically gifted.
David and his wife Cheryl resided in a lovely facade up in the Hollywood Hills, replete with a neat fake waterfall in the backyard. It was a vast improvement on our Oakland digs, and we were almost happy. But I was still running blind, and David picked up on that right away. He took me down the hill to an office on Sunset Boulevard where all these people were engaged in the planning of a pop festival to be held in Monterey in four weeks’ time. Quite a crew: Lou Adler, Ben Shapiro, Alan Pariser, Guy Webster, Tom Wilkes, Derek Taylor, and the familiar face of Edward Herbert Beresford (Chip) Monck.
I’d known Chip from the Dylan days in New York. He always did the lights and staging at the Newport Folk and Jazz Festivals. He put in the Tiffany lamps at the Derby Steak House in the Village (his first New York gig) and redesigned the Village Gate jazz club. He was a welcome slice of East Coast reality. I sat down to chat it up with him and he was soon asking my advice on what kind of instruments and amplifiers to rent. In short order he had me on the phone making calls and assisting him. David ducked out the door, and before you could say, “I’ve never engaged in this kind of thing before,” I’d become the Assistant Stage Manager of the Monterey Pop Festival.
The Monterey job channeled my insanity. I would arrive at the office every day, get on the phone, and order and attempt to cut rate equipment. The fever, dedication, and enthusiasm of those present hit you in the face the moment you walked through the door. Derek Taylor, fresh from a P.R. stint with the Beatles, was on hand as a general antidote to any unnecessary stress. Lou Adler and Alan Pariser took his shots straightfaced—I guess ’cause they were immune to him—but he could reduce anyone else to instant giggles if they got too far into a jam. He made a living out of that in the sixties and saved a great many people from falling into that dreaded abyss called seriousness. A transplanted fixture on the L.A. scene, it would have been impossible to pull the festival off without him. And for me his presence was just what the doctor would’ve ordered if I’d had the sense to see one.
Tom Wilkes and Guy Webster handled the graphics and put together a memorable program book. A classic time capsule of that period, it was unfortunately not made available after the festival. The only surviving copy I know about was on Steve Katz’s coffee table, but his house burned down, so maybe even that copy isn’t around anymore. I wrote a poem that was included in it; they encouraged off-the-wall contributions of that sort. I used to fantasize about putting out a book of poetry, so I carried a notebook around on the road and free-associated my way through The Blues Project in its pages. Only two of the poems were ever published: “Paramount As Abc” (in the Monterey program book) and “Line Her Nodes” (as the notes to my first solo album; more about that later). After my untimely demise, I’m sure you’ll be able to pick up a copy of the rest of those poems; I’ve left strict instructions.
Lou Adler was real surprised to see me, as he’d booked The Project for the Festival:
“What are you doing here?”
“I quit the band.”
“But I’ve got them booked.”
“They’ll be there.”
“Are they any good?”
“Of course they are. I was only one-fifth.”
Lou was easily persuaded to keep them in the show. (I was curious to see what they were gonna do, anyway.) Chip and I were snowing Fender and Hammond in an attempt to convince them to lend us equipment free of charge in return for credit in the program book and on the TV show (in the early stages ABC -TV owned the rights to the festival). We were in touch with the road managers from every group to make sure that their specifications would be met. In other words, no surprises for anyone except the audience. This was gonna be a smoothie even if the prefestival madness was anything but smooth.
Back at the house, meanwhile, it was midway through the six-day Arab-Israeli War, and David was locked into the TV, cheering his race on to victory. Joan was trapped in the house by her inability to face reality and take a driving test. Suffice it to say I was-n’ t paying enough attention to dear Joan, and she was getting madder each day. I was so caught up in the festival that I was oblivious to everything else, including her anger. But at least by this time my insanity was manifesting itself functionally. When I was working, I was totally coherent. When I wasn’t, I was simply a lunatic. (People have since told me that’s how I’ve always been.) Bad luck for Joan.
One day I had lunch with Jac Holzman, the president of Elektra Records and a close friend. Elektra was making a brave plunge into the new music that was in the air, and Jac asked if I knew anyone suitable to run his West Coast office and studios. I flashed on a great way to pay my rent and immediately suggested Anderle, who I was certain could handle the job admirably. Soon Jac and David were deep into discussions about how Elektra could conquer the world. David put his paints away, and in the course of running the office he wound up producing a few gold albums for Judy Collins. I felt I’d repaid the kindness David had shown me.
The weeks flew by until one morning we woke up and it was the day before the festival. The management had rented a Lear Jet in which to ferry the staff and notables from L.A. to Monterey. Joan and I somehow lost track of the schedule, and late in the day we got a frantic call from the airport.
“Where the hell are you? The plane is waiting, it costs money, blah-blah-blah.” So we raced for the airport in David’s car and ended up tear-assing onto the tarmac just like at the end of Casablanca. Life imitating art.
Ever flown in a Lear Jet?
Real exciting.
It was a five-seater, and its passengers on this shuttle were Alan Pariser, John Phillips, me, Joan, and Bri
an Jones (late of The Rolling Stones). Brian had just endured a flight from England. Pariser met him at the gate and whisked him through customs and straight to the Lear Jet. He appeared to be convening in the neighborhood of Jupiter.
We all strapped in and the plane took off immediately. Almost straight up. The flight was outrageous. I was at this time already a veteran of the skies, but no commercial flight really prepares you for your first Lear Jet ride. The thing goes so fast that you don’t believe it even as it’s happening.
When we landed in Monterey, Brian spoke to me for the first time that evening: “Hi, Al.” I don’t think he was aware that our introduction had taken place some forty-five minutes before.
And High Al I was. The flight velocity, altitude, or something had stoned me good, and I tripped along quietly as we drove into the fair city of Monterey. At the motel we ran into some friends we hadn’t seen in a while, and stayed up all night partying. It was a fitting beginning to the festival weekend.
I made it over to the fairgrounds early the next a.m. Chip, who’d been there for five days doing advance work, had it together as usual. I just got on the phone and confirmed everyone for the soundchecks and so forth, filling in the small details. The show began with a set by Canned Heat, and from there it was three days of paradise. And, from an Assistant Stage Manager’s perspective, it worked like a charm. By now reams have been written about Monterey Pop, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t detail it act by act at this late date. I do have a few pleasant memories, however:
There were several artists and friends that I was especially looking forward to seeing. While sitting around David Anderle’s house that summer, we spent a great deal of time listening to this English album I’d borrowed from Aaron Schroeder—an act Aaron had recently signed for stateside publishing. The trio was fronted by a guitar-playing American expatriate that I’d often marveled at when he was a part of John Hammond Jr.’s backing band at the Cafe Wha! in New York, and I was anxious to see how he would do in his debut American performance since becoming a European sensation. His name was Jimi Hendrix.