Backstage Passes and Backstabbing Bastards

by Al Kooper

  Bill Gallagher at Columbia and his soon-to-be successor, Clive Davis, were real interested. They had attended the Monterey Pop Festival and were now turned on to the dollar potential of the alternative market. Clive set up a luncheon date for the two of us. I met him in his office at CBS. I was real scruffy, rather wild-looking, and a true test of any executive’s desire to sign the band was if they would dare to appear in public with me. Clive seemed unfazed by the prospect, and we adjourned down the block to the Hickory House, a pencil-pushers’ steak haven on West 52nd Street. I had asked that we go somewhere where I could order eggs, because, although it was his lunchtime, it was my breakfast time. We were ushered in and seated immediately. Along came one of those inevitable waiters-with-an-accent cartoons, who handed us menus and waited for our order. I didn’t see any kind of eggs on the menu, and I could immediately see that this was gonna be trouble. I mentioned as much to Clive and suggested going somewhere else, but he must have had a piece of the place or something ’cause he wouldn’t budge.

  “Just tell the waiter what you’d like,” he said.

  Here goes nothin’, I thought to myself.

  “Can I have three eggs over medium, buttered whole-wheat toast, and a large milk?” I said to the waiter.

  “Escargot?” he says, trying to figure what this long-haired weirdo is talking about. I recited the order slowly once again, and he was even more confused. I flashed an “I told you so” look Clive’s way. Clive, ever eager to sign a new band, leapt from his seat and, while I was wondering if I could quietly slip under the table, he grabbed the waiter’s jacket collar with both hands and screamed, “He wants three eggs over medium with buttered toast and a glass of milk!”

  I didn’t get the whole-wheat toast, but we signed with Columbia anyway.

  During this time period we were all burdened with the number one teen crisis in America—the draft. Uncle Sam was extremely interested in quite a few of his musician nephews and a Master Plan needed to be concocted. At this time, approximately one out of every five “visitors” to an army physical was attempting to get out of serving, and as the war escalated and more bodies were needed overseas, the recruiters became wiser to the “tricks of the afraid.” The most important ammunition for a draft-dodger at a physical was a letter from a psychiatrist that waxed imperative about the lack of mental stability of the person presenting the note. This was an essential plank in the Master Plan. Then one had to begin a transformation that began a week prior to said physical:• If you were thin, it was important to eat as little as possible that week. If you tilted toward obesity, gluttony was suggested.

  • Changing clothes (including undergarments and socks) was verboten that week, as was actually removing said garments. This exempted bathing, tooth-brushing, use of deodorants, etc. Judicious use of hair-spray was encouraged, however.

  • Sleeping was frowned upon and drug intake was expected to increase from one hundred to three hundred percent in that week.

  All these instructions had to be carried out to the letter if the inductee was to have any chance of escaping Uncle Sam’s long arm. The final phase of the Master Plan took place the night before your physical. This was a tradition that supplanted the bachelor or stag party in the mid-sixties.

  The victim would hold open-house that night and all his concerned friends could gain admittance by drug contributions or expert advice. If you had ten joints, three hits of speed, or had taken the physical more than twice and knew special stuff, you were most welcome. Our operation was smooth, professional, and, finally, claimed a one hundred percent success rate. Not one of our enrollees had served in the military and all had been classified 4F except yours truly.

  My first instinct had been to take my preinduction physical with my psychiatrist’s note only. I figured my ulcer would get me out because it definitely would have recoiled in horror from a typical day’s cuisine in said Army. So I followed my first instinct and forwent the excessive drug-taking and nonchanging of clothes, etc.—and wound up with a plump 1A classification, fit for service and ready to ship overseas! This meant that at any moment I could receive my orders to report for an induction physical. That’s the one where you show up with your toothbrush and a picture of your gal, and if you pass, you’re on a bus to Fort-Something-or-Other that very afternoon without benefit of actually going back home again. Big difference from a PREinduction physical. Soooo, needless to say, when my notice to report for my induction physical arrived, I was shitting in my pants.

  Now let me qualify my comments: I was against the war in Viet Nam, but also felt that, if someone wanted to be patriotic and serve their country, it was their privilege to do so. For the rest of us, though, I was against being forced to attend these Asian festivities. After all, that’s what freedom is all about. Time has shown that it was a morally bereft war, and that our country gained nothing but a body count as a result of it. I look at it as the end of an era, and a black mark on America’s already blemished record. Nowadays, wholesale aggression may still go on as a matter of foreign policy, but many more questions are asked before we commit the lives of our young men and women to some battleground halfway across the planet.

  Okay—those are my politics, for better or worse, and we now continue on with our story.

  The government was calling my bluff and wanted me to go to Viet Nam. No way. Not even on a USO tour. I wanted a scarlet letter and number 4F tattooed on my forehead, so there was no question about my stance. So I began the Master Plan in earnest. I got my shrink note, and chose my wardrobe for my morning of reckoning. I selected black boots, black socks, black pants, a nice black shirt, black underwear, and a bulky New Jersey police officer’s jacket (as a nice touch of irony) for my uniform de jour. I slept in the coat with all my clothes on for the prescribed week (it was cold in my apartment, anyway). The night before Draft Morning we all convened at Steve Katz’s apartment in the Village (he had finally moved out of his folks’ place and was ready to host social gatherings).

  This was, as a unit invoking the Master Plan, our first induction physical and a serious, urgent note hung in the air. I think it was F#. Seriously, I smoked about forty joints that night, chainsmoked a few hash-oil bombers, and at 5 a.m., one hour before I was due to report, dropped a massive amount of speed. The intended effect was: totally incoherent and yet completely wired.

  The sun had not even risen as Bobby Colomby’s car came to a halt in front of the induction center on Whitehall Street in lower Manhattan. Suddenly, after a night of sincere bonding camaraderie, I found myself incredibly alone in front of this federal monolith. It was cold, dark, and scary.

  I walked inside to the main gathering room. I sat down on a bench and I must say that, as the room became more and more crowded, that bench remained entirely mine.

  Preparing for my army physical while predating Richard Ashcroft by thirty years for the “Best Scooped-Out Cheeks” award. (Photo: Alice Ochs.)

  The stench on that bench repelled all sects, religions, and lifestyles. Nobody got within ten feet of me without altering their course, pronto.

  So far, so good.

  An officer called out everyone’s name and dispatched each contestant to various testing rooms. I ignored my assignment and headed straight for the psychiatrist’s office on the second floor. This was part of the Master Plan. Immediate disobedience. There I sat waiting for my man. It was now 7 a.m. and a first had occurred. The shrink was not in. This scenario was not in the Master Plan. I would have to improvise now.

  Various brass would come over to me from time to time and say, “You can’t sit there all morning, son. You’ve got to take your physical sometime today!” I just stared at them wide-eyed and speedy and, along with my bouquet, I felt no words were necessary. I sat there for three hours dodging removal requests left and right. Finally, the shrink arrived.

  “Message for you, SIR!” I said snapping to attention and saluting smartly after handing him my psychiatrist’s note. I gave him the envelope and he didn�
��t even read it! He kinda held it up to the light to make sure something was in it.

  “Alright son. While I’m reading this, go and take your physical,” he said, then walked into his office and slammed the door.

  By then the speed was beginning to wear off, and the lack of sleep in the last week was catching up with me. I was viewing everything through a kind of yellow haze. I was completely vulnerable and gooned out. I would’ve joined the Marines if they put the proper papers in front of me to sign at that moment. Some sergeant type walked me through the physical and I couldn’t believe I was participating without screaming and making a scene. In fact, I was being a nice guy! My twisted mind could only see the end of the physical and a nice warm bed somewhere. I had lost sight of that toothbrush and the bus that was gonna take me away. I walked through the physical and ended up back at the shrink’s office. I finally snapped back to the reality and urgency of my situation. A pivotal scene:Shrink: Sit down, Mr. Kooper [he does]. I am none too fond of your appearance today, Alan. You know that reporting to an Army physical is akin to showing up for a job interview. You wouldn’t show up for a job you wanted dirty and unshaven and dressed like this, would you, Mr. Kooper?

  Mr. Kooper: Ah ... well, uhh ... fact of the matter is, uh, sir, that I was out so late last night I had to come right down here without the luxury of returning home, sir, to shower and shave. I didn’t want to be late or anything like that, sir....

  Shrink: [Caught in Mr. Kooper’s game now and doesn’t even know it] Well, if you were truly responsible, you wouldn’t have stayed out so late last night, would you, Alan? [Pause for effect] Yes ... uhh ... I’ve read your doctor’s letter here. Are you currently being treated by this Dr. Schmutz [not his real name]?

  Mr. Kooper: Oh yeah—three times a day ... errrr ... a week, I mean. Sorry, sir.

  Shrink: Well, if you continue therapy with him, perhaps we can see you in a year and see how you are doing then....

  Mr. Kooper: [Incredulous that it was this easy; getting more than a little uninhibited and nuts] Well, sir, point taken. But ya know, I’d really like to go over there and kill all those bastards for ya, I really would, ya see. It’s just that....

  Shrink: [Sighing loudly now]

  Mr. Kooper: [At full speed] Seeee, I just don’t have time to go over there now. I’m in a band and people are just starting to like it. I’ve been working all my life toward this, ya see. It’s my big chance. After we make it and make all the money and fuck all the women, I’ll be back here. You just wait and see. [Patriotic music begins in the background] You won’t have to remind me by mail either. [Raising voice] WITH A CLEAN SHOWERED APPEARANCE, SIR! A SHAVE. A SUIT. A TIE. I’M NOT FUCKIN’ AROUND EITHER, SIR.... YOU CAN....

  Shrink: [Interrupting; red-faced] MR. KOOPER!!! PLEEEEEEASE!!! I said we won’t take you at this time but we WILL recall you. [Rises] Thank you and good afternoon!

  Mr. Kooper: [Rising fast and snapping to attention with a smart salute] Thank you, sir!!! [Continuing as he heads toward the door] I won’t forget this, sir. We’ll put your name on the album, sir [we didn’t]. I’ll send you a copy, sir, I won’t forget [I did]. God bless you, sir! [Fade in]:

  Mr. Kooper: [Skipping the light fandango down the street, doing cart-wheels ’cross the floor with a huge grin on his face looking for a pay phone. Finally finding one, dials and delivers sotto voce] Bobby??? I’m at the corner of ... uhhh ... Grand and Whitehall. Come and take my exhausted ass home. It was a real close call. I’ll tell ya when ya get here. HURRY!!!!! [Fade out]

  After myriad auditions, the lineup of the band was firm: Steve, Bobby, Jimmy, Freddie, and me, plus Randy Brecker and Jerry Weiss (trumpets and flugelhorns), and Dick Halligan (trombone).

  The experiment even had a name. One particular night, Jimi Hendrix, B.B. King, myself, and an unidentified drummer and bass player were going at it all night at the Cafe Au Go Go. (The Go Go, Steve Paul’s Scene, and Generation-a new club on Eighth Street—were all in competition, even over who would have the best after-hours jams.) At daybreak, when we finished playing, they put the house lights on and somebody observed: “Christ! Look at the organ! There’s blood all over the keyboard!” Sure enough, I had cut my hand playing, and in the state of bliss induced by my compatriots’ sound had not felt a thing. What a great album cover, I thought. No. What a great name for a band. Blood, Sweat & Tears—and that was that.

  Passing the buck in the original BS&T, 1967. (Left to right) Steve Katz, Jim Fielder, Jerry Weiss, Fred Lipsius, Bobby Colomby, Dick Halligan, Randy Brecker (accepting buck), Mr. Flower Power. (Photo: Don Hunstein—Al Kooper Collection.).

  We then began serious rehearsals in a two-platoon system. I would rehearse the rhythm section, and Freddie would put the horn players through their paces at separate workouts. Every three days we would rehearse the whole band together, see how the pieces fit, and polish it until it shone. After six weeks of intense preparation, we were ready to whip it on y’all.

  On November 18, 1967, we debuted at the Au Go Go, opening the show for Moby Grape. The horns had not yet fully memorized their parts, so our roadies built a giant music stand to set out in front of them. A first for rock, no doubt. The place was packed with press and Moby Grape fans. I’ve always felt that some people are sitting there just itching for you to fall on your ass, and that’s where the real drama comes from. Not whether you’re good, but rather whether you somehow trip and stumble in some hopefully dramatic fashion. Whatever they expected, we played a burning set right down their throats. No mistakes. And all new material that no one had heard before. That’s hard for an audience to digest, but we pulled it off. After it was over, I was not the only one with tears in his eyes backstage. The band was off the ground and it looked like it was gonna fly! We went uptown a few nights later and played at Steve Paul’s Scene club for Thanksgiving week and tightened up enough to get rid of the music stands.

  I decided to ask John Simon, the guy who produced Bookends for Simon and Garfunkel, to produce our album. I had played “I Can’t Quit Her” for John when I first wrote it, and he said if I ever recorded the song, he’d like to produce it. Well, I was ready. We needed a producer who knew music, and unfortunately there weren’t too many around that fit that description.

  John came to hear us live, loved it and signed on. We had a producer, and we were almost ready for the studio. John took us in one day and had us cut all our material live, one take each, just to use as reference. (Portions of that session are available on the Sony gold disk version of the first BS&T compact disk—number CK 64214.) He and I then spent the next two weeks at his house, playing the tape and editing the material in such a way that it would make some kind of sense on a phonograph record. He would say, “That trumpet part there is shit. It’s gonna have to go.” I’d say, “Well, what have you got that’s better?” Then we’d kick it around until the right part developed. When it did, we both knew it.

  John picked what songs went on the album. They weren’t necessarily the ones I would’ve picked, but I needed to step outside of the situation anyway. I was not keen on “I Can’t Quit Her” (which turned out to be one of the most popular) or “My Days Are Numbered,” which were both taxing to my limited vocal capabilities, but John got them on the record and coaxed the best vocals that were possible out of me.

  Meanwhile, I was churning out newer material. One night I finished a song that knocked me on my ass. Where most of my songs were blues-influenced and drew on fairly obvious roots from my background, this new one was strangely original. It had its own feeling and owed nothing to anything in my record collection. I called everyone in the band up and urged them over to my house to hear the new composition. When my audience was assembled, I played it to them and they loved it.

  “What are you gonna do with it though, Al?” said Bobby Colomby.

  “I wanna put it on the album. It says a lot about my growth as a writer, and I’d like people to pick up on that,” I responded with typical naivete.

  “B
ut the band can’t—I mean horns and drums would fuck that song up. We can’t do it on the album,” countered a quasi-diplomatic Colomby.

  I got trouble here, I’m thinkin’ to myself.

  “I want to do it by myself. Maybe with ten or twelve strings or something. It’ll give the record some variety and a change of pace.”

  Pause. Then Bobby again. “But that wouldn’t be the band, Al. It’s not what the band is.”

  That was it. I lost my temper and my cool.

  “Look. We made a deal, or did you forget? It’s my band. But that’s not even what I’m talking about. I’m a member of the band. So if I step out on one track out of eleven, it’s still the band ‘cause I’m in the fucking band. If Randy played some incredible improvisations with just a string chart behind him, I’d put it on our album. The only difference would be that we couldn’t perform one song from the album live. Isn’t ‘Yesterday’ credited to the Beatles? Big fucking deal.”

  Now Bobby was mad.

  “There’s no way that song is going on the album and that’s it!”

  He exited with the band members at his heels. The next day it was dumped into John Simon’s lap for mediation. He slept on it and two days later called to tell me it was thumbs up in my direction. We would use twelve strings, and in the interest of budget, John would write the arrangement. The song was called “The Modem Adventures of Plato, Diogenes, and Freud.” It was a stream of consciousness lyric about this disciple of Timothy Leary I had encountered who was a psychatrist, used drugs in his sessions, and had sexual relations with his women patients. The decision to include the song on the album was the first step in my departure from the band, only I wasn’t aware of it at the time.