Backstage Passes and Backstabbing Bastards

by Al Kooper

  Well, I was just slipping into my rhinestone-studded pants when the Man entered. Cops in the dressing room didn’t bother me much, ‘cause I had just kicked drugs and was not getting high at the time, and I didn’t have a police record (they didn’t even start recording till the late ’70s). Usually cops were just nosing around for dope, so I’d ask them real complicated questions about their guns or boots until they’d get bored and leave. That night we had the chief of police of Greenvale, Long Island, and the head of security for C. W. Post College both in my dressing room at one time. I was honored.

  Said the chief: “Mr. Kooper? Ah, yes. Well, it seems that someone has threatened to do you bodily harm tonight during your performance. They phoned head-quarters to warn us, so I wouldn’t put much credence in it, but nonetheless, what would you like to do about it?”

  I told him I would like to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. However, it was a sellout concert, I was the advertised headliner, and it was probably just some coked-up guy whose girlfriend bought an Al Kooper album that day.

  The chief informed me he had thirty policemen (that was probably the entire Greenvale force) outside to assist if anything might occur. I told him to dismiss twenty-six of ’em; all we needed was four pall bearers. Heh, heh.

  We were all yukking it up when I realized I had go onstage in five minutes. Target time. Not only that, but there were probably only two people not smoking dope in the audience (my parents), and a surprise appearance by thirty uniformed policemen would not endear me to the crowd, if you catch my drift. And the ol’ chief, he didn’t wanna start a riot for a few joints, bless his heart. Well, I said, let’s put four plainclothesmen in front of the stage ready to rock, and do a quick-escape-motorcycle-escort right after the last song, and we’ll basically just roll the dice.

  “Great. Thank you, Mr. Kooper,” the chief said, and the two men were gone.

  My sidemen at the time, John Paul Fetta on bass and Roy Markowitz on drums, were more scared than I was. And I was gettin’ kinda scared. As we walked out ... no ... edged out on stage, I realized that my parents being out there somewhere gave it a kind of a John Frankenheimer reality. (Imagined New York Post story the next day, “... and as his horrified parents Samuel and Natalie watched in helpless horror, a volley of bullets caught him in the chest right in the middle of ‘Season of the Witch,’ toppling him to the stage floor. At first the crowd thought it was part of the show, but when thirty police officers began to ....”)

  Well, we didn’t play too well. I got distracted, though, and played for a long time. A half-hour over my prescribed set time. The Geils Band were pissed off, but they never saw me after the show. Three cops immediately grabbed me and “escorted me to an already moving vehicle” (shades of Dylan) with a motorcycle escort to the Long Island Expressway.

  Obviously, I didn’t get killed. I didn’t even get shot at, not a stab wound or any wet noodle marks.

  The booking agency I was with paired me with many of its other clients in various package shows. Consequently, I spent a lot of touring time with mostly Cactus, Rory Gallagher, and Badfinger. The only time I played Carnegie Hall was on a package tour with Badfinger. They were also managed by the same company I was. They couldn’t cope with the financial shenanigans going on around us as well I as I could, and two of them—Peter Ham and Tom Evans—hanged themselves within a few years of each other. They had a financial picture painted for them that was rosy and cheerful. But when the porous layers were peeled away, they found that they were rich only in their dreams and all their money was “gone.” For some people this can be just too much to bear. Ham and Evans couldn’t live with the deception and so they checked out. Ham allegedly left a suicide note that named Stan Polley—the principal of the agency—as the cause of his suicide. Polley denied the existence of such a note. This was horrible stuff and I don’t know how I rationalized my way through it all, but blindly I did. I was making a great deal of money. My rent and all the rest of my bills were paid for me, lucrative deals were struck when necessary, and I always felt flush. So, even as everyone dropped away from Polley one by one, I stuck it out.

  As I said, Stanley Polley was the principal of the company. Its other clients were Lou Christie, Bob Lewis (a top New York DJ and voice-over king), my friend Charlie Calello (who had recruited me into the firm), Irwin Levine (my old writing partner who was reaping wild success with Tony Orlando & Dawn songs like “Knock Three Times,” “Candida,” and “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” sans me), The Tokens (a fifties’ doo-wop group who were extremely successful producers in the sixties), and Badfinger. Polley was incredibly bright and had some bona fide original business plans. His downside was that he was incredibly devious and, in my opinion, had zero regard for the human condition. The latter was, I believe, the reason we lost the two lads from Badfinger. Polley reminded me of Dr. Lechter from the Thomas Harris books. An acknowledged brilliant doctor, but one who just happened to eat a few of his patients. That was Polley, figuratively speaking. Take my own case: My royalties always used to be mailed to him, and of course, after he stopped representing me, he stopped sending any rightful money or royalties to me. It took me twenty-five years of legal wrangles to stop those royalties from being mailed to him. A detailed look at the above-mentioned situation can be found in Dan Matovina’s thorough Badfinger biography.

  I went out with Badfinger on a tour that lasted three months. The last date was in Chicago. There were bets I couldn’t finish the tour because of my previously annotated condition. I had a lot of money and faith riding on this tour. The final two dates were in Chicago with a day off in between. We played the first date, and on the day off my band and I had a celebration dinner. I had a huge prime rib entree and retired to my room with a Hawaiian female acquaintance. About 3 a.m. I became incredibly ill, and had to call the guys in the band. Food poisoning was determined to be the culprit as all the lads were afflicted—but none as bad as I, the ulcerated contestant. The hotel doctor gave me a strong sedative and advised hospitalization. I told the guys to book flights and get us out of Dodge pronto. I had them call my parents and have an ambulance meet us at the airport. I got off the plane, got into the ambulance, and checked into the hospital. I lost the damn bet and it hadn’t been my fault. I told everyone to put “Felled by Roast Beef at the Albert Pick Motor Hotel” on my tombstone. I was in incredible pain most of the time and was being fed intravenously. Ironically, morphine was being administered for the pain. This is a no-no in twelve-step programs, but I had graduated from the two-step program.

  The next day, a visiting friend was sitting there eating pizza just to bug me. The nurse came in, gave me my pain shot, and departed. An hour later, soon after the nurse-shift changed, another nurse came in to accidentally give me the same shot.

  “You’re early,” I slurred, “The other nurse got me just a few minutes ago.” This alleged angel of mercy was not interested. “Just you roll over and don’t give me any of your lip!” she ordered, as nurses do. I began to wonder just when that last shot was administered as her needle jabbed me painlessly.

  A few minutes later, I started rushing like crazy. My pizza-eating friend looked up and happened to notice I was turning blue and ran to get help. “Oh, great!” I thought to myself, “They’ve just overdosed me by accident in the fucking hospital. Who is going to believe this? I’m gonna spend eternity as a junkie who killed himself. Fuck all the irony before this. This is the ultimate irony!”

  Everything went cool and black like a dark, air-conditioned room except that a feeling of swift motion accompanied the other feeling, as if the room was a vehicle moving at hyper speed. Finally, a clearing came and I could actually look down from above at me with doctors and nurses working away to save my life. This lasted a very short time. Back to the cool, dark, speeding room and then groggily awakening in the real world. I’m told this is called an “out-of-body” experience. The whole thing was incredibly clinical and smooth. So was the removal of the nurse who had OD’d me.<
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  Two weeks after I got out of the hospital, my agent called me.

  “You have got to help me out of a jam,” he pleaded. “I have a million-dollar tour booked for Deep Purple starting in two weeks and Ritchie Blackmore [lead guitarist] just went in the hospital with mononucleosis. Can you go down and audition with them tomorrow afternoon?” I was dumbfounded. Firstly, I was now a keyboard player, a fair one at that, who only dabbled on guitar. Richie Blackmore was a guitar god—light years ahead of what I could ever assimilate. Secondly, I did not know any of their songs, and most of all, I had just finished a tour that had put me in the hospital. There was no way I was gonna do this. I told him so but he begged me to go to the audition anyway just to buy him some time to secure someone who really was capable. I owed him that.

  I packed up my trusty Epiphone Wilshire guitar and went to the rehearsal studio where they were practicing. I knew some of the Purples from the circuit and we exchanged happy hellos. They started playing something pretty simple and I joined in. Having spent many years as a studio musician, I was able to learn things quickly, on the spot. Everyone was smiling and, frankly, I was amazed. They played a song next that was really fast and I waved off the guitar solo. It was simply too fast for me to play a solo.

  “That’s OK, Al,” the lead singer, Ian Gillan, said to me. “We’ll just have a longer organ solo there. Not to worry.”

  These guys really think I’m gonna do this, I thought to myself. Incredible.

  I finished playing with them and everybody was smiles. The road manager walked me to the door. “That was great, Al. You passed the ultimate test. The roadies all loved it. And in that first song, you even started the solo on the same note Ritchie does. See ya tomorrow.”

  On the cab ride home, I actually considered it for five minutes, but common sense prevailed before I arrived. I called Jeff Franklin, the agent, and berated him. I had fulfilled my end of the bargain, and he had to tell them I really couldn’t do it.

  Franklin was actually in tears on the phone. “What am I gonna do? Who can I get to do this? Please at least suggest someone!” he said.

  I pulled out the name of one of my favorite guitarists, Randy California, who played with the group Spirit. Franklin thanked me profusely and that was the last I heard of it for a month. Then a third party told me that Randy had rehearsed with them and it was magnificent. The first date of the tour was in Hawaii. The night of the show, I’m told, Randy barricaded himself in his hotel room and refused to come out and play. The tour was canceled. Guess it was jinxed and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

  Mike Bloomfield and I played a few live gigs and mini-tours together. Mike was full of surprises. Like not showing up until 8:05 for an 8 p.m. gig. His brother Allen lived in New York and we became friends. He was slightly younger than Mike and there was more than a passing resemblance. My manager hired him as an assistant and occasionally Allen would come along on gigs to settle accounts with the promoters. And so there he was, one wintry eve, as we arrived at the Boston Garden to play a soldout show. I was excited; home of the Boston Celtics, etc. It was no mean feat to sell out the Boston Garden. Buddy Miles’ Express was opening for Bloomfield and me. So, Buddy Miles went on and still there was no sign of Mike. Don Law, the promoter, came in the dressing room and noticed there was no Bloomfield.

  “Is Mike showing up?” he asked, visibly upset.

  “Yeah, yeah, Don. He’s here. He just went out to listen to Buddy’s set. Not to worry. ”

  Buddy Miles played his encore and Don left, not totally convinced—and neither was I.

  I looked at Allen: “We are up Shit’s Creek here, bro. I can’t believe he still does this to me!”

  Allen gave me this commiserating look and a light bulb went off in my head. “Allen, take off your coat. Hurry!”

  I slipped a guitar and strap over his head against his heavy protestations.

  “Just come out on stage with me and tell the audience you have a high temperature and can’t play and that the band will play without you,” I said, half-smiling. “Then duck and run!”

  Now we were actually walking to the stage when Mike finally showed up. He gave me a big hug and then saw his musically untalented brother with a guitar strapped on him. Grabbing the guitar out of his brother’s hands, he looked deep into Allen’s eyes and said: “What are you ... fucking NUTS??? Gimme that!!!”

  It was also around this time that I had a short fling with Quincy Jones’ daughter, Jolie. My ex-wife Joan actually fixed the two of us up, and I believe I unknowingly stepped in between Keith Richards and her. But Jolie was a wonderful woman and we got along quite well. I put pen to paper and wrote a song called “Jolie.” I recorded it and gave it to her for her birthday. She loved it and insisted on taking me home and playing it for Dad. Now back then Quincy was not the megastar he is today, but I certainly knew who he was and I was a big fan. So we came into his home and Jolie introduced us and then put the tape of the song on. I was as embarrassed as I’ve ever been in this life as the tape played and Quincy listened real hard to my pathetic Al Green imitation. The lyric was personal and real, however. The song finished and he looked at the two of us holding hands and said, “I feel like I’m peeping in the keyhole!” Guess he was embarrassed, too. Our affair didn’t last too much longer; geography was against us at the time. But I’ll always have fond memories of her and Quincy. Oh, and by the way, Tony Orlando and Dawn, and Lattimore, also recorded “Jolie.”

  Whilst in the middle of some criss-crossed touring itinerary, I ended up on a red-eye flight from Detroit to Los Angeles, flying first class. It was around 1 a.m. I was exhausted, and collapsed right into my window seat and immediately shut my eyes. In a dream-state, I heard the occupant of the aisle seat sit down and the stewardess ask: “Mr. Robinson, can I get you anything before we take off?”

  A gentle voice informed her that everything was fine and he wouldn’t be requiring anything until after we were airborne. There was something about that voice.... My brain cycled through its voice files. Naaaah, it couldn’t be.... Slowly I turned my head and ventured a peek.

  Holy shit! I was sitting next to Smokey Robinson! This was incredible! All systems went into full wake-up. I opened my eyes, stretched, and gave out a casual “Hey Smokey, how ya doin? Al Kooper here....”

  He shook my hand and said, “Yeah—I thought I recognized you.”

  He knows who I am? I thought. I secretly pinched myself, and I was still there.

  I had just recorded a song he wrote for my next album. I carried one of those three-piece-pre-walkman units that had a cassette player and two detached speakers in a pseudo-leather case. The player itself had a headphone jack. Unzipping the case, I offered: “Smokey? I just recorded one of your songs for my new album. Wanna hear it?”

  He actually seemed interested! He slipped the headphones on, listening to my cover of “Swept for You Baby” from my album called A Possible Projection of the Future with a slight grin on his face. And we hadn’t even taken off yet! I was in heaven.

  Then, it got good to me. “Have you heard that new guy Al Green’s version of your song, ‘My Girl’?” I asked. Back on went the headphones, and I produced a prerelease cassette of Al Green’s new album with Smokey’s song on it. Again, he listened intently, smiling slightly.

  The plane finally took off, and we had a great time. Even got a little shut-eye before landing. Exchanging phone numbers, we shook hands, bade our farewells, and wished each other luck. He wouldn’t actually be needing my good luck wishes.

  So you can imagine my surprise when, a year later, the phone rang and it was Smokey Robinson. He was making his farewell tour with The Miracles, and invited me and a guest to see their show at the Apollo Theater in New York. I was honored and flabbergasted. I thanked him profusely and hung up the phone.

  I was in the middle of producing three sides on Bobby Hatfield, the high-voiced-half of The Righteous Brothers, for Warner Bros. I invited Bobby to go with me to see Smokey, and
since he was a little reluctant to venture into Harlem, we decided to go during the day to alleviate his fears. I hadn’t been to the Apollo in quite a while, but I was usually oblivious to the black/white thing.

  On the appointed day, we showed up at the backstage door, gave our names, and were ushered right in and up to The Miracles’ dressing room. We were greeted warmly by all concerned and sat down to shoot the shit while various card games went on all around us. After about fifteen minutes, a valet guy stuck his head in the door and announced the classic five-minute call. I was jazzed. I was only hoping Smokey wouldn’t call us onstage to sing cause Bobby and Smokey can really sing and I was ... errr ... still learning.

  We walked down to the side of the stage and Smokey signaled for a monitor speaker and had it set down right in front of Bobby and me. I was really flattered. All this time there was a comedian onstage telling a long story about a black kid’s first day at school. The valet asked Smokey if he was ready and Smokey said yeah. Right in the middle of this comedian’s routine, the valet leaned out from the wings and stage-yelled: “That’s it, muthafucka!!” The comedian was in mid-sentence. I’ll never forget it. This is how it went:

  “So, the little brother is walking to the classroom and he runs smack into the white kid. [Here the valet shouted, ”That’s it, muthafucka!!“] And the white kid....” “IT”S SHOWTIME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! SHOW-TIME!!! ARE YOU READY FOR THE STARS OF OUR SHOW? MAKING THEIR FINAL APPEARANCE TOGETHER, HERE ARE SMOKEY ROBINSON AND THE MIRACLES!!!”