Backstage Passes and Backstabbing Bastards

by Al Kooper

  Perhaps ... but bad guess, Mikey!

  The next “work” I got was perhaps the strangest of all. Kathi Goldmark, a media escort (it’s not what you think—she squires authors around to TV and radio interviews and book signings when they’re in San Francisco) came up with the idea of putting a band together made up of famous authors who owned instruments or had fantasies about singing/playing in a rock group. I was asked to be musical director of this aggregation. It was to be called The Rock Bottom Remainders and consisted of Stephen King—rhythm guitar and vocals; Dave Barry—lead guitar and vocals; Amy Tan—background, lead vocals, and whips; Barbara Kingsolver—keyboards, vocals, and one of the most disarming smiles on the planet; Robert Fulghum—mandocello, wisdom, and vocals; Ridley Pearson—bass and vocals; Tad Bartimus—background and lead vocals; Kathi Goldmark—background and lead vocals (it was her ball, remember?); plus two real musicians we hired to make it all coalesce, Josh Kelly on drums; and Jerry Petersen on saxophones. It also included a Critics Chorus that consisted of: Dave Marsh, Joel Selvin, Matt Groening, Greil Marcus, and Roy Blount, Jr.

  The plan was to play for the American Booksellers Association (ABA) convention in Anaheim on Memorial Day Weekend 1992. And so, three days before the show, we put this big lump of humanity in a room, and my job was to sculpt it into something recognizable as a musical group. We were quite heinous, but we had spirit and a great sense of humor. We put together a show that was entertaining (if you owned earplugs; if you didn’t, we threw them out to the audience between songs) and funny. Unbeknownst to all of us, we were in the infancy of our career as a group, and unfortunately we made the mistake of having an amateurish video shot of our escapade that is occasionally still available in the random sadistic record store. If you should come across this dubious piece of merchandise, resist the impulse to see famous, intellectual, grown men and women making fools of themselves. Later on, we elevated the gig to an art form, but only I was there to tape that!

  After the show had been over for weeks, we began to fax each other about resurrecting the behemoth and doing this again. Steve King wanted the whole nine yards: a tour, a tour bus, bad food, groupies, etc. To this end, he proposed that we pre-sell a book that we would all co-author about said upcoming tour, and fund the tour with the advance from the book. It was extremely expensive to get the fifteen members of this band together and keep them together for three weeks—in the six-figure range actually. But somehow, with King’s clout, his fantasy came true. This time, at the first rehearsal, these troupers were good! They had done their homework with the scent of greasepaint lurking in their synapses, and our quality went up a hundred fifty percent.

  This was more like summer camp than anything else to these stars. Their livelihoods were usually earned solo, in quiet, undisturbed rooms myopically staring down typewriters, word processors, or computers. Now they were thrown together with more of their own ilk, to commiserate and question each other, liberated from the quiet writing rooms, and thrust onto a tour bus that took them to blue collar beer joints all along the Eastern seaboard. They were ecstatic! (The poll result onboard the bus for the question an author most hates to hear or answer was “Where do you get your ideas?”) Robert Fulghum and Matt Groening could not be there for the whole tour because of commitments in their real lives, but they showed up at the last performance. We played Rhode Island, Boston, Cambridge, Northampton, New York, Washington, DC, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Nashville, and Miami. All monies actually earned went to Volunteers for Literacy, as did the proceeds from sales of our signed tee shirts, which we sold at our concerts.

  Remainders Tour. New York City, 1992. Stephen King (not related to B. B.), Dave Barry, and I mug for the camera secure in our collective heterosexuality. (Photo: Al Kooper Collection.)

  There were many highlights on this tour: Amy Tan singing “These Boots Were Made for Walking” in full dominatrix gear replete with whip; Stephen King singing “Teen Angel,” with everyone in the band wearing haloes and Dave Marsh in drag as the dead girlfriend in the song; Dave Barry singing and playing an anthemic version of Van Morrison’s “Gloria”; the Critics Chorus dropping their pants mid-tune to reveal brightly-colored boxer shorts. There was much, much more, all of it chronicled in a book you can try and locate at masochistic bookstores everywhere. It’s called Mid-Life Confidential, and it’s packed with photos by Tabitha King (some of which, I must say, are extremely unflattering—and I mean that in the best possible way) and some of the funniest writing you will ever read. I promise. No disappointments, no refunds.

  We played some more, and then the usual band in-fighting took the fun out of it all. I made a few wonderful, hilarious life-long friends (and enemies) as a result of this caper. Why, Stephen King wrote the liner notes to my next album and dedicated his book Insomnia to me (how apropos). But for more than just one “gloria”-ous moment, it was Our Shining Hour. I shot a tedious home video of the whole tour. I’m threatening to edit it someday—and who knows what might happen then???

  In 1993, Sony Records decided to honor Bob Dylan with a thirtieth anniversary concert at Madison Square Garden. In 1963, John Hammond, Sr., had signed the lad who was soon known in the hallways of Columbia Records as “Hammond’s Folly.” Now these same name-callers were ready to admit defeat, but not to the face of the by then-expired Hammond. Just to turn the screw, his talented son, John Hammond, Jr., was invited to perform (not, however, during the three-hour-plus PPV part of the show!).

  This was a goonbash with an amazing backstage cast. I brought a camcorder and got some great footage of the rehearsals and the backstage antics. Neil Young called it “Bobfest.” I called it “Night of a Thousand Bobs.” The hallways backstage yielded some impressive guests and visitors: Richie Havens, Tom Petty, Don Was, Lou Reed, Lenny Kravitz, Wynonna, Chrissie Hynde, George Harrison, and yours truly, all co-existed with grace and decorum in an effort to honor their friend and inspiration, in the face of Sony’s blatant hucksterism. I was scheduled to reprise my organ part on “Like A Rolling Stone” behind John Mellencamp and his band. This turned out to be the opening song of the concert that was beamed to millions of households. During rehearsal and prior to performance, Mellencamp spoke not a word to me. I was truly surprised when he introduced me to the crowd between songs. All in all, it was a great hang and I have a lovely backstage home video of the event.

  So between Joe Walsh, Ray Charles, and Stephen King, my first two years in Nashville actually were spent mostly on the road. When I returned there, someone called me about a charity softball game that was taking place at Greer Stadium, Nashville’s minor league ballpark. At first I almost hung up, because even playing softball would have probably put my unexercised body into cardiac arrest. But what they really wanted was for me to play the organ at the game. What a great idea! Now there was something that was not on my resume yet! I jumped at the chance and had a wonderful time watching George Jones pitch as I wailed out “Green Onions!”

  In between getting divorced and rebuilding my life once again, someone actually hired me to play on a country record. A man with the unlikely name of Garth Fundis called to have me play on the debut album of an artist he was producing. Now I knew Garth from Sound Emporium, the studio two blocks away, and I was glad when he called. I love studio work because of the challenge. You walk in, you have no idea what you’re gonna hear, and you have to create something on-the-spot that will enhance it. Garth had a ballad that needed organ, and in just a few moments of work after I walked into the studio for Garth’s latest production, I had played on another classic record—the first Trisha Yearwood album. The track was called “Fools Like Me” and you know I could relate to that! Later on during my Nashville stay, I played on Trisha’s movie track “Devil in Disguise” from Honeymoon in Vegas, and on her contribution to the Eagles’ Common Thread, “New Kid in Town.”

  In this same time period, an A&R guy from Virgin Records called about my producing one of their artists, Danny Tate. He sent Danny down to Nashville for
a week, and we hung out, cut one track together, and got along pretty well. Then the guy from Virgin called back and offered me the least amount of money I had ever been offered in my entire career to produce “a few” tracks for Tate’s album. I told him that his offer was far below what anyone had ever paid me, and he rewarded me with the cliché “Well, what have you done lately?”

  I grimaced and replied, “Turned you down, for one thing!” and hung the phone up on him. This validated my moving to Nashville and ceasing to produce records. I knew then I had made the right choice and that I was, indeed, getting out almost gracefully. “What have you done lately,” indeed. My first year in the music business eclipsed that guy’s entire career resume. Who needed this??

  The other negative/positive experience took place in Los Angeles. Stephen King invited me as his guest to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Dinner. Now this was something I would not normally attend at $1,000 a plate. On top of that, the money goes back to the RRHF and doesn’t feed, save, or teach anybody anything, in my opinion. I selected my good friend Bonnie Bedelia, the actress, as my date. (She had just finished appearing in one of Stephen’s movies, Needful Things. I thought it would suit the motif, and Bonnie loved music as well.) Stephen’s table consisted of all horror-film people—John Carpenter, Tobe Hooper, etc. I was the only rocker at the table.

  Now, even with the lovely Bonnie at my side, I was totally snubbed by everyone in the current music community (with the exception of Shep Gordon and the house band). So, rightfully, this should be one of those tell-all, skeletons-in-the-closet books, because I really have nothing to lose here. But plenty of people are waiting in line to put those puppies out, and you’ll rarely see a book like this, so I’ll just control myself. That dinner was my second and final affirmation of having done the right thing. Plus, while they were giving out these awards to families of dead people (i.e., Frankie Lymon and The Teenagers), these bastards were out in the lobby smoking cigars and schmoozing. I don’t need that, believe me. I support MusicCares, a division of NARAS that doesn’t need a museum and actually tries to help people while they’re still alive. At what point do you get a message when practically everyone you’re inducting from a genre that’s less than fifty years old is deceased?

  While in Los Angeles in early January getting ready to attend the winter NAMM show of 1994, a truly life-changing event took place. I was staying at the home of my lawyer Mike Goldsmith and his wife Karon in Beverlywood, California, between Beverly Hills and Santa Monica. I got in late one night, and fell asleep in my clothes in their guestroom. I awakened to the familiar grunts of an earthquake. I started groaning as I had cut my yearly L.A. stay to five days and now, on one of those five days, I had to endure an earthquake.

  As it continued, it became apparent this was not just another earthquake. The house was rockin’ back and forth and stuff was falling and sliding everywhere. The quake continued on for forty-five seconds. The screams by Mike’s wife from the next room added to the cacophony. Usually, during the other six quakes I had lived through, I would calmly walk to a doorway and brace myself under it. This time, it was impossible to navigate off the bed because of the intensity of the quake. I hung on for dear life. Mercifully, it finally shuddered to a halt. The power was out and my watch said 4 a.m.-ish. Because I had fallen asleep in my clothes, I was the only one with shoes on who could then brave the broken glass. I hesitantly walked into the hall, begging for a flashlight. Mike brought me one, and my hand was shaking so hard it was useless. I gave it back to him and his hand was shaking as well. None of the three of us could hold the flashlight steady. We listened to a Walkman radio and found out nothing. So we just sat there and tried to calm down and wait for dawn to survey the damage.

  As the sun rose, people hesitantly inched out of their homes to see what was what. Mike’s chimney was down, there were cracks in all his walls, and his record room, containing thousands of rare LPs, had imploded. All the shelves had pulled out of the walls, crashing inward. I had been given the choice of sleeping in that room, and if I had accepted I would surely have perished. Great news story: “Rock producer Al Kooper was killed today when ten thousand LPs crashed down on him, crushing him instantly. ” Death by vinyl! The ultimate record collector’s death.

  The refrigerator had slid a full ten feet into the middle of the glass-encrusted floor of the kitchen. It was a mess. By 9 a.m. I had ascertained that the airport had escaped unscathed, and I went into forward motion to fly out of Gomorrah before tomorra. By noon I was in the air, winging southward to the comparative safety of Nashville. As I stood waiting at bagagge claim in Country Music City, I saw on the TV monitors for the first time that day the widespread damage and fires in L.A. Two minutes from where I had been staying, the freeway had split in half. The full impact finally hit me and I was in shock. I was lucky to be alive! I went home and it took me hours to calm down and sleep. I decided right then and there that I had spent enough time in California, and that I would not be returning there again in this life. And I haven’t.

  Jeff Nissim owns a record club and label based out of Ocean, New Jersey. His company, MusicMasters, has mostly put out jazz and classical releases and collected a few Grammys doing so. In 1990, he released a blues-rock album by Killer Joe, a collection of New Jersey-bred musos including Max Weinberg, Jimmy Vivino, and Joe DeLia. The record didn’t do well, but Jeff had whetted his appetite. He asked Jimmy Vivino about me: Would I be interested in making a new album? At the time, Max Weinberg was headquartering out of MusicMasters and so Jeff asked Max to call me. Jeff and Max came to see me at my home in Nashville.

  JEFF: We’d like you to make an instrumental album for our label.

  AL: Does it have to be jazz?

  JEFF: It can be whatever you want it to be, so long as its cost doesn’t

  exceed $40,000.

  AL: Come over here and shake my hand, ’cause we have a deal.

  It was that simple. Max didn’t say a word.

  There was a project in the back of my head I had always wanted to pursue, and Nissim was now giving me a chance to make that project a reality. It was a tip of the pork-pie to all the instrumental albums I had grown up with, which were now extinct. Artists like Duane Eddy, Booker T. and The MG’s, The Ventures, Bill Black’s Combo, The Meters, and so many others who made my teen years so joyous. No one made records like this anymore, and I wanted to pay homage to my roots and at the same time maybe turn some younger listeners on to a whole era of music they missed. Toward this end, I built a core band of Jimmy Vivino, Anton Fig, Harvey Brooks, and the Uptown Horns. On some other tracks I used a Nashville band consisting of Kenny Greenberg on guitar, Jim Fielder on bass, John Gardner on drums, and Paul Franklin on pedal steel. I tried to touch elements from the fifties through the eighties. Stephen King wrote the liner notes, and a curious cover was concocted of sixteen photos depicting the artist (i.e., me) from age nine to forty-nine. I called it Rekooperation, because it was my first album in twelve years. It came out to universally great reviews, but sold universally not so great.

  I always had misgivings about signing with a small label because of history. Anyone in the past who had been with a major label, and subsequently aligned themselves with a small label, was never able to return again to a major label. At this point in my life, however, such a thing was desirous. One had to give up tour support, ad campaigns, videos (still haven’t made one), and all other cash-funded trappings to be with a small label. In return, you could bring your vision to fruition untouched, and that was worth it to me at that point in my life. I may perish without ever having made a video. Then a hundred years from now, people won’t be able to see me prancing around with scantily-clad women, lip-synching to some song I was forced to cavort around to in somebody else’s vision. I can suffer that hardship.

  I should point out, however, that with the help of Cheech Marin (of Cheech and Chong fame) I did appear in two videos in the guise of a rabbi! Cheech was making a video for his lampoon of Springsteen’s B
orn in the USA, called Born in East L.A. (later to become a feature film). He cast me as a rabbi with two speaking lines. For those who recognized me in it, it must have been hysterical. Shortly after its release, my friend, video-director Jim Yukitch, called to ask if I wanted to be in a Jeff Beck video he was directing called Ambitious. The plot line involved various people coming down to audition as the lead singer for Beck’s group. I suggested I reprise the rabbi and have Cheech in it with me. It was hilarious if you ever got to see it.

  Jim Yukitch, who also got me the Ray Charles gig, was directing a Phil Collins special and also asked me to appear in that. In one segment, Phil was doing one of his new songs à la Dylan ’65, and they wanted me to appear in the shot playing organ; kind of an inside joke. I tried to dress like 1965 for it (not too difficult a task for my wardrobe at that time), and it worked out pretty well. If you don’t count the myriad interviews and talk show appearances, that’s pretty much my entire videography. Okay, ENOUGH ALREADY!!! Now back to our story....

  Rekooperation was released on my fiftieth birthday, February 5, 1994. To coincide with all this, MusicMasters threw me a fiftieth Birthday Bash at the Bottom Line in New York. They invited the two bands I had been in to reunite and join the Rekooperators, my current band, in a life-retrospective performance beginning with The Blues Project, continuing with Child Is Father to the Man (BS&T), and closing with Rekooperation. Right up to the day before the concerts, MusicMasters was negotiating with a video company. Finally, they came to an agreement, and releases had to be circulated among the musicians at the various rehearsals that day. We were going to record and videotape all the performances for future release. Most people signed the releases as soon as they were handed to them. Steve Katz, however, from the Blues Project and BS&T, took exception to being handed something like that a day before the actual show. He refused to sign it until his brother /lawyer Dennis had checked it out thoroughly. He also successfully urged other members of the bands to join him in his boycott and to take advantage of the negotiations his brother was performing gratis for Steve.