In the South, AM radio stations that played mostly electric southern blues via Chicago were on the rise. What had felt a couple of years earlier like scattered sounds from a dark underground had begun to rise over the land like a misty revelation. We even heard rumors that this blues music was beginning to spread like a holy virus across the Atlantic to young musicians in England.
—
Ronnie and the Hawks were back at Le Coq d’Or Tavern for a three-week engagement, now with Rick Danko on bass. The lineup wheel kept right on turning. Stan had grown less certain about his future with the Hawks, and soon he confessed that he needed to be moving on. Ronnie accepted his resignation and immediately turned his attention to finding a new piano player. He was constantly thinking about how to have a better, stronger band.
We were now holed up at a different, slightly more upscale hotel on Jarvis Street in downtown Toronto called the Frontenac Arms. Some of us would stay at my mother’s house from time to time too. Her cooking and the reasonable amount she charged could be very appealing given our modest paychecks, and the easy rapport she shared with the guys only added to the charm of the arrangement.
There were a few minor complications, however, in involving my mother so deeply in our lifestyle. Although she kept an open mind and knew when to look the other way, we all felt a bit uneasy about having girls coming and going at her house. Often she would see young women leaving in the morning, and as a matter of etiquette she would see them to the door. Sometimes in the late morning or at lunchtime, female visitors would swing by, and Mama Kosh would greet them, forever the kind hostess.
“Come on in, dear. You too, come right in.”
She would then point them in the direction of one of our rooms with a genteel smile. My mother took it all in stride. She looked young and was used to people asking if she might be my sister. She dug that image, and it helped her feel like one of the gang.
Ron had come up with the brainstorm of opening an after-hours club called the Hawks’ Nest in the banquet room downstairs at the Frontenac Arms. When the clubs that we played closed at 1 a.m., the Hawks’ Nest became the spot to continue the party. You could even have called it a late-night rendezvous joint and “booze can.” We stayed upstairs in good-sized two-bedroom suites, which was convenient, to say the least. This may have been the most successful sexual atmosphere Ronnie ever created. We were booked solid, days and nights, with a steady flow of “lovelies” coming and going. “Sharing is caring” was our motto.
Ron asked my mom if she would be a hostess at the Hawks’ Nest, and she was happy to oblige. But as free-minded as she was, I couldn’t get completely comfortable having my mother around to witness some of our shenanigans. First of all, I couldn’t even remotely imagine any of the other guys’ mothers being around us like this. Though this was part of what made Mama Kosh unique, I nonetheless felt I needed to put on a bit of a front in her presence. None of the guys ever wanted to come off as sleazy or inappropriate in front of her, and that went double for me.
Around this time I got some disturbing news: my uncle Natie had gotten caught up in a police investigation over passing illegal diamonds. I called Uncle Morrie as soon as I heard to find out what was going on, but he was hesitant to say much on the phone. “It’s probably a big mistake,” he advised, “a business deal gone bad. Don’t worry too much.” One afternoon I got a call from Natie. “Meet me at the Capri Restaurant on Yonge Street.” The Capri, he told me, was a place where we could get a little privacy so he could fill me in properly on this whole diamond business.
Midafternoon, the lunch crowd had thinned out. In the dark-cornered Italian restaurant with its scent of secret underpinnings, Natie sat alone, smoking Black Cat cigarettes at a table amid the darkened decor. He waved me over to sit beside him.
Natie’s presence could make you feel that something special was happening. He carried a light inside him, and you could feel its glow. You couldn’t help but be drawn to his unusual features, the smart eyes that saw right inside you. When he laughed, his whole face lit up with joy. He was a knowledge gatherer and stored everything he learned within the vast troves of an indelible memory. When he explained something to you, his narrative had the detail and precision of a diamond cutter.
“Kid, I don’t want you to get false information from what’s in the paper or what you hear,” he said in a hushed tone. “I’m doing a business operation, and some unexpected complications turned up, so it looks a little different from what it really is.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but the confidential way he spoke made me feel I was in on something very curious and daring. He continued in the same nebulous vein for a while and finished with these words: “Your father was my hero. I truly looked up to him, and what I’m doing here is no different than what he would have done. Tutor, your father, would have been my partner. This is a very big business deal. I want this for you too, Jaime. Do you understand? You’re my nephew and I’ve got to protect you. If I tell you too much, you could be vulnerable and in danger.” Welcome to the underworld, I thought.
“If anybody asks you questions about this situation,” he advised, “just say, ‘I don’t know anything about my uncle’s business.’ ”
After that, he and I would check in on the phone regularly. Natie always spoke under his breath, as if somebody might be eavesdropping. He called me from phone booths only and told me that when I was out on the road touring I should always call him collect and say it was Mr. Hutchins calling. It made me feel like a confidant, and I dug it.
—
Ronnie Hawkins’s southern Ontario tour circuit kept us crisscrossing paths with other bands, which gave us the chance to see all sorts of talented young musicians. One of our most striking new discoveries was the young man Rebel Payne and I had run into on the street in Grand Bend: Richard “Beak” Manuel.
We were playing an auditorium near Stratford, Ontario, Richard’s hometown, and his band, the Rockin Revols, was opening. Everybody in the group was talented, but Richard’s voice particularly stood out—it had such richness and power, such maturity for an eighteen-year-old kid. You heard it most on those Bobby “Blue” Bland covers—when Richard sang, you melted away. His piano playing wasn’t as rollicking as we were used to in the Hawks; he wanted to be more like Ray Charles than Jerry Lee. But he had all of the standard R&B piano licks down, and he was just the right age for Ronnie to believe he could be broken in and shaped. Richard’s volatile relationship with beer, which Rebel and I had witnessed firsthand, appeared to have mellowed, which helped his chances with Ronnie. Now he seemed more like a “good-time Charlie”—a guy who liked to sometimes have a brew. Best of all, he was hungry to play with us and eager to prove he could cut it as a Hawk.
Richard’s voice was there from the start, but when I got to know him, I found he was also one of the nicest, sweetest people you’d meet. He was funny, but when someone else was funny, no one appreciated it more than Richard. His great big teeth stood out when he smiled, and he could laugh as good as Levon, which made him even more lovable. Richard’s joining the Hawks would be an easy fit.
There was an unwritten law about hiring musicians away from other bands, so after Levon and I gave Richard our full recommendation, Ron hired the Rockin Revols to serve as the house band at his club in Fayetteville, Arkansas. There would be a transition period—Stan would stay until he figured out his next move, and Richard could be initiated into the group while the Revols looked for his replacement.
In the meantime, Rick was getting more comfortable in his skin as a Hawk. He had a keen ear for music and for his new surroundings. Levon felt Rick needed a total makeover and Rick stepped right up. And though Richard didn’t have the jackhammer rockabilly piano style of his predecessors, when he sang, all was forgiven. It didn’t take Beak long to look the part too. Since Levon and I always hung together, Rick and Richard quickly bonded and became running mates. When they sang Sam Cooke’s “Bring It on Home to Me,” the sun came
out.
A solid core was forming. Bill Avis, a friend of ours from Lake Simcoe, Ontario, had joined our posse as road manager. “Business Bill,” as we called him, was always right there when you needed him, memorable for his poise and courtesy. You couldn’t help feel good having him around—he took care of business and then some. “Whatever you need,” he’d say. “You need equipment? You need cigarettes? You need me to go collect the money? I’ll be right back.”
Before we hit the road for the South again, Levon and I headed over to my mother’s place for a last meal. As usual, we stuffed ourselves to the point of total satisfaction and utter discomfort. Ma had gone out of her way to make dishes that Levon especially loved, items with a southern flair to them. On this evening we feasted on all of these, plus a quintessentially southern salad that Levon had told Ma about some months before: wilted greens.
“You cook some well-done bacon and crumble the bacon into small bits,” he had explained. “Then you mix it into a beautiful salad with plenty of greens. Then you pour a little of the very hot bacon fat over the salad until it sizzles.” In those days nobody flinched when you talked about pouring hot bacon grease or hot butter over a salad. My mother followed his directions, and according to Levon, Toronto’s own Mama Kosh made the best wilted salad on earth, bar none.
We motored on to Oklahoma, ready to tackle the next few gigs. On the way, Ron reminded me of a horn player who had started showing up at some of our London, Ontario, gigs, sitting in on occasion. Jerry Penfound played tenor sax, flute, and baritone sax and seemed like an easygoing guy. “I like that old boy,” Ron said. “I’m strongly considering giving him a job.” It was a bold feeling, the power a couple horns could bring. But finding the right people would be key. One of the guys we had tried out played mostly jazz in after-hours clubs. His goal, he told me, was to make enough dough to buy a plane ticket to London, where he could become a steady heroin addict. “Doing dope and playing jazz, that’s all I want,” he said with remarkable earnestness. Somehow, Jerry Penfound seemed a better bet.
When Ron brought up Jerry’s name, I felt inspired to mention a piano player we’d heard in London, Ontario, who’d come to Grand Bend. “You remember Garth Hudson?” I asked. “Well, I talked with him, and besides being a really skillful musician, he’s a fascinating and unusual guy. He mentioned this new gizmo that hooks up to a piano and sounds like an organ. It would make us sound twice as big.”
“That right?” Ronnie looked up.
“Yes,” I said. “He plays different saxophones, and he’s a monster of a piano player. He can play any kind of music.”
I could see Ron turning it over in his head. “Yeah, to have an organ and horns, that would be a big sound,” he admitted.
Soon we arrived at a desolate concrete building outside of Pawhuska, Oklahoma. The manager of the club let us in and showed us where to set up. After the trailer was unloaded, I stood at one of the club’s windows and looked out at the dazzling Oklahoma landscape, mesmerized. The whole horizon was a burnt orange, and nothing seemed to be moving. An eerie quiet surrounded the whole area. I called Levon over to look at this beautiful and unusual stillness.
He took one look out the window and turned pale.
“Boys,” he shouted, “we got one coming!”
Everybody rushed to the window and stared out in awe. Then I saw it, a gray funnel in the distance, zipping back and forth and heading our way. As it edged closer, we saw trees torn from the ground, cars flipping in the air, and buildings ripped apart like they were made of matchsticks.
Levon seized the club manager by his shoulders. “You got a basement or a storm shelter?”
“Follow me,” the manager said. He rushed over to open a trap door to the basement. I grabbed my guitar and scampered down the stairs, everyone else hustling down ahead of or behind me. Huddled together below, we heard what I imagined sounded like a cyclone and an earthquake happening simultaneously. It was the most frightening thing I’d ever heard.
I was holding my breath and clenching my teeth as Levon, alert but calm, spun Tornado Alley stories from his Arkansas youth—tales of broom bristles plunged into the sides of trees and a whole building blown away while a pile of soda-pop crates sitting right next to the building were left perfectly undisturbed. “In fact,” he recalled with satisfaction, “we had a tornado come through town once that lifted my parents right in their very home, carried them away, and then saw fit to set ’em down. They survived, but they were never the same. So you can understand my particular fear of these damn things.”
The tornado passed without hitting the club or our cars and equipment. Holy miracle, I thought.
A few nights later we played a club in Tulsa called the Canadian Club, thanks to its location by the Canadian River. The gig was nothing all that memorable but for one crucial wrinkle: we never got paid. Now, haggling with proprietors over payment wasn’t exactly new to us. Dayton Stratton, Ron’s club partner and southern booking agent, would sometimes accompany us to gigs, and Dayton had a knack for getting checks out of club owners, sometimes even cash from the door receipts. But after we played this show in Tulsa, Ronnie and Dayton ended up with a promise rather than money.
This wasn’t the first time somebody had asked to pay later, but you could tell there was concern we might get screwed on this one. Ron and Dayton went back and forth with the club owner, to no avail. Their discussions grew increasingly heated and soon escalated to shouts, slurs, and improper insinuations. Ron, furious, threatened everything this side of boiling him in oil.
“I’ll go kick his ass,” Dayton promised, but that wasn’t enough for the Hawk. Ron and Dayton started making a plan. Soon it became clear they would need the services of Ron’s pro-football-player buddy, Donnie Stone, and a fearless and crazy local legend named Kenny Brooks, from whom Ronnie had lifted a lot of his sayings and humor.
As I heard the story, Dayton, Donnie, Kenny, and Ron went back to the Canadian Club in the dead of night and forced their way inside. The piano player Leon Russell had played the night before us, and his band still had their equipment stored there, so, with the utmost care and caution, Ron and the boys removed every piece of Leon’s equipment from the club, placing it safely outside. Then they torched the place, and burned it to the ground.
The police got involved and confronted Ronnie about the incident. “I have no idea whatsoever who would have set that fire,” he told them. But you couldn’t help noticing as he said this that his eyebrows were completely singed off. It was no great mystery who did the deed, but the police knew this club owner was a scumbag. So the authorities gave Ronnie an ultimatum: if he promised not to come back to this part of the country, they would chalk it up to dust-bowl justice and leave it at that.
—
I told Levon about my uncle Natie’s predicament with the diamonds and he was intrigued. “Is this some kind of a diamond heist, a money-laundering thing? It sure smells fascinating to me.” Levon and I had become thick as thieves. We went everywhere together. Ron thought we were a good duo, even if I was stealing his old running buddy. As the months wore on, Levon and I separated from the rest of the pack, going our own way and discussing future plans. In London, Ontario, Richard “Beak” Manuel finally took over on piano and vocals. Rick had become pretty solid on bass, and his singing was getting featured more. Ron always liked the idea of having Rick, Richard, or Levon take a lead vocal here or there, making the show more like a Ronnie Hawkins Revue. By now too my guitar playing was becoming a crowd pleaser unto itself. And Jerry Penfound finally came on board officially, bringing a fresh new sound to the Hawks with his flute and saxes.
And then there was Garth Hudson. With his dark hair, long forehead, and pale skin, Garth looked jazz-musician cool, or like someone who hadn’t been out in broad daylight for ages. He played brilliantly, in a more complex way than anybody we had ever jammed with. Most of us had just picked up our instruments as kids and plowed ahead, but Garth was classically trained and could find m
usical avenues on the keyboard we didn’t know existed. It impressed us deeply. Levon and I pushed Ron to try to get him to join us.
Garth was quiet and clearly a bit offbeat. While Ronnie understood that he was an amazing musician, he was a bit concerned about his being so different from the rest of us. We’d been through ups and downs with personality mismatches like Magoo and Stan, and Ron preferred having guys who fit easily into the fold. But I embraced Garth’s difference, and it helped that Levon did too. I was studying Garth, sensing there was something special to be learned from him. It really caught my attention when he spoke about playing the organ in church and at his uncle’s funeral parlor. He talked with real passion about emotionally controlling the crowd with his music, making people break down or rejoice through the hymns he chose. “I found some true enjoyment in helping people get to the bottom of their feelings,” he explained in a manner that sounded anything but condescending. “I felt I was doing a service, in a way. It did seem like they appreciated that.” He added humbly, “It was more than just a job to me.”
When Ronnie had first floated to Garth the idea of joining the Hawks, he had put up a good deal of resistance. Now Ronnie made him a real offer, and once again he hesitated. I could see that Garth had serious reservations that we didn’t quite understand. Levon and I tried to entice him with tales of our promiscuous lifestyle and the promise of upcoming opportunities, but he just smiled and said he didn’t think that would be possible. Ronnie finally corralled him. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get down to it. What’s it gonna take?”
Garth explained that if he went off to join a rock ’n’ roll band full-time on the road, his parents would be devastated. He was twenty-four, older than all of us except Ronnie, and his parents were old-fashioned and conservative; given all the support they had invested in his classical music training, they would see this as a waste. It would break their hearts. At the same time, he was interested, and recognized the power of Ron’s charm and persuasive ways. “Maybe,” he proposed to the Hawk, “if you were to speak to them personally, they might see this as a good career opportunity for me.”
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