That evening Ron, Levon, and I gathered together to hash everything out. I felt strongly about how much we could learn from Garth and his astonishing multi-instrumental talent. If he were to join the Hawks, I reasoned, it would help all of us become better musicians.
So Ron met with Fred and Olive Hudson and turned on his magic full throttle. With sophisticated, soulful conviction, he sold them beautifully on what a big break this was for their son. He would perform for large and appreciative audiences, Ron told them, receiving more than adequate compensation. The bottom line, though, was that Garth would assume the role of teacher to the rest of the members of the band. This was an extremely prestigious position.
No one was a match for Ronnie Hawkins. Garth’s parents gave their blessing, and he became a Hawk. Ronnie paid Garth his customary salary, but the clincher was that the rest of us had to pay Garth ten dollars a week for music lessons. We were thrilled that Garth was finally in the group, but in quiet moments we wondered: Did we just get scammed?
Most everybody who was ever in the Hawks played by ear; none of us knew how to read or write music. Undaunted, Garth showed us some shortcuts to more sophisticated chord progressions and introduced us to some funky jazz blues that gave us a better template for incorporating the two new horns into our repertoire—songs like Bobby Timmons’s “Moanin’,” as well as some choice cuts by jazz giants like Art Blakey and Horace Silver. Between Garth and Jerry Penfound, who also knew how to read music, our cool factor was on the rise.
Jerry also had a knack for electronics and proved helpful in hooking up Garth’s Organo, the device that produced the sounds of an organ and could be played with a piano keyboard. It was a temporary, cost-efficient solution; as much as Ronnie loved outfitting his band with new gear, the cost of the Lowrey organ that Garth wanted exceeded the Hawk’s pocketbook at the time.
With Rick, Richard, Garth, Jerry, Levon, and me, Ron had himself a strong lineup, and he knew it. He felt we could go up against anybody. Ronnie was deeply competitive but he was very aware of his talents and his limitations. He knew he didn’t have the vocal abilities of many of his peers, although he would sometimes joke, “Hell, Caruso’s got nothing on me.” To him, having a hot musical band with some good-looking guys helped balance out the big picture.
Colonel Kudlets had booked us into a new Toronto club called the Concord Tavern, closer to the west side of town on Bloor Street. The Concord had a bigger stage than we usually played and featured a dance floor right up front, with tables and chairs lining its sides. The club doors were manned by a legendary bouncer named Big Lou, whom everybody was fond of unless he had punched you in the face and thrown you down the stairs. Then you weren’t so fond of him. Big Lou had lots of nervous twitches, but you got used to them pretty quickly. He would seat all the “nice” upstanding-looking people on the right side of the room and all the rounders, thieves, and tin men on the left. Of course, he would sit most of the hip chicks and the pretty women on the left side too.
Most of the Hawks were staying at my mother’s house. Rick and Richard had rooms on the third floor, while Levon, Garth, and I lived on the second. The Hawks’ Nest at the Frontenac Arms was on-again, off-again, but Ron wanted to keep the after-hours club going in hopes of pulling down some extra money—and he appreciated the “social” benefits as well.
One afternoon my uncle Natie came by and picked me up at my mom’s place. “The situation has changed considerably since you’ve been away,” he said as we drove. “We’ve moved into an apartment up Bathurst Street. It’s safer for the family.”
“Safer?” I asked. “Safer from what?”
The business operation Natie had developed had by then taken in a few million dollars—an enormous amount of money back then—and some of the investors were demanding their return. Natie told me it was taking longer than he had planned for all of the deals to go through; people were getting angry and impatient, and some had threatened violence.
“Jaime, I don’t want you to be worried,” he said. “It’s all going to be worked out, it’s just taking longer with my people in New York to get everything organized. It’s all aboveboard, and everybody’s going to do extremely well.”
I believed him because I believed in him, but then he dropped a bombshell. He explained that for business reasons he had to involve some heavyweight people to keep things from getting out of hand. Natie had brought in the Volpe family as partners.
Even I had heard about the Volpes. They were four brothers who, with various associates, were said to head Toronto’s Cosa Nostra affiliation. Nobody wanted trouble with the Volpes.
Natie said he was dealing directly with Paul Volpe, the head of the family. When Paul had gotten wind of Natie’s situation, he’d come to him with an offer: “There are quite a few people very upset with you, and some really want to do you harm,” he’d told my uncle. “We’ve been told that at this point you’ve taken in a lot from these investors, and they want their money or else.” Volpe proposed a deal: “If you give us a cut, I’ll make sure nobody hurts you. No one will bother you because they’ll have to go through me.” Paul Volpe was very direct about what he wanted and what it meant to have his organization behind you.
A couple of weeks earlier, one of Natie’s creditors had become so irate that he’d hit him, opening a cut over his eyebrow. Volpe’s protection at this point made sense. Natie agreed but insisted that everything stay very low-key: no threats, no rough stuff—unless there was absolutely no other choice.
I thought, This is so surreal. It felt like something from a movie; at the same time, it felt intriguing to be part of this underworld scenario. After all, I was just the long-lost nephew who played guitar in a rock ’n’ roll band. Nobody was after me.
Over at the Concord, though, we got to know all kinds of hoods and gangsters. Normally, neither the Volpes nor Natie would come to a place like the Concord, but one day, to my surprise, Natie informed me that he and Paul were going to stop by the club to pay me a little visit and hear some music. When I pulled Levon aside to fill him in and told him about the Volpes, his jaw dropped. “Damn, this is some heavy shit, but I like it.”
“Let’s keep this on the Q.T.,” I urged. “I don’t want Ronnie making any jokes about them from the stage. They do not appreciate that kind of attention.”
On a Thursday night Natie and Fran, along with Paul Volpe and his lady friend, showed up at the Concord around 9:30 p.m., while we were in the middle of our set. Big Lou seated them where he put most people he wasn’t familiar with—over with the nice folks on the right side of the dance floor. As they ordered drinks, I nodded subtly to Natie from the stage. A couple songs later I noticed a bit of a buzz coming from the other side of the club, where the rounders and tin men were seated. Somebody had recognized Paul Volpe, and word was getting around that “the big man” was in the house. Mouths whispered, fingers pointed. For these wise guys, Paul Volpe showing up at the Concord was an event.
We finished our set and I slipped through the crowd to join Natie. He introduced me to Paul and his lady friend and pulled up a chair for me. I realized I had seen Paul Volpe before at the Capri Restaurant, where I’d met Natie a few times, but hadn’t known who he was. Tallish and slightly bulky, he had a kindly-looking face that also had a hard edge to it.
“So, Jaime, you like this rock ’n’ roll music,” Paul said matter-of-factly. “You guys sound good. I’m having a good time. Right, Natie? They sound real good.”
Natie responded with a slight laugh. “What am I going to say? He’s my nephew. I’d tell him he’s the best no matter what.”
Paul seemed outgoing and pleasant enough, not your storybook Mafia boss. Ronnie came over to the table and shook Natie’s hand. “I knew you couldn’t stay away,” he said, smiling. Natie didn’t introduce Paul, so I didn’t say anything. As Ron wandered on from our table to joke and slap the backs of familiar regulars, I waved Levon over and introduced him to Paul. He greeted everybody with an outstretched hand a
nd his broad smile. Natie commented that he thought the music and especially the drums sounded better at this place.
“We like it too,” I said. “You can hear everybody better, and it has a proper sound system.”
“Leon,” Paul said, “you think this music’s a little loud in here? You like it that loud?”
“Well, it’s sounding pretty good from where I’m sitting,” Levon said without missing a beat. “You know, if it isn’t a little loud, you just can’t get into it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Paul said, patting Levon on the arm as if to say, Thanks for stopping by. You can go now. As Levon left the table, Paul looked at Natie incredulously. “What are these guys, cowboys? They sound like they’re from the hills or something.”
“You know, I like that kid,” said Natie.
Ronnie’s voice called out from the stage, “It’s racket time,” which was his humble way of saying, “It’s showtime!” I strapped on my guitar and we kicked into one of our requested songs, “Ruby Baby.” Toward the end of our set I saw Natie and company stand and head for the exit. As they went, Natie caught my attention and signaled that he’d call me. Levon threw me a grin—“Oh, man.” Ron looked over at me—I could see he was putting the pieces together.
On my way to the restroom after that set, some second-story guys and a tough, fearsome chap named Tony stopped me. I knew this guy in passing from his ruthless reputation—during a fight here one night he’d stabbed someone in the eye with a fork.
“Robbie, come sit down for a moment. Let me buy you a drink.”
“I don’t drink, but thanks. What’s happening?”
“Pull up a chair, come on,” Tony said. “Somebody told me the guy with Paul Volpe is your uncle.”
“Yeah, he is. Why?” I answered.
Tony puffed hard on a Rothmans cigarette. “I’ve heard things about your uncle, some big things. And do you know Mr. Volpe, who he is? You know anything about his background? It’s not a pretty story, let me put it that way.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, he’s just a friend of my uncle and aunt. Seems like a nice fellow, though. Excuse me, I gotta go water the flowers.”
“Go ahead, Robbie,” Tony said as we both got up. “You’re okay, kid. I’ll catch you later.”
Many southern rockabilly bands had a fondness for uppers—bennies, dexies, black beauties, take your pick. “Diet pills” they called them, because they suppressed your appetite. They made you talk a lot, set your heart pounding, and could make sex iffy for men. If you were a smoker on these “pep pills,” you hated to put one out. They were also known as truck driver pills, for overnight long hauls. As a road band, constantly on the move, we found them handy for getting to the next job.
The sixties had rolled in and with them the counterculture quest for expanded consciousness. Like most musicians, we were ready, our curiosity in tow. Some of the rounders who frequented the clubs had pot connections, and of course the jazz cats always knew where to find a hookup. Levon couldn’t wait to try marijuana and went on the hunt. You had to be careful whom you confided in, though; back then the authorities considered pot no different from hard drugs. The consequences of getting busted could be disastrous, especially for bands like ours that had to repeatedly cross the border.
Levon and I got close to a new friend we’d made at the Concord Tavern, Connie B. The B was for the last name of her boyfriend, who was doing time. Connie was blond, with powerful cheekbones and a smile that lit up the room. Everybody accepted her into the club: she was sharp and cool, gifted with an intelligent-sounding voice that matched her strikingly rich vocabulary. Connie was in her midtwenties, a few years older than us, and she knew most of the rounders and thieves and where to score some grass. In time she became a dear pal of Levon’s and mine, almost a sister. Having discovered that we could talk freely to her about girls we liked and get pretty accurate feedback, we began to come to her for counsel on a regular basis. We ran together and smoked pot together. After gigs the three of us made a habit of hiding ourselves away to smoke, snack, listen to music, and laugh the night away. Ron, who would sometimes refer to our little gang as “the Three Musketeers,” was concerned about our behavior. He didn’t drink or smoke cigarettes, just the odd dexy once in a while. The mystery of drugs still lingered in the air, like steam from the shower.
On one occasion when Ron caught Levon and me smoking a joint, Levon impressed upon Ron that he was really missing out. “You gotta try this shit.”
“If I try that stuff I might start speaking in tongues,” Ronnie said.
But we got him to take a few puffs, and pretty soon he said, “Boys, I’m gonna have to go lay down before I float away,” and excused himself. The next morning Ron raved about what a crazy night he’d had after he left us. “I’ll tell you what, I started dreaming in Technicolor and I couldn’t stop. I spent the whole goddamn night seeing things I ain’t never seen before.”
Late one night, Levon and I decided to turn Rick and Richard on, up in their rooms on the third floor of Mama Kosh’s. After we passed around a joint and Levon ate the cocktail, the usual giggling and cackling ensued. Pretty soon my mother called up the stairs from the second floor, “Stop all that noise up there, or I’m gonna come up there with a broom!”
That just made it worse. We were falling apart, crying with laughter, burying our faces into pillows and blankets to muffle the sound. Richard laughed so hard he nearly peed himself. Finally we all managed to bring it back to a whisper. “Okay, Ma,” I called back. “We were telling a joke. We’re gonna step out for a snack anyway. Sorry for the racket.”
“It’s not racket time,” Levon whispered, and we all buried our faces in the pillows again. The four of us slipped as quietly as we could down the stairs and out the front door, headed for the closest all-night doughnut shop. Rick and Richard were the perfect stoner brothers. They laughed harder and more often than anybody around. “Business Bill,” our road manager, would go up to that doughnut shop counter too and say, “I would like to order six creamy maple,” then fall to his knees laughing and have to turn his back until he pulled it together. Garth and Jerry were older, and their jazz backgrounds had given them a measure of cool we still lacked; they just blurted out random, strange, poetic lines that no one understood.
Garth was in many ways an enigma. He had narcolepsy and could fall asleep at any time, and maybe because of that he lived a unique lifestyle. Some of his habits were unusual, to say the least. He claimed he didn’t sweat, no matter how hot it got. He would buy orange juice but wait for two days to drink it until all the pulp had sunk to the bottom. He would eat around the seeds of a tomato. Ronnie found it all downright strange, but he could tolerate it because Garth was such an incredible musician. He could’ve been playing with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra or with Miles Davis, but he was with us, and we were lucky to have him. Levon had tremendous respect for Garth as a musician, so when it came to any weirdness, he just looked the other way.
—
We were caught up in our music and our lives, paying little attention to the world around us. The U.S. military offensive in Vietnam was only beginning to escalate in 1961, but the military draft had been reinstated. Levon got word from back home that he was being called up. Bad timing: we were on track with the band and wanted to do something to make our mark in music. Plus Levon really, really didn’t want to go. Connie and Levon decided that if it came down to it, the three of us would drive to Buffalo or Niagara Falls and they would get married so he could avoid it. I’d serve as best man.
Meanwhile, we were excited that Roulette Records had a new producer for us, Henry Glover, who had worked at King Records for Syd Nathan. Henry’s credits shone: he had produced James Brown and Little Willie John and had written “Drown in My Own Tears,” one of my favorite Ray Charles tracks. Now he had us booked to record some new tracks at Bell Sound in New York City. He brought a tremendous amount of experience to the table—I probably asked him too many questions ab
out recording “Fever” with Little Willie John and how James Brown worked out his musical arrangements.
The Hawk lived up to his promise and called Roy Buchanan to meet us for the sessions. I looked forward to seeing Roy again, and if having him on board made the sessions stronger, I was all for it. Roy and I set up our amps in the studio and sat across from each other. Ronnie said, “Let’s run over ‘Bo Diddley.’ ” Levon started playing that jungle beat, and we all kicked in. I hit that “Bo” rhythm hard and Ron started rapping out the words. After Roy played a stinging “ride” in the middle, I closed it out with more fire. Henry came on the talk-back mic from the control room. “We’re just getting a sound on everybody. Robbie, I love what you’re playing. Keep doing that.”
Suddenly Roy stopped and said, “I think I should play bass. That’s what I’m feeling.” So Rick handed over his Fender bass and we launched with abandon into “Who Do You Love?” A few seconds in, Henry called out, “Hold on, hold on, I want to record this. Okay, tape rolling.” We ripped into “Bo Diddley” again and with no break straight into “Who Do You Love?” with Ronnie growling and screaming and my guitar on eleven. One take and that was that. When they released the record, they put “Bo Diddley” on one side and had to fade into “Who Do You Love?” on the B side.
Later we recorded a couple of blues tunes with Levon singing. He and Henry had bonded quickly over their shared Arkansas background, laughing about little towns they knew in common. I mentioned to Henry that Ray Charles’s live version of “Drown in My Own Tears” in Atlanta in 1959 was one of the most extraordinary recordings I had ever heard, and he was delighted I knew that performance. He said he’d like to do a whole session with the Hawks sometime. “Robbie writes songs,” Levon piped up, adding that we would love to take him up on that offer in the future. I asked Henry if he would be interested in writing a tune for us to record, and he said he’d see what he could come up with.
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