Before you could blink, we were back out on the road, finishing up this leg of the tour. Night after night, town after town, the same hostility rained down on us from the crowd. At Chicago’s Arie Crown Theater, the crazy nature of the whole routine sank in for me: We come to a city, set up our equipment, and play a show. People throw stuff at us, hooting and trying to boo us off the stage, but we just play on. After it’s over, we pack up our equipment, go on to the next town, set up, play the show, and get booed all over again. I thought to myself, What a strange way to make a buck.
“It’s like a freak show,” Richard said, “but that’s what I like about it.” Garth seemed more sanguine: “You get up in the morning and mow the lawn, or you get up on the stage and get booed. What’s the difference?” Rick insisted he was digging it for what it was worth: an incredible life experience, unequaled in many ways. My feeling was if Bob could take it, then I could take it too. Now we had to show the world it was truly about the music.
After a show at the Coliseum in Washington, D.C., we had a few days off in New York to catch our breath. I liked being back at my pad at the Irving Hotel. Girls and friends floated by. I met a girl named Pam through John Hammond, and she understood this crazy lifestyle; she came and went like the wind, never once saying, “What about tomorrow?” I dug her, and we would lie in bed and watch great old movies and leave the world behind.
One night, must have been around ten o’clock, there was a knock on my door. It was Levon. He looked drawn and distant. We sat and both lit cigarettes. He undid his jacket, leaned in, and said, “I’m leaving tonight. I can’t do this no more. I don’t like it and I gotta go.”
I knew he wasn’t thrilled with our situation with Bob. I knew he wanted above all for the Hawks to do our own thing. But still I was stunned that he would up and quit.
“How can you leave? You can’t leave your own band. This is an extraordinary opportunity. Why would you wanna pass it up?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Levon said, stubbing out his cigarette. “I don’t like this damn music. I don’t trust Albert Grossman and these people. And I don’t wanna be around Bob Dylan and all these New York…” He stopped himself. “All this booing is some kind of bullshit game that I don’t wanna be any part of.”
“Come on, it’s not about all that. It’s about the music,” I pressed. “And we’re getting so good. Sometimes it feels like these songs reach such a height that they’re going to explode in midair.”
“I don’t feel it,” Levon responded, “and I don’t wanna play drums for him or nobody.”
“Bob sings the hell outta these songs, and he’s been so stand-up for us,” I said. “When people around are saying, ‘Get rid of these guys, they’re ruining your music,’ he doesn’t budge, he stands his ground. Let’s finish up the tour and then we’ll see what we want to do.”
“Not with me.” Levon shook his head. “I just can’t do it.”
At this point I realized how tough it must have been for him to come to this decision. And how committed he was. I backed off. “Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?”
“First I’m going to Arkansas, see everybody for a few days, then I think I’ll go to New Orleans and see about getting a job working on an oil rig off the coast in the Gulf.”
I didn’t want to disrespect Levon’s plans, but this sounded completely horrible to me. I could not imagine working on a damn oil rig in the Gulf—that sounded like a nightmare.
Bewildered and shaken, I said, “Whatever you gotta do, I’ll back you up, you know that.”
“You wanna walk me to the corner?” he asked. “I gotta catch a cab to the bus terminal.”
“Of course.” I threw on a coat. It was almost December and growing cold. “You have a reservation for a late-night sleeper or something?”
“No,” Levon said, “I’m just gonna go to the bus depot and wait for the next one going my way.”
While we walked to Third Avenue, I put my arm over his shoulder. He felt smaller and a bit fragile. I could hardly contain my sadness. This was killing me.
“You already told the boys you were heading out?”
“No, you tell them for me,” Levon said. “And you can say I wish them all the best in the world.” We reached the corner. He raised his hand and hailed a taxi. We hugged like it was hard to let go. I had a lump in my throat when Levon said, “Okay, Duke, I’ll catch up with you a little further on down the road. You take care now.”
I couldn’t believe this was happening. We shook hands good-bye, and the taxi drove off. I walked back to the hotel with a tear in my eye and a pain in my heart. I felt broke down the middle. Maybe I should have seen it coming, but I probably didn’t want to look. A soft rain started to fall, and for some unknown reason I started singing quietly to myself, “This train don’t stop here no more, this train. This train is bound for glory, this train.”
Courtesy of the author
With my mom and dad in Toronto
Courtesy of the author
Portrait of my mother, Dolly, hand-painted by my dad, Jim
Courtesy of the author
Me with my first ax
Courtesy of the author
My first guitar, with a picture of a cowboy on it
Courtesy of the author
My first group, the Rhythm Chords
Courtesy of the author
Alexander David Klegerman
Courtesy of the author
With my uncles Morrie and Natie Klegerman
Courtesy of the author
Early days with Ronnie and Levon in a nightclub
Courtesy of Ronnie Hawkins & Wanda Nagurski
Burning it up for Ronnie
© Serge Daniloff
Ronnie and the Hawks with new members Rick, Richard, and Garth
Courtesy of the author
Ronnie Hawkins and Mama Kosh
Courtesy of Ronnie Hawkins & Wanda Nagurski
Stan Szelest, Rebel Payne, Ronnie, me, and Levon, with Freddy McNulty in front
Courtesy of the author
Richard’s birthday at my mother’s house
Getty Images/Michael Ochs Archives
Levon and the Hawks with Jerry Penfound and Bruce Bruno
© W. Eugene Smith/Black Star
With John Hammond (at left) at Bob Dylan’s Like a Rolling Stone recording session
© Dale Smith
With Michael McClure, Bob, and Allen Ginsberg at City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco
© Daniel Kramer
My first gig with Bob Dylan, during sound check at Forest Hills Stadium
Courtesy of the author
Dominique Louise Bourgeois in Montreal, Quebec
Courtesy of the author
With Dominique on our wedding day, Woodstock, New York
The next morning, I woke up feeling emotionally drained. I dragged myself out of bed, knowing I had to break the news to the guys. Garth and Richard were staying at the Irving, but Rick had been seeing a very sweet girl named Robin, who had a little apartment not far from Gramercy Park; he would often stay there when we were in New York. Levon had been going out with Robin’s friend Bonnie. It had been a bit surprising, from my perspective, to see the two most “country” boys in the Hawks taking up with a couple of nice Jewish girls in New York City. I wondered if Levon had told Bonnie he was leaving.
When the guys arrived, they came up to my room. “Boys, I’ve got some really harsh news. Brother Levon has split. He said he couldn’t continue like this—it didn’t feel right, and he had to go. I tried to change his mind, but he wouldn’t be swayed, he wouldn’t hear it. He’s gone. He asked me to pass it on, and said that he wishes us all the best.”
A silence hung in the air. We all knew Levon wasn’t overjoyed with the experience, but none of us had ever imagined him just taking off.
Then Rick spoke boldly with a chill in his voice. “Seems pretty weird to me, him just slipping off in the night, not saying good-bye, see ya later
, go screw yourself, nothing.”
“Hey, not everybody’s cut out for a big, strange, unusual challenge,” Richard said. “He hated it, I know. He just don’t dig this music like we do, and I’m liking it more every day.”
Garth stood up and paced a bit. “Isn’t that something—he just up and left?” He added that it did seem like the audience’s disapproval of our treatment of Bob’s songs had really gotten to Levon. “I don’t pay attention to that anymore, though. Just makes me want to play harder.”
I was surprised that they didn’t seem more distressed by the news. For me it was really tough. I couldn’t fathom my best friend bailing on us like that. I felt forsaken and hurt inside in a way I didn’t recognize.
Taking care of business seemed the best way to keep the whole thing from backing up on me. “We gotta find a drummer,” I said. “I have to tell Bob, and we need to think of someone that can possibly take Levon’s place.” But even as I said it, I thought: no one can ever possibly take Levon’s place in the Hawks. His unique voice and rhythmic feel were deeply embedded in our sound.
When I told Bob about it later that afternoon, I wasn’t sure how he’d react—if he’d be pissed off, if he thought it would throw a monkey wrench into our touring schedule, or if he’d hold me responsible. When I first shared the news with him, he did look a bit confused, like he didn’t exactly know how to take it. But then he started to laugh. “He’s really going to Arkansas? What’s Levon going to do there?”
We had only a couple days until our next concert, so Bob decided to call Bobby Gregg to fill in until we found someone to take over on drums for the rest of the tour. We didn’t have much rehearsal time with him before heading to Seattle to kick off a West Coast run. Bobby caught on pretty fast and fit in the best he could, but for me it was like starting over.
—
From Seattle we wound our way south to the Bay Area. A vibe was stirring in Berkeley and San Francisco—the Black Panthers, Oakland’s Hells Angels, the Beat poets, and a burgeoning music scene that dovetailed a bit more with our musical direction. The audience even appeared a little more open and receptive to the electric thing.
One day Bob said he was going over to City Lights, Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s bookstore in North Beach, and asked if I wanted to come along. I wasn’t sure if I’d fit in. But I was getting used to going on intriguing adventures with Bob, so I grabbed my coat. Allen Ginsberg had put this gathering together, and I had come to appreciate the strong link between Bob and the Beat poets. Before Bob, nobody had written songs overflowing with the kind of imagery he conjured; he shared with these writers a kind of fearlessness when it came to pushing limits.
We arrived at City Lights and were met by the brilliant poets Michael McClure and Allen Ginsberg. This get-together was a “moment,” but I would come to learn that such moments are rarely recognized when they’re happening. Seeing Allen and Michael and Bob referring casually to different writers and poets made me think back to my high-school days or the years with Ronnie, when even talking about poetry was reason enough to get your ass kicked. That was all changing now—even the heavyweight boxing champ, Muhammad Ali, recited poetry, and rock ’n’ roll was embracing it too. The shift seemed overdue.
While we were standing outside the bookshop, a couple of photographers showed up and took some pictures of Bob and the poets. I stepped to the side to get out of the frame, but they said, “No, get in the shot.” McClure and Ginsberg were such vivid characters, full of life and proclaiming that huge changes were on the horizon. Bob’s presence seemed to lift their spirits even more, and as they all talked their voices rose to a preacher’s peak. “Politicians will crumble, and the legalization of marijuana will rise across the land!” Ginsberg added that in India, “for God’s sake,” parts of the culture looked at smoking pot as a sacred experience.
When we played that night at San Francisco’s Masonic Hall, the poets brought several Hells Angels with them, making for a pretty unusual coalition. After the show we were all invited to a big party at someone’s house. “Let’s go,” Bob said. “The rest of the guys will meet us there.”
We arrived at a packed gathering, and before long Ginsberg took us aside. “A few of us are going upstairs for a little privacy to smoke some Hells Angels weed.” The rest of the band hadn’t arrived yet, so we adjourned to a room upstairs and joined a circle of people seated on the floor. Ginsberg played host and introduced Sonny Barger, head of the Hells Angels, Oakland chapter, along with Terry the Tramp. Barger was already a notorious biker of legend; he seemed like a sharp, cool, been-around-the-block outlaw. He didn’t need to prove nothin’. Terry the Tramp looked like the perfect picture of a biker—big, raw, rugged, and ready for any shit that might go down.
About ten of us sat in the circle and Ginsberg brought out some weed and hallucinogens. Soon the room got so smoky from cigarettes and pot you could hardly see the person beside you, and things started getting gritty. Intoxicated sexual bravado turned to shouting. Laughing and madness settled on a room full of would-be pirates. As the smoke got thicker and the drinks got stronger, Ginsberg and his partner, Peter Orlovsky, suggested we all take our clothes off—saying something to the effect that “nakedness is pure freedom.” One of the Angels started hollering and tearing off his jacket and shirt. I flashed a nervous look at Bob, but then I had an even more terrifying thought: Oh, man, what if he likes this idea?
Bob didn’t blink. He started talking about something so elliptical and beside the point that everybody was trying to keep up with his train of thought; it killed any talk of “pure freedom.”
Driving back to our hotel after the party, I said to Bob, “That got a little creepy back there,” but he gestured like it was no big deal. I had thought I was pretty street savvy, but right then it felt like I was getting a lesson from an older brother in the “code of the road.”
—
For the next few concerts in Southern California, we worked out of the classic Chateau Marmont Hotel in West Hollywood. Bob stayed in one of the newer, more spacious bungalows in the back. The producer Phil Spector sent over a spinet piano for him to use while he was in town, and I learned that Phil was interested in producing some songs with him. Word was, he thought Bob was a great songwriter but didn’t care for the production on his records. I had a hard time imagining the two of them working together. Phil was very much into “the sound” and big production, and it seemed to me that Bob was more interested in capturing a song in a very direct and honest way. It was as if Phil—like the later Beatles and Beach Boys—was making “movies” with his music production, and Bob was more interested in the documentary, in purely nailing the live performance.
After we checked into the hotel, Bob invited some people over and asked me to bring some of my records to his bungalow. I headed over, and within minutes the doorbell rang. It was David Crosby of the Byrds, whom I hadn’t met before, though I’d seen his band on a TV show. David was actually wearing the same outfit he wore on the show, a flat dark hat and short cape with a fancy shirt and boots—his own rock ’n’ roll uniform. He bounced his skinny frame all over the bungalow with joy at seeing Bob.
David reached inside his pocket and pulled out a couple of the biggest joints I had ever seen, then lit one with a flamethrower lighter. David had brought an acetate of a new Byrds track, “Set You Free This Time,” but didn’t seem that thrilled with it. Instead he talked at length about the Beatles’ “Nowhere Man” and “Norwegian Wood”—the album Rubber Soul had just come out, and David had clearly spent some time with it. Bob asked me to put on one of the records I’d brought, so I played “I’ve Been Trying” by the Impressions and “Tracks of My Tears” by Smokey Robinson. Crosby’s huge joint had kicked in, and Bob and I got chills from these songs. David didn’t react to them, though—his head was still filled with the Beatles.
After David left, Bob’s friend Victor Maymudes dropped by. Victor was a warm, funny guy, very Los Angeles, and he came bearing an envelope that h
ad been left at the front desk. Bob opened it and found a couple of photographs of us from outside the City Lights bookstore. He looked at the shots carefully.
“Why don’t you let your hair grow?” he said to me. He looked back at the photo, then looked at me again. “Yeah, you should definitely grow your hair out.”
“You mean like the Beatles or the Byrds?” I said. “With those cute little bangs and the whole bit?”
“No, not like the Beatles,” Bob said, grinning. “Just let it grow.”
Victor chimed in. “You know, it’s healthier too. Tests have shown that long hair is better for your scalp, which means it’s better for your whole body. I don’t cut my hair anymore and I just feel better, inside and out.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “A lot of the joints the Hawks played down south, if you had long hair, they’d kick your ass or shoot you. We were more into haircuts from the forties, like Tyrone Power or Gary Cooper. We hung out with a lot of gangsters and they thought if you had long hair, you were a fruit.”
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