Testimony

by Robbie Robertson

  I went through each track, judging whether each could use more or less bottom or top, or more echo—whatever slim variables could enhance the sound and give us some stereo separation. We tried different kinds of compressors and limiters, an assortment of tape delays, and a couple of live echo chambers. Not much was making it sound better. The stereo was subtle, but it sounded nice when opened up a bit. I gave the mixing engineer a list of cues and rides I wanted him to make as we were about to lay the first song down. In the middle of the mix, his head drooped, and he nodded off.

  “Wait, wait, stop,” I said. “Are you sleeping?”

  “No, no,” he said, snapping up. “I’m just resting my eyes. Here we go.” But again he started nodding off, and again I roused him.

  “What’s going on? What’s the problem? Is it the music? Is it me? You’re not mixing, you’re sleeping.”

  He confessed that he and his wife had a newborn and the baby’s crying kept them up all night. His eyes looked blurry and red as he apologized for his exhaustion.

  “Maybe you should go get some rest,” I suggested. “We can get another engineer to do the mix.” But he pleaded with me not to say anything—he could get in trouble, maybe fired.

  I didn’t have the heart to get this new dad canned, so for a week I wrestled him awake, trying to get through the mixes. When we got to the eleven-minute track “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” I yelled the cues in his ear to keep him alert. We got through it by the skin of our teeth. On the acetate it sounded better than the experience warranted. It just showed how difficult it was to screw up a record that great.

  —

  A little while later, Bob asked me to come up and stay at his house in Woodstock on Byrdcliffe Road. He talked about doing more touring. Albert was looking into arranging a show at Shea Stadium with Peter, Paul and Mary, and Bob’s songwriting had struck a chord with Russian poets like Yevgeny Yevtushenko, which had even kindled the notion of touring in the U.S.S.R.—though the very idea of performing behind the Iron Curtain sounded outrageous at that time. After what we’d just been through on the last tour, I couldn’t help but think he must be a glutton for punishment, but I guess you can’t keep a good man down.

  In my room at Bob’s I started recording some chord changes and melodies on a tape machine. This was a new kind of experiment to see if I could find a flavor, a sound, a feel worth writing words to. I labeled this tape “Return of Luke the Drifter” after an alias of Hank Williams’s from years back. The sound on the tape certainly didn’t resemble anything of Hank’s, or country music, for that matter, but it did have hints of some otherworldly roots music. All the musical strands that we’d picked up along the way were starting to weave together.

  When I rode back into New York with Albert Grossman, he told me about a couple of sisters he was thinking about signing. “Actually,” he said, “I think I’m going to sign one of the sisters.” He asked if I would check her out and consider producing a couple of tracks. “She could do a great job singing some of Bob’s songs,” he said, “and I think it would be great to have the Hawks backing her up.”

  They set up a meeting at Albert’s office for me to meet this young singer. As Albert walked me in the direction of his office, he said under his breath, “I think you’ll like this girl. Could be something special.” We went in and there she was. “Robbie,” said Albert, “I’d like you to meet Carly. Carly Simon, this is Robbie Robertson.”

  She stood up and overwhelmed the room—tall, gorgeous, with a smile that went on forever. Albert smiled like the Cheshire cat. I told her the other guys in the Hawks would be back in New York in a day or two and it might be fun to cut a couple of tunes together. She said she liked that idea very much and gave me her phone number so we could set it up. Have to say, I was curious to hear the sound of her singing voice.

  When the guys came back from Canada, we had a meeting at the hotel—our first concern was to discuss finding a place in the city where we could work on our own music. The idea had always been that we would do this thing with Bob for a while, but our ultimate goal was to write and record our own stuff. Our friend the photographer Barry Feinstein came through with a temporary fix: we could use his photo studio to make music at night. We were thrilled with that idea, and Garth said he would hook up a little mixer so we could record any ideas on a borrowed tape recorder. I played the guys my “Luke the Drifter” tape, and though the sound wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, there was a clue in there that Richard and Garth could relate to. Rick played along with the tape on bass, giving it a rhythmic drive that made drums unnecessary—like what some bass players could accomplish on an acoustic bass.

  I’d told the guys about Carly Simon, and a couple of days later I called her to see when would be a good time for our little studio experiment.

  “Oh, I thought you’d probably forgot about it by now,” she said.

  “It’s only been a week!”

  Carly laughed. “I know, I’m just excited.” Right then I noticed a slight stammer in her voice, as if maybe she had stuttered a bit when she was younger. It sounded so sweet and vulnerable.

  The following week we went into a studio and tried out some Dylan songs. Carly looked way too beautiful for anyone to concentrate fully on the production. I even told her jokingly that she couldn’t dress like that while making a record—no one would be able to follow the arrangement and look at her at the same time. She blushed and pushed my shoulder. Her voice was rich and full. She didn’t sound like anybody else, and originality always caught my ear. It didn’t take long before I could tell this girl wasn’t interested in being a singer of Bob Dylan songs. She was going to be her own thing and just needed a little time to find it.

  We hung out the next day and the day after. Every once in a while her slight stammer would sneak through, which got me every time. I don’t know where we went, what we did, who we were with—our connection felt almost dreamlike.

  I told Albert, “You’re not gonna cage this cat.”

  Albert smiled knowingly. “Maybe you’re right, but I think you’re more interested in the artist than the art.” That may have been true, but the last thing I was looking for at this point was anything too serious.

  —

  Barry Feinstein had asked a favor of us. He and Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul and Mary were making a film called You Are What You Eat, and they had asked if we would play on the soundtrack with an interesting street musician by the name of Tiny Tim.

  Tiny came to Barry’s studio that night, overflowing with humbleness, dressed in a gray-checkered sport jacket and brown pants. His black shirt was buttoned to the neck, with dark curly hair hanging to his shoulders. He carried a little ukulele in one hand like a ventriloquist would carry his dummy. You couldn’t help but like Tiny right away, with his gentleness and respect; he referred to everybody as “Mr.” He spoke in a high-voice/low-voice, nursery-rhyme rhythm that sounded so strange at first but completely natural within minutes. Just to make him feel comfortable, I asked him to sing and play us a song that held a special place in his heart.

  “Oh, Mr. Robbie,” he said, “there are so many that I hold dear, but if I may, there is a particular song by the great Al Jolson that is one of my favorites.” He picked up his ukulele, checked the tuning close to his ear, and broke into “Climb upon my knee, Sonny Boy.” It was quite touching, and he sang and played the hell out of it. The other guys and I looked at one another, impressed, feeling we could do something with that.

  Tiny flipped over the uke and played it left-handed as he ran through a couple more old Bing Crosby classics. “Let’s give that ‘Sonny Boy’ song a go,” I suggested. “We like that one.” Tiny bowed with more appreciation than if we’d saved his cousin from drowning.

  We set up a few mics for recording onto our little tape recorder, got a balance, and then Tiny suddenly excused himself. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Robbie, but nature calls and I have to use the restroom.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Use
the washroom right there in the hall.”

  Tiny looked apologetic. “Oh no, I couldn’t do that. I have to go back to my place, my simple little place, use the facilities, and then shower. I could never do a good performance for you, knowing that I’m dirty.”

  It was clear that he wasn’t fooling and that this wasn’t debatable. Richard tried, saying he had used the facilities here and they were perfectly hygienic, and he felt cleansed inside and out. Tiny responded, “Thank you so much, Mr. Richard. I am so happy for your personal experience, but if you’ll forgive me, I have to go home. I won’t be long and I pray you’ll have the patience to wait until I return.”

  I said, “Mr. Tiny Tim, by the time you get back, we will know this song and more. You go do your business and we will do ours.” He bowed, threw kisses, and scurried out.

  While we waited, a young singer named Eleanor from a girl group called the Cake stopped by with Peter Yarrow and Barry. They had come up with an idea of doing a duet of “I Got You Babe” with her and Tiny Tim. She would sing the boy’s part and he would sing the girl’s part. I liked Eleanor’s voice and she had a cool little attitude too, for a seventeen-year-old.

  When Tiny got back from his bathroom break, his hair was still wet and he looked fresh as a daisy. He could have won the Good Housekeeping seal of approval for being the cleanest street musician around. First we did the duet of “I Got You Babe,” which turned out splendidly. Then we recorded “Sonny Boy.” Garth knew how to accompany and highlight that tune like it was written yesterday. It sounded authentic and moving once you got used to Tiny’s wild vocal vibrato from right out of the 1920s. Barry and Peter were knocked out by the recordings and said these songs were going to be a cornerstone of their movie. What a brilliant and unusual experience. We felt like we had become honorary members of the street musician’s association.

  —

  When I got back to the hotel, I called Dominique again to see if she’d thought more about coming to visit me in New York, but I couldn’t reach her. That night, Edie Sedgwick left me a message to meet her in the El Quijote restaurant downstairs. Her recent visit with her family in California had not been pleasant, and I’d already heard the whole sad story in my room as tears streamed through her mascara. Edie might have been easily dismissed as a “poor little rich girl,” but I genuinely felt her pain. Her sorrow made me think that the coldness in her upbringing was terribly deep-rooted. Everybody hurts, but this was a lost soul.

  At the El Quijote, though, I found her in better spirits, having a bite with Andy Warhol and a couple of friends. I told them about the session we’d just had with Tiny Tim. Andy and Edie thought it sounded bizarre and incredible, different worlds of music and film all coming together. Andy said, “I want to do something like that, with a musician who sings in the subway.”

  I knocked back an order of the fried bananas, one of the specialties of the house, and Andy made a suggestion. “Let’s go over to Salvador Dalí’s suite at the St. Regis Hotel for a nightcap.” This sounded like a surreal idea to me. As we got in a taxi, I asked if they had seen the movie Un Chien Andalou, which Dalí had done with fellow Spaniard filmmaker Luis Buñuel. Andy said, “I know exactly what you’re getting at. That opening scene of the eyeball and the straight razor slicing it in two.”

  “You never forget that,” I said.

  Edie squirmed. “I never saw it and I can’t forget it—ew.”

  Andy called up to Salvador’s suite from the lobby. Dalí greeted us with grand gestures of welcome in his shiny maroon dressing gown. He looked tremendous with his slicked-back hair and curled, waxed mustache. Inside we found some other guests smoking and sipping drinks. A striking woman named Gala, whom I later learned was his wife, came into the room and spoke to Salvador in Spanish. He put his smoking cigarette holder into an ashtray and put his hands around his throat like he was choking. Then he pointed toward the woman and she waved him off, laughing, as he threw open a window to let some of the smoke out.

  Andy and Edie introduced me, mentioning that I was a guitarist. Dalí gestured in the way a Spanish flamenco guitarist would play. I shook my head and said, “No, rock ’n’ roll.” He dropped his arms and smiled. “Too bad.”

  About an hour later Edie and I noticed a pencil sketch on a big piece of paper that was lying on the dining room table. Edie asked what it was.

  Dalí answered, “Yes, yes, it is the beginning of an idea I am working on for a new masterpiece, but the horse has no head…yet.” He laughed like he meant it.

  Andy swirled it around for a moment. “Hmm, maybe I should do some horses,” he said.

  Dalí waved his arm. “What do you need horses for? You have soup cans and women’s shoes!” Everyone laughed. You could tell Salvador really enjoyed teasing Andy. Andy stood up smiling and said, “Well, maybe I should be going.” Everyone laughed again, and Dalí said, “No, no. You must never go.”

  Oh, what a night, and when it was finally time to leave, Dalí kissed Andy on both cheeks, then kissed Edie. He shook my hand and advised me, “Play some good music. Not that noise, I hope.”

  I said, “Okay, I’ll do that.” He said, “Good,” and kissed me on both cheeks.

  —

  In the summer of 1966, the city was overflowing with fascinating people and incredible culture. Meeting one person often led to meeting another, the world of art and music expanding at light speed before my eyes. I wasn’t quite aware of it while it was happening, but every day somehow became more of a journey into the unknown. Bobby Neuwirth introduced me to a young up-and-coming artist named Brice Marden. We felt like we were in the same boat, trying to make a mark. We both wanted to do something and have the world come to us, but that was a steep climb.

  One day, while Edie was in my room rummaging through her purse, Brice came in with a piece of art under a cloth. He set the piece on the couch and unveiled it, saying, “I think it’s dry. Here, look.” I didn’t know what to expect, which was exciting and a bit unnerving, because you wanted to be supportive of friends; if I’d played a piece of music for Brice, I would have wanted his support. As he showed his painting, Edie came over to take a peek. The painting was a deep, rich layer of brown.

  “That’s so pure,” I said. “It’s unconfused. It doesn’t pretend.”

  Brice said, “That’s it. That’s what it is.” He wrapped up the painting, shook my hand, and left. Edie closed her eyes for a moment and said, “You gotta talk to your friend. Nobody wants a brown painting that’s just brown. God, tell him to try green or blue, but not brown. That’s all I can say. I’m not an art expert, but brown is brown. It’s like brown shoes, you know?”

  Next time I ran into Brice, I said, “The chicks aren’t digging on the brown painting. It’s not coming from me, but Edie said, ‘Tell him to try blue or green. Brown’s not happening.’ ”

  Brice looked at me. “Really, she doesn’t like the brown? Well, maybe I’ll do the green or blue. In fact, you can tell her I’m already doing a blue and green together.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll pass that along.”

  (On a recent visit to the Museum of Modern Art, I stopped in front of that brown painting hanging there, along with the green and blue one, and reminisced about those days. Can’t imagine what they’re worth now. Brice is still a friend of mine, and we laugh about our strange backstories. And he still insists that Edie eventually liked the brown painting.)

  —

  Early one morning—too early—the phone stirred me awake. I mumbled into the receiver, “Yeah, hello?”

  “Allo, Robbie. It’s Dominique calling you from Paris. Hi, I hope it’s not too early to call.”

  I sat right up, cleared my throat. “No, of course not. I was already up, thinking about going fishing.”

  She said, “Oh, really?”

  “No, just kidding.”

  She laughed her joyful laugh. She said it would soon be time for her to return to Montreal, but she might be able to stop in New York on the way. All I cou
ld say was, “How soon can you come?”

  “In about a week,” came the reply.

  When we hung up, I was elated. I told Richard, Rick, Edie—everybody I could—that the girl I had met on the street, in Paris, in the springtime, was coming to New York to see me.

  In the meantime Garth took me to the Egyptian Gardens to hear some amazing bouzouki and oud players. These were musical instruments you would hear in Greek and some Middle Eastern groups, often accompanying a belly dancer who could do things with her hips that made your eyes roll around in your head. This particular group and this dancer were fantastic. It opened my ears a little wider to other musicalities. I was especially drawn to the sound of the oud—hard and soft at the same time, double gut strings slipping and sliding. The bouzouki player was amazing too, but to me the oud was as sexy as the dancer.

  Rick and I would take in shows together too. One night we went downtown to the Village Gate and caught Charles Mingus and his full band. When the leader of the group plays stand-up bass and yells and hollers some fantastic vocables during songs while smoking a pipe, you want to have a good seat. Mingus had a stocky build and a powerful presence. The intensity in his eyes expressed every note he played. His arrangements and compositions were sensational, with a New Orleans looseness alongside remarkable precision. They did a song called “Better Git It in Your Soul” that lifted me off my chair. After the show Rick couldn’t even speak. He just bobbed his head like he’d had a spiritual awakening.

  Meanwhile, at Barry Feinstein’s studio, something was starting to gel. Our sound was changing and becoming more dimensional. On one piece we worked on, we came in gradually, one at a time, on a chord progression that I was improvising. It lifted and swayed. Garth turned it into a spiritual right before my eyes. We didn’t know where this was leading, but there was definitely a web being spun and a path spreading out before us.