Testimony

by Robbie Robertson

  Levon decided he would bunk in the bedroom area of the pool house—that way, he could just roll down the stairs and be ready to rock. The only problem was that we were using the pool-house bathroom as an echo chamber, so he had to move a speaker when he wanted to take a shower.

  One of my favorite musicians around this time was Van Morrison. His album Astral Weeks was one of those records you could just leave on repeat. Beautiful images in the lyrics, and that voice. Van liked Music from Big Pink too, and he dropped by the Sammy Davis Jr. house to say hello one afternoon as we were putting the studio together. I dug him right off the bat. His abrupt, straight-arrow Irish temperament tickled me. When he spoke of music-business people he deplored, it cracked me up, which made him have a good laugh too. As we were talking, I picked up my guitar and started noodling around, and he said, “Wait a minute. Where did you learn to play like that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “it’s just what I picked up along the way.”

  He said, “No, seriously, where’d you get that kind of playing from?”

  I had no real answer, so I tossed it off like I was just messing around. “No, it’s nothing, man, just a more understated approach. You know…”

  He looked at me like I was keeping secrets and didn’t want to tell him the truth. With that, he got up and walked out. I was a bit confused for a moment, then thought, I guess he’s just ornery. But I liked it.

  My songwriting schedule those days was morning, noon, and night, some songs coming easier than others. With our newborn, I couldn’t be thumping around our room too recklessly. I had to pick my spots, and Jon Taplin and his team were still busy putting the studio together, so I couldn’t use that area. I tried to encourage the other guys to write with me, but I couldn’t get a rise out of anybody. Even Richard felt uncomfortable trying to get something going when it just wasn’t happening.

  Once we got our studio set up, John Simon started giving me recording-engineer lessons. I had certain sounds in mind for the songs I was writing, and in some cases it was easier to just do it myself than to try to describe it. I was enjoying the woody, thuddy sound we were getting out of this room—it matched the nature of the music, not bright and shiny, but rather having a dark, dry quality that most artists would have run from. After we recorded “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “King Harvest (Has Surely Come),” and “Across the Great Divide,” I felt we were making some kind of magic, regardless of our unorthodox method.

  We had Altec 604E speakers hanging from the ceiling above the recording console, but our main listening playback speakers were on the floor up in Levon’s bedroom. You had to sit on the foot of his bed to get the full percussive effect. We played Jon Taplin a few of the songs we had cut, and his eyes welled up. He said, “I can’t fucking believe it.” That was a good sign. That’s what I was looking for. Once in a while everybody would come down to the studio from the main house to hear what we were coming up with. The close family vibe influenced some of my songwriting along the way, especially on tunes like “Rockin’ Chair” and “When You Awake.”

  Here and there we had bumps in the road. Some days I pleaded with Richard not to drink until we finished recording. Alcohol completely disabled his performing abilities. He couldn’t play in time, couldn’t sing in tune, and would constantly mess up the lyrics. There are hundreds of recordings where artists have done amazing versions of songs drunk or intoxicated. Not the case here.

  Typically we all refrained from mind-altering influences until we had a song in the bag. We’d tried it the other way, and it mostly interfered with the process. Richard would insist sometimes on sipping on a beer, just to steady his nerves and lubricate his throat, but even that could be touch and go. I finished the words on a new song called “Up on Cripple Creek” with this in mind, the punch line being “A drunkard’s dream if I ever did see one.” Garth used a clavinet with a wah-wah pedal on this track that sounded like an electric Jew’s harp. Levon played and sang the hell out of this song like he just couldn’t help himself.

  With each track we cut, the vocal harmonies soared higher and higher. John Simon had studied harmony and was brilliant in helping solve some musical mysteries. We were working to all hours of the night, whatever it took to get the best we could out of a song. I was also sharing parenting duties, getting up with the baby, which made for very little sleep.

  I had a new song to spring on the boys with a whole different approach in mind. It got sparked when we recorded “Rockin’ Chair” with Garth’s moving accordion and Levon’s mandolin. I had mentioned the word “ragtime” in the lyrics and wanted to go deeper in that direction, to get my hands on a modern version of that sound. I suggested that Rick could play fiddle on this new tune, with Garth on piano. It was perfect for Richard’s funky drum style, but with Rick on violin and Levon on mandolin, we’d have no one holding down the bass. Knowing John Simon had pretty good chops on the high-school horn, I asked if he thought he could handle the bass part on tuba. Even though his head nearly exploded getting through the whole song, he did a terrific job, and we had a track unlike anything I’d ever heard before. Levon’s vocal with Rick’s harmony and Garth’s amazing piano tore the roof off. And we were all in awe of Richard’s drumming, especially Levon, who cracked up every time we listened back to our favorite take.

  When we recorded “The Unfaithful Servant,” which I’d written in Hawaii, Rick killed it. Man, what a vocal. It made me want to play some guitar. Not since we cut “King Harvest (Has Surely Come)” a few weeks before had I been compelled to make a guitar statement like this. I chose to play my solos at the end of these songs and stories, almost like a movie-score finale.

  About halfway through our recording adventure, Barry Feinstein came by and said that Dennis Hopper was directing a film called Easy Rider and wanted to talk to us about doing the music. It would star Dennis and Peter Fonda, who was also producing, and a new guy named Jack Nicholson. We were in the middle of making our record and it wasn’t possible for us to do the music, but I was curious. They set up a screening for me, and there was a strong antisouthern bent to the movie that would have been a hard sell to the boys anyway. Then they asked to use “The Weight” in the movie, along with many other popular songs of the time. This was a fresh idea in 1969. There are different accounts of the specific origin of the idea for the soundtrack, but it was clear in any case that Peter and Dennis made an indelible mark on the culture with Easy Rider.

  John Palladino came by to see how we were making progress. We brought him up to Levon’s bedroom and sat him in front of the playback speakers. He listened intently, trying to decide whether the folks back at Capitol would understand what we were doing. He was both baffled and blown away by what he heard, but I could tell he had no idea how to convey this bizarre experiment to the company heads. I thought, That’s okay. I like it when nobody gets it, too.

  Our West Coast musical extravaganza was winding down. I was running out of songs, but I told Rick there was something in the works that had his name all over it. I called it “Look Out Cleveland,” and it had yet another flavor of North Americana stamped on it. Richard and I also had a cowrite in the works, called “Jawbone,” that used several different time signatures. Some of it was in 7/4, some in 6/8, some in 2/4—God, we didn’t know what to do with that. The song was a throwback lyrically to our times in the streets, when our best friends were gangsters and thieves.

  Our management office called. Michelangelo Antonioni, the renowned director of Blowup (and L’Avventura, starring the stunning Monica Vitti), was putting together his next movie, Zabriskie Point, and wanted to come and hear some of our new music. He and his girlfriend and coscreenwriter, Clare Peploe, would stop by the next afternoon to meet up and have a little listening session. Now we’re talking, I said to myself. It didn’t mean as much to the other guys, but I was stoked. It was Antonioni!

  Michelangelo and Clare looked so cool and beautiful when they arrived. I escorted them to Levon’s room for a
playback of some of our tracks. They didn’t seem to mind sitting at the foot of the bed and taking in what they could of this Americana sound. Clare translated some of my comments and details of the songs for Michelangelo. I could see him trying to fit this music onto pictures in his head. He had a little nervous tic in his eyes, and they were flickering pretty good. It’s interesting listening to your music through somebody else’s ears, especially when it’s someone like Antonioni who comes from a whole other world. I could sense that our music was a deep corner for what he had in mind. He and Clare were definitely moved, but it wouldn’t have been that much different for him to be listening to Muddy Waters, Johnny Cash, or Hank Snow. We wouldn’t go on to work on the music for Mr. Antonioni’s next movie, but somehow Michelangelo and I would remain friends for many, many years to come.

  —

  While working on the album and having our sweet little Alexandra in our lives, I had given very little thought to our upcoming live debut as the Band. We were booked into Bill Graham’s Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco in two weeks. We ran through some tunes from Big Pink and were thinking about what else we could throw into the mix, but our heads were in a different zone, and I desperately wanted to get as much recording done as possible before we had to leave. It was almost unimaginable that at this juncture we also needed to put together a live show.

  Dominique wanted to get organized with the baby back in Woodstock, so she decided to head home while the Band prepared for our Winterland gigs. I hadn’t really slept for a month and started to get weak in the knees as we rehearsed. I had spent all my energy writing, recording, and helping Dominique look after our little one. I had let all the air out of the balloon. Excitement and exhaustion mixed together in a wicked combination, and as we headed up to San Francisco, my immune system shut down.

  I had come down with a vicious case of stomach flu. I felt like I was dying while also panicking about our first gig. When we got to the hotel in San Francisco, Albert, John Simon, Jon Taplin, and the guys gathered in my room to assess my condition. I couldn’t go to sound check and rehearse. I couldn’t move. Albert told Bill Graham we might have to cancel, but Bill was adamant. “We can’t,” he insisted. “ ‘The people’ have been waiting for this like a religious experience. It’s impossible to cancel. The show must go on.”

  Albert said, “Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do. Robbie’s really not well.” I think John Simon had a doctor friend come by. Bill Graham was calling witch doctors. Everybody was pulling out all the stops to get me feeling better. The guys went and did the sound check, but going on without me wasn’t even a consideration: they flatly refused, and I didn’t know what to suggest in my nauseous delirium.

  The next day I still couldn’t hold any food down, so gaining back strength just wasn’t happening. I looked in the bathroom mirror at my drawn, haggard, pale face and asked myself, Is this stage fright? Is this all in my head? What the hell is happening?

  Albert and Bill came to my room. “How do you feel about trying a hypnotist? There’s a renowned French hypnotist by the name of Pierre Clement we can get.”

  “I’ll try anything,” I said, sweating and shivering. “I’m game. Let’s get him.”

  A little while later, an older gentleman with white hair showed up dressed in a black suit like an undertaker. Mr. Pierre Clement had a confident air about him, suffused with the power of his special gift. His eyes were mesmerizing, and he spoke with a gentle command in his voice that made me listen to every syllable he uttered. John Simon and photographer Elliott Landy hung around trying to feel out if he was a quack or not, but soon I was aware only of Mr. Clement’s presence. I asked him if he thought my condition might be psychosomatic. “You look very ill, and it doesn’t matter,” he said. “We are going to address each of your symptoms one at a time and make you feel stronger.” He put his hand on my forehead and said, “You have fever. First we are going to take that down.” He held his hand there for a few minutes and told me to close my eyes. Then, “There, that’s better.” Amazingly, I felt less feverish.

  He concentrated on the achiness in my body, then worked on settling my stomach. I felt a hint of strength. Slowly some color came back into my face. He asked if I could tolerate a little soup and helped me rise out of the bed and move around, all the while telling me that I was starting to feel stronger. After a little soup, I got dressed and we drove to Winterland Ballroom. On the way, he told me I would be okay to play but that if I got tired or felt faint I should look over at him in the wings; when I did, he would say, “Grow,” and with that I would become steady again.

  At Winterland, Bill Graham was back to his P. T. Barnum self, now that this hypnotist experiment was in full swing. The guys and our whole gang looked at me skeptically, like I was a space alien, which was exactly how I felt with Pierre Clement on my arm. Levon pulled me aside for a moment. “Hey, partner, how we feeling?”

  “I’m gonna do my best not to let you down,” I said.

  He smiled. “I know that. Let’s just take it one song at a time.”

  I vaguely remember Bill Graham introducing us with great fanfare, and we launched into our first song. The audience was incredibly enthusiastic, but in my dazed state of mind it was like looking out onto a psychedelic purgatory. We got through a couple of songs—then I turned and looked at the backdrop on the stage behind us: they were projecting gobs of mush and goo onto the screen. Maybe it was the “Joshua Light Show” or the “Haight-Ashbury” look for groups out here, but it was a bad fit for us. It made me nauseated. I looked over at Pierre Clement on the side of the stage. His darting eyes looked back at me and he mouthed the word “grow.” Somehow I could hear him over the volume of the music, the sound system, and the crowd. It was spooky and supernatural; I just went with it the best I could.

  The rest of our set was vaguely unconscious for me, and after about forty minutes the hypnotist looked at me and nodded his head as if to signal, That’s enough. You shouldn’t do any more. We left the stage knowing it was too short a set, but I didn’t have any more in the tank. I walked directly over to Pierre, and he patted me on the back approvingly, but without any hoopla. We walked to a dark corner away from the lights, and his silhouette reached out and shook my hand, and he quietly said, “I’ll see you in the stars.”

  And I never saw him again.

  © Elliott Landy

  With Rick Danko

  © John Scheele

  Garth hot-rodding his Lowrey organ in Woodstock

  © Elliott Landy

  Running over a song with Levon, who had hung a portrait of Freddy McNulty on the wall

  © Elliott Landy

  Going over lyrics in Levon’s room upstairs in Sammy Davis Jr.’s pool house

  © Elliott Landy

  Playing a new song for Rick, downstairs at Sammy Davis Jr.’s house

  © Elliott Landy

  The Band’s Salvation Army horn section, including John Simon

  © Elliott Landy

  The Band out behind Big Pink

  © Elliott Landy

  On an elevator with John Simon as Albert Grossman and Bill Graham discuss the possibility of having to cancel the Band’s first performance

  © Elliott Landy

  With hypnotist Pierre Clement before the Winterland show

  © John Scheele

  With Richard and Levon, recording “Daniel and the Sacred Harp”

  © John Scheele

  Richard holding a gold record after crashing another car

  © Barry Feinstein Photography, Inc.

  With Elliot Roberts, Bob, and David Geffen, Tour ’74

  Courtesy of the author

  With my daughters, Alexandra and Delphine, in Montreal

  © Barry Feinstein Photography, Inc.

  Bob with Alexandra at one of our last shows of Tour ’74, at the Forum, Los Angeles

  Courtesy of the author

  Dominique with our son, Sebastian

  © John Scheele

/>   The Last Waltz concert

  © Steve Gladstone, courtesy of Brian Hardin

  With the Hawk at the Last Waltz

  © Steve Gladstone, courtesy of Brian Hardin

  Muddy Waters performing “Mannish Boy” at the Last Waltz

  Courtesy of MGM

  Martin Scorsese explaining the next shot of the Band on the MGM soundstage

  The Winterland shows formally marked our reemergence as a live act, but we had a ways to go. We had a fuller repertoire now, with songs from both Big Pink and The Band, but we needed to find what would work best in a live setting. After our shaky debut in San Francisco, we came back strong for Bill Graham during a run at the Fillmore East in New York, and then played a strange show at the Toronto Pop Festival. Our old tailor in Toronto, Lou Myles, insisted on dressing us for the show. He was a dear friend and we wanted to be respectful, but times had changed. Lou made us all fancy clothes that we would never wear under normal circumstances. We laughed at one another in our new duds, but when we stepped out on the stage at the open-aired Varsity Stadium in midtown Toronto, some people started hissing at us, probably because we looked like we should be sipping martinis with the Great Gatsby. Then it started raining, which made us now look like homeless socialites. It was so contrary to our sound and how the audience viewed us. In those threads we couldn’t recognize ourselves or our music.