Testimony

by Robbie Robertson

  Since Bob had hardly played live in almost three years, I hoped the craziness wouldn’t throw him off his game. Before we went out there, I said, “Okay, captain, let’s go get ’em.” He nodded and threw his guitar strap over his shoulder. There was something about these huge events that sent me into a vacuum, into a zone between a dream state and nightmare. The only grounding I had was looking down into a private section in front of the stage and seeing the Beatles sitting there, and I couldn’t even be sure that was real. We couldn’t hear one another very well on the stage, so I just put my head down and plowed straight ahead, recalling Bob’s earliest instruction: “Just don’t stop.” There was no longer much booing like in ’66, but there were some catcalls and hoots.

  We were supposed to head to London the next day, but Ringo said he had a private plane if I wanted to go that night. I was a little bit wary. “What kind of plane?”

  John Lennon laughed. “Oh, don’t be worried. Ringo is much too lucky to be in any bloody plane disaster.” George gave me a push and said, “Yeah, yeah, it’s perfectly okay. Go on. I’ll see you in London.”

  On the way, I asked Ringo where their incredible bass player, Paul, was. He answered, “Why, I don’t know what the bass player’s up to this weekend. Think he might be having some girlfriend problems, but hopefully he’s just off writing some good songs for me to sing.” The airplane pilot let out a hearty laugh.

  In London the guys caught a connecting flight back to New York while I lingered for a couple of days for some meetings at Capitol’s parent company, EMI. George had invited me to his house in Surrey to play me the Beatles’ new album and for me to play him the Band’s new record. He put Abbey Road on the turntable, and it came blasting out of his big Tannoy speakers. After the first two songs, “Come Together” and “Something,” I thought, These bastards just get better all the time. Pattie seemed to be particularly proud of George’s song “Something,” as it could very well have been a reflection of her. I thought George would play the Let It Be recordings they had been working on, but he shook his head no; he said the Beatles were having some serious internal differences on that record and had decided to put it on hold.

  I played our new album, simply called The Band, for them, and it sounded rustic and a bit homemade after Abbey Road. As the songs went by, George would jump up, puffing on a smoke, yelling, “That’s fucking amazing! Nobody can do that; only you guys can do that. Have you played this for Bob yet?” George continued, “Did you see our little film performing ‘Hey Jude’ on the Smothers Brothers TV show, where Paul starts singing, ‘Take a load off, Fanny,’ in the outro section? Can’t wait to play your new record for the boys. Can I keep this acetate?” I said yes, even though it was the only copy we had at the time. He handed me his acetate of Abbey Road and I left his house flying high.

  —

  We released The Band (or The Brown Album) a month later on September 22. It had a different look, sound, and feel from Big Pink. Elliott Landy photographed us for the album cover. We didn’t want to show up looking the same as we had on Big Pink. That look had become a signature, and we didn’t want to play that note again. Elliott had a spot picked out where he wanted to shoot. When we showed up, it was raining, and Levon was hoping to call it off. I was drawn to the idea of the photo being taken while we were standing in the rain. It gave a darker, more dangerous feeling to the picture, and you can’t beat that.

  I asked art director Bob Cato to design the album. He’d done a cover for Thelonious Monk that I really liked, and I felt he was our man. Cato said he’d listened to the record twenty times before he understood what it should look like. Garth suggested using words from the old song “The Darktown Strutters’ Ball” on the back of the sleeve: “I’ll be down to get you in a taxi, honey, better be ready by half-past eight, now honey, don’t be late, I want to be there when the band starts playing.”

  The record company released “Up on Cripple Creek” as a single. Then there was a demand from EMI to release “Rag Mama Rag” in Britain. Among the five of us, we had an unusual attitude regarding singles and popularity. Naturally we wanted to share our music with as many people as possible, but that was matched by a suspicion of being trendy, too well known, or corny in our own eyes. Part of that came from our already having been together for eight years and having a keen bullshit meter; the other part was that a lot of the music we admired could be somewhat obscure, like hidden treasures.

  A movie and music journalist from Time magazine named Jay Cocks contacted us, saying that he wanted to convince the magazine to do a cover story on the Band. Jay came up to Woodstock to talk it through. I told him the Band mostly operated from behind a curtain; publicity was a delicate balance in our circle. Levon hated doing interviews. “They always turn things around and try to fuck you,” he’d say. Jay was very understanding, but he stressed that Time didn’t typically put music groups on the cover—we’d be the first North American rock ’n’ roll band ever to appear there. “That’s how unique we think your music and your story is,” he emphasized. Jay turned out to be such a fantastic guy and made us feel much more at ease with the cover-story idea. We decided to cooperate.

  After Dominique and I settled into the Hood House, Bearsville started to feel quite homey. One day Dominique came back from a doctor’s appointment and said, “Guess what? I’m pregnant again!” Alexandra wasn’t even walking yet, so we were both a bit stunned but totally thrilled. Dominique immediately started talking about going to Montreal to see her family, share the news, and have a visit with her own obstetrician.

  When we got there a week later, the Time magazine cover story on the Band had just hit the newsstands. The story had a nice edge to it. Jay Cocks and two other writers who usually wrote about classical music contributed to the article. The editors at Time wanted them to classify the music the Band made, but nobody could figure out what to call our gumbo of sounds. Was it “roots rock”? “modern ragtime”? “Canadian Delta R&B”? “cinema rock”? “Americana from Canada”? Jay asked me how I would describe it in a headline for their readers, but I shrugged. “I don’t care what they call it. Just don’t call after midnight.”

  Time settled on the subtitle THE NEW SOUND OF COUNTRY ROCK. We never thought of ourselves in those terms, but I guess that’s what happens when you write a song about the American Civil War from a southern point of view. And “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” had become a hit when Joan Baez covered it, though she did a much happier, bouncier version of the song than our recording. Dominique thought her version completely fucked up the song, that it was totally out of context. Our friend the songwriter Bobby Charles, who wrote “See You Later, Alligator” and “Walking to New Orleans,” commented, “Yeah, she fucked it up all the way to number one.”

  —

  While Dominique and I were in Montreal, a friend of mine, Gordon Sheppard, told me about a talented American singer-songwriter who was holed up in the basement of a monastery up in Ottawa, hiding out from the draft. We took the train to go check him out. At the monastery a monsignor escorted us down into dungeonlike hallways, and in one of the rooms sat a lone figure. Gordon and the monsignor introduced me to Jesse James Winchester from Memphis, Tennessee. “Originally from Louisiana,” Jesse added. He had a sad, withdrawn face but a spark in his eyes. He knew the music of the Band and my songwriting. We had a little tea and then he took out his guitar and sang me a couple of songs, “Yankee Lady” and “Brand New Tennessee Waltz.” There was a powerful melancholy sweetness to his music that really impressed me. I said that I’d try to help him get a record deal and, time permitting, I’d produce his record myself. He glowed with that encouragement and looked like he was being rescued from a lost island, which in a way he was.

  He had a few of his songs on a reel-to-reel tape, which I took with me, and when Dominique and I got back home I played it for Albert immediately. He thought the music had real potential and said he could sign Jesse to his new record company, Bearsville, which was af
filiated with Ampex and Warner Bros. distribution. He thought it was a great idea for me to produce the record. I said there were some fantastic musicians in Toronto I’d like to work with, but I wanted to bring my own engineer. Albert suggested a young musician and engineer he was starting to work with named Todd Rundgren. He said Todd was a whiz in the studio with progressive ideas, and he could play, sing—whatever you needed.

  I connected with Todd right away. He had a youthful, no-bullshit approach, and I needed to move swiftly. We made plans to make an album with Jesse in Toronto and headed up north together. When Jesse showed up at the studio, I noticed right away he had a cold. I was concerned about his voice, but Jesse didn’t fret. I decided to start out with a couple of his songs that I thought might sound good with a bit of a nasal quality in his voice, like “Payday” and “The Nudge.” The musicians in Toronto did a great job on Jesse’s songs—Bob Boucher on bass, Dave Lewis on drums, Ken Pearson on keyboards. I played on a couple of tracks too, and I even got Levon to sit in on some songs. “Yankee Lady,” “Biloxi,” and “The Brand New Tennessee Waltz” were all beautiful tunes of Jesse’s, and we did fine versions of them, although I might have recorded “Yankee Lady” a bit too slow. It felt really good at the time, but it might have had wider appeal had I done it a little brighter.

  During the recording of the album, I came to understand that Jesse was a bit of a haunted soul, and a certain bitterness lingered within him. Being uprooted from your home, family, and friends over a war you didn’t believe in was really tough. If I’d had to dodge the draft, I might have been bitter too.

  I was very satisfied with the work we did together. But after the album came out, I read an interview that Jesse gave where he said that the record wasn’t his record, “it was Robbie’s record.” That wasn’t true, and it bothered me that he would say such a thing. I had done my best to give strong direction to the songs and help make a terrific record in every way I could, but Jesse had the final say on everything. He became a bit of a dark shadow after that, and I never saw him much again. His talent, though, was never, ever in question. To this day some of his vocal performances still send shivers down my spine.

  —

  Back in Bearsville, I got an unexpected call from the Czech film director Miloš Forman—I had seen his movies Loves of a Blonde and The Firemen’s Ball. He’d read about us in Time magazine and asked if he and his girlfriend, the actress Bibi Andersson, could come up for a visit. He had a project he wanted to discuss with me. My God, Bibi Andersson? I admired her so much in Ingmar Bergman’s movies The Seventh Seal and Persona. Yes, Milos, come right up.

  They stayed in one of the cabins between Albert’s house and mine—rustic but nicely put together. You couldn’t help but like Miloš. He was charming and vibrantly intelligent. He said he’d been listening to the Band’s music and then read the Time story, and asked if we’d be interested in developing a movie script based on the article. It was flattering to hear of his interest, but when it came to Milos telling the Band’s story, I felt a little confused—as he described images and particular scenes he envisioned, it sounded original but distant from our reality. Perhaps his Czechoslovakian accent added to the distance even more.

  At the same time I couldn’t help asking Bibi about Ingmar Bergman’s style of writing and directing. She made it sound like they operated in creative seclusion around Sweden. Ingmar had his own little committees of actors and technicians he liked to work with, not an unusual method, but Ingmar’s group felt still more remote and mysterious. It reminded me of theatrical groups that would trade roles from story to story. Given the Band’s working relationship in Woodstock, I related to this scenario musically. It often felt as if Rick, Levon, and Richard were playing different characters in the stories I was writing, and Garth was providing a sonic counterpoint to the settings—a real workshop. Miloš and I pushed around ideas on making a music film until I think we talked ourselves out of it. It was really a bold challenge, and so many things could come off as hokey or lame.

  In the meantime, Dominique and I were getting ready to have our second child. Her pregnancy was progressing smoothly, and we were back on Lamaze duty. We weren’t as filled with anxiety this time, because having our sweet Alexandra gave us the ability to embrace the experience with more confidence. I asked Dominique if she was sure she wanted to do totally natural childbirth again. “Absolutely,” she answered. “Don’t let them give me anything, no matter what I say.” We laughed, remembering when Alexandra was being born and she nearly ripped my arm off and beat me over the head with it.

  Around this time I heard that Van Morrison had rented Richard’s old house and was becoming a Woodstock resident. I invited him over to Albert’s one day to play him The Band album. After each song he pushed back his ruffled red hair and let out a hearty “Yeah!” When we came to the last song on the record, “King Harvest (Has Surely Come),” he said, “I don’t know if I get that one. I’ll have to hear it again.” Then he got up and left. There he goes again, I thought.

  Van was in the midst of making a new record of his own. One day he played me “And It Stoned Me” and “Caravan.” We were convinced there was a musical thread between us. So for a show at Symphony Hall in Boston, when the promoters asked who we’d like to have open for us, “New England, hmm, Irish? How about Van Morrison?” I suggested. When we got to the gig, I didn’t get a chance to see Van before the concert started, but in the middle of Van’s set, the promoter came into our dressing room looking concerned. “I think Mr. Morrison’s been drinking. He’s lying down on the stage, singing.”

  Richard piped up, “I think we should all lie down and sing tonight. It’s different!”

  But the promoter was insistent. “Somebody’s got to do something, please. This is too weird.” I put on a hooded jacket and slipped out to the front of the stage, and sure enough, Van was lying there, singing his heart out. “Pssst! Van!” I whispered, and winked at him, gesturing up with my chin. I don’t know if he heard me, but he rose to his feet and cried out, “Say good-bye, say good-bye to Madame George.” He threw his acoustic guitar on, hit a rhythm, and belted out a couple of vocal lines, and I saw in that moment one of the greatest music artists of our time. The fire in his eyes, the bulging veins in his neck, his powerful hand beating mercilessly on that guitar, a little giant.

  After we got back home, I went for a checkup with Dr. Ed Thaler. I’d experienced a harsh bout of pneumonia some months earlier, and my breathing still felt tight. He told me the hay fever I had as a kid had developed into an asthmatic condition. I had known for quite a while that my breathing was compromised; it was another reason I preferred the other guys do most of the singing. Dr. Ed prescribed an inhaler for me to use. It’s strange now to think that he never mentioned quitting smoking. We all smoked like chimneys then, so I guess the suggestion was unimaginable.

  I wrote two new songs, “Time to Kill” and “The Shape I’m In,” and played them for Rick. He got up, paced around a bit, and said, “You should sing those songs. That’s the way they’re meant to sound.”

  I took out my inhaler, took a puff, and said, “I think I’ll leave that up to you boys.”

  —

  One day Albert gave me a ring. “The Ed Sullivan Show wants to book the Band a week from Sunday,” he said. “It would be good promotion for the single ‘Up on Cripple Creek.’ It’s climbing nicely up the charts.” This was news—we never paid much attention to “the charts.” We just weren’t into that. If we heard our music on the radio, we figured everything must be copacetic.

  At the sound check, Ed Sullivan sat on a stool at the side of the stage, observing. He was eating an Eskimo Pie and looked a bit like an alien. He had grown sideburns, which looked stiff and out of place. As a matter of fact, he looked stiff and out of place. Sullivan was very cordial, but disconnected at the same time, maybe even a bit ghostly or robotic. But he had the biggest and most entertaining show on TV. Pearl Bailey, who was a huge star at the time and my mom
’s favorite, was also on the bill that night, as was comedian Rodney Dangerfield. When we passed him backstage, he called out, “Hey, boys! Who’s got the reefer? I’m nervous, you know what I mean? I’m nervous!”

  The showbiz glitziness of Sullivan’s show wasn’t a perfect fit, but we played well enough against the corny, rustic set they had built for us. The stage manager and producers told us that if Ed liked your performance he’d call you over to the center of the stage. Sure enough, he waved us over with a big smile on his face and raised our hands in the air like we had just won the middleweight boxing championship.

  We finished out 1969 playing December 26 and 27 at Madison Square Garden’s Felt Forum. The promoter, Ron Delsener, thought we were “cookin’ with gas.” Ron was a terrific character, and his opinion meant a lot to me. He saw many great bands coming and going, but for his personal taste you could tell he truly enjoyed our show. I felt like the Band was experiencing a high point in our live shows—we were locked in and feeding off one another’s performances in a powerful way.

  There would be some rough roads ahead, though. Our drug experimentation was still going strong, and at one gig we played in Chicago, Rick and I hit a wall. Our sound check at the concert hall took place in the early afternoon, and everybody decided to stick around and rest until the gig that night. But Rick and I got restless and drove back to our hotel for a little break. Somebody had given me a little chunk of tar called DMT. You smoked it like hashish, but it had a psychedelic effect to it like a short LSD trip. With a few hours to go before the show, we thought we could kill a little time and have a few trippy laughs. But the effect was much stronger than either of us had imagined, and it didn’t seem to be wearing off. As time went by and the show crept closer, we started hoping just to come down.