David sat with me through the dinner; we traded stories and had a great time. He asked about Albert and told me they had an old working relationship, which I hadn’t known. He asked, “What’s Bob Dylan doing these days?”
“He’s very involved with his family,” I told him. “He keeps having kids, so all you can do is get out of the way.”
As I said good night to everyone, David walked me outside. “We have to find a way to work together.” He said he would call David Braun, our attorney, to try to figure something out. I started to tell him where I was staying, but he cut me off. “Oh don’t worry, I’ll find you.”
—
Back in Woodstock, I couldn’t wait to tell the guys about this blast of fresh air I had just met. I didn’t know yet what we could do with David businesswise, but he sure conveyed a confidence that he could make things happen. At Albert’s, I mentioned my meeting and the dinner and what a strong, positive impression I’d gotten of David.
Albert nibbled on his thumbnail a moment. “I can’t say that I feel the same way about him at all.”
I was taken aback by the stern tone in his voice. I instantly thrashed through all the ways they might have been competitive with each other—management, record company, publishing, past business dealings that had gone sour. I had no idea. “He seems like such an open, nice person to me,” I said. “What’s your take on him?”
Albert answered abruptly. “He’s just not the kind of person I choose to do business with. It doesn’t work for me, that’s all. I much prefer dealing with someone like Mo Ostin. At least I know when Mo says something, he means it, and he’s not trying to change the rules to benefit himself. I find it very questionable what David did with Laura Nyro in selling her publishing.”
I said, “Really? I heard it made both of them pretty rich.”
“What can I say? I don’t agree with the way he does business.” Albert cut a paper-thin slice off a block of cheddar cheese.
Around this same time, Levon started pushing for us to leave Albert’s management company, as Bob had done earlier. Rick and Richard didn’t disagree with Levon, but Garth hadn’t expressed how he felt about it yet. Since Janis had died, Albert had been slowing down in the management field anyway, so I didn’t think it was a pressing issue. His interest now lay much more with building his record company and all the Bearsville entities. I’d always been closer to Albert than the other guys—I’d learned a lot from him and had a deep appreciation for that. I always found him to be a great character and friend, maybe even a bit of a father figure.
David Geffen and I began chatting a couple times a week, sometimes just to talk about new music we’d heard. He mentioned that he had business in New York City and was thinking about driving up to Woodstock. I said it would be good for him to meet the guys and we could talk about some future possibilities. Meanwhile, my bandmates started coming by my studio so we could listen to old records that might be worth covering for a new album. If some of those tracks were a little more unknown, it could help. We’d be taking more of a risk with a famous classic that had already been chiseled in stone. Sometimes it felt like you shouldn’t mess with the Mona Lisa, but once in a while it could be a wonderful homage or a worthwhile variation. It was a thin line, and we were having a good time throwing these ideas against the wall to see what would stick.
The following week, David Geffen came to Woodstock for a visit. I welcomed him and started showing him the place. He had a bemused look on his face, as if he had just crossed the Mojave Desert into no-man’s-land. “Wow, all you guys actually live up here, year round?”
“Well, it’s not so bad when it’s not grizzly bear season,” I joked. “Oh, did I tell you? This town is called Bearsville.”
“I know, I heard…”
David and Dominique connected right away. I made reservations at a nice French-American restaurant in a nearby town for dinner, lest David think we were completely out in the sticks. I invited Levon to join us, but for some reason he didn’t want to. I was disappointed that he didn’t want to check out this young dynamo I had told him about.
The next day, the guys came over to my studio to meet David. The meeting had a pleasant, friendly vibe. David told us of business possibilities we could explore. He claimed that the record companies’ “status quo” was due for an overhaul, and he wanted to be instrumental in updating the way it worked. The guys enjoyed David’s enthusiasm and his anything-can-be-done attitude. He finished the meeting saying that, with our permission, he’d like to discuss some ideas with our attorney. He even agreed to talk to Albert about our future.
“That won’t be necessary,” Levon interjected. “We’re winding down with Mr. Grossman.” After a while the boys left, and David and I talked for hours. I thought to myself, What other head of a record company would fly across the country, drive a hundred miles, stay over at your house, and leave with no guarantees of anything?
The Band went into Bearsville studios with a short list of songs to record. Not surprisingly, the list was R&B heavy, with a good dash of New Orleans delights mixed in, and there were now only a couple tunes that we used to do as the Hawks. I thought it might be a kick to see if Levon would be into singing Clarence “Frogman” Henry’s “Ain’t Got No Home,” an offbeat choice in its humor and playfulness. He laughed. “Hell, I’ll give it a whirl.” He crushed it, as did Rick singing Lee Dorsey’s “Holy Cow.” For the little guitar solos I did on that one, Richard insisted on working my wah-wah pedal by hand, which made it sound like a talking guitar. He was looking a little better all the time, although I still couldn’t help but worry about him.
The biggest challenge was doing “Mystery Train,” written by Sam Phillips and Little Junior Parker. The most well-known version was Elvis Presley’s, which Sam Phillips had produced on Sun Records. We wanted to come up with a whole new take on the song, so I wrote additional words for it, which I had to get permission to do. We decided to try both Levon and Richard playing drums, with Garth’s clavinet and my guitar dictating the chord structure. Levon sang lead, and his vocals made the new lyrics I wrote sound like they had always been there, like we’d just never noticed them before. While Lee went to Arkansas for a few days, the other guys and I recorded a version of “The Third Man Theme.” It was from the 1949 Carol Reed noir film of Graham Greene’s screenplay The Third Man, starring Joseph Cotten, Alida Valli, and Orson Welles. The score was written and performed by Anton Karas on zither. Impossible to forget and perfectly unique.
—
David Geffen called: he and Joni were going to Paris for a holiday and wanted Dominique and me to join them. “It’s on me—I’ll set everything up,” he said. “Come on, it’ll do you good to get away. We’ll have a great time.”
“You know,” I said, “that’s where I met Dominique—on the street, in Paris, in the springtime. She can translate for us.” Needless to say, Dominique loved the idea. I thought this would be a good opportunity to see what David really had in mind for the Band. We still owed Capitol three records and that could take a while, but I knew he was a man with a vivid imagination.
Dominique and I met up with David and Joni at the historic Ritz Hotel in Place Vendôme. David had made reservations for us to have dinner at La Tour d’Argent overlooking Notre Dame Cathedral. When we arrived, an elevator operated by a teenage boy in uniform lifted us to the elegant dining room. Dominique and I had never experienced anything quite on this level. They brought the wine list to David and he chose a Château Margaux 1928. “You only live once,” he said.
The next day we strolled the streets, lapping up the architecture. The four of us had nowhere we had to be, nothing we had to do, no one to see—complete freedom. When we got back to the hotel, Joni, as usual, picked up a guitar and began humming and strumming different chord changes and melodies. I hadn’t brought a guitar, thinking this was a chance to get away from it all.
I mentioned to David that I was going to try to find an old friend of mine, Mort Shuman, D
oc Pomus’s old songwriting partner. As the story went, Mort’s wife had run off with the chauffeur and emptied their bank account. In his depression Mort left New York and his partnership with Doc for France, where he ended up creating a tremendously successful show called “Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris.” With that and his own popular recordings, he had become an enormous celebrity in France.
I tracked him down, and he and David and I decided to meet up for dinner. I asked Mort to pick his favorite restaurant, so he led us to Le Grand Véfour, one of the oldest and very best in France. “Don’t we need a reservation?” I asked.
Mort looked at me with a slight smirk, and a moment later the maître d’ approached him, bowed, shook his hand, and led us to a center booth. Mort didn’t even have to speak or smile. The restaurant was spectacular with its ancient moldings and tile work—so French, so classic. Mort told us that Napoleon and Joséphine ate here, and that it was a favorite of Victor Hugo and Jean Cocteau.
“Same chef?” I asked.
Mort laughed. “And he looks good for his age!”
We had a fascinating time exchanging stories. I reminded Mort of the first time I had met him and Doc, at the Brill Building when I was only sixteen years old. “Yeah,” he said, smiling, “you were that greasy little punk with Ronnie Hawkins, looking for songs. Doc and I didn’t know what the hell to make of you. It did seem like everybody thought you had talent, though, so I guess that’s how we ended up here.” He slapped me on the arm. “Try the sweetbreads.”
When David and I got back to the hotel, Dominique and Joni seemed to be slightly toasted and in a mischievous mood, and we joined right in. I had started to tell them about our dinner with Mort when Joni picked up her guitar again and began playing and singing. Dominique stood up. “Wait, wait, wait. Can you please not sing and play right now? We just want to talk for a while.”
Joni smiled a little to herself and put the guitar back in its case. Then we all burst out laughing. I thought, When was the last time somebody told Joni Mitchell to stop singing and playing her guitar?
After some more wine and drinks, apparently someone in our group threw up on the room service table in the hallway, but afterward no one knew which of us had done it. Joni wasn’t sure if it was her, Dominique thought she had done it, and David was sure it was him. One more reason for Parisians to look harshly at the ugly Americans, even if three of us were Canadians.
Have to say, there was relief in being away from the trials and tribulations of the Band. All four of us felt like we were off the grid and having a deserved getaway. David suggested we go to Cannes the next day—the film festival was in full swing, and he could get us rooms. Sounds like a fun idea, I thought.
As soon as we arrived, we strolled over to the lobby of the Carlton Hotel, the festival’s main social hub. As David made the rounds, saying hello to friends and acquaintances, he ran into comedian Richard Pryor. They knew each other, and David invited him to come join us at our table. He introduced us, but Richard looked tired and a bit edgy. David whispered to me, “I think maybe the necessary drugs are missing.”
David tried to keep the conversation light and lively. Just then, an elderly couple stopped by the table. “Mr. Pryor,” said the gentleman, “I just wanted to say my wife here and I saw your show last month in Vegas.” He paused, looked around the table and then to his wife, and continued, “We very much enjoyed the show and thought you did an excellent job, so I just wanted to stop and say how much my wife and I really had a wonderful time seeing you.”
Richard looked them over quickly, turned away, and said, “Well, your wife’s a pig.”
It took a couple of seconds for any of us to process what he had just said. As we gulped and looked at one another in shock, the elderly couple headed off looking confused and disturbed. David asked Richard why he was so angry. “Oh, I’m not angry,” Richard fumed. “No. I’m not angry…yet!” This was our cue to head to dinner.
Later that night as we strolled along the main drag in Cannes, David turned to me and said, “You know what? I think you and Dominique should move to LA. You should move to the beach in Malibu. You’ll love it. It’d be great for your kids. Dominique has made it quite clear she thinks Woodstock is not good for you guys anymore. Why don’t you do it?”
I could see he was dead serious, and it rumbled around in my head for a moment. “Malibu? That never crossed my mind. Let me think on it.”
Back in Paris for another couple of days, Joni seemed to be writing a song for David about our trip. She said she had never seen him so relaxed, so “off the clock” before. Meanwhile, David kept encouraging me to move the family to Malibu, specifically to the Malibu Colony. “It’s a private road with a private beach—it’ll be heaven for the kids,” he said. “Try it, and I’ll help Marshall Gelfand and your people find a place. Once you’re out there, we’ll figure out something great for the Band. I’m already talking about things with David Braun.”
With that he got up and said, “I’m going downstairs to take care of the hotel bill.” A few minutes later he rushed back into the room with a look of panic on his face. “They don’t take credit cards,” he said. “Who carries this much cash? And we can’t leave until we pay the bill. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
I hadn’t witnessed David so ruffled before. Seeing how upset he was, I tried to lighten the mood. “How many dishes would we have to wash to pay this baby off?”
David tried to reach someone who might be able to bail us out and finally got Prince Rupert Loewenstein, who managed the Rolling Stones, to vouch for him so we could leave. He took a deep breath. “Thank god.”
It was such a joy spending this time with Joni and David in France. I knew the experience would stay with us forever. Dominique and I thanked him for this exquisite trip, and felt our friendship with David was deepening. Joni finished her song “Free Man in Paris,” and it turned out to be a beauty. When David heard it, he was a bit embarrassed, but there was no denying it was a true statement and a great record.
—
Soon as I got back to Woodstock, we went right into the studio. I felt revived from the trip and couldn’t wait to make some noise with the guys. To get warmed up, we did a quick version of the gospel classic “Didn’t It Rain,” but once you’ve heard Mahalia Jackson wrap her voice around that one, it almost becomes sacred territory. We tried a somewhat obscure gospel tune Leiber and Stoller had written called “Saved,” and it was ironic to hear Richard sing, “I used to drink, I used to smoke, I used to drink, smoke, and dance the hoochie koo.”
We flew out to Capitol Studios to record the last few songs we wanted to tackle. A highlight there was revisiting one of our old Hawks standbys, Bobby “Blue” Bland’s “Share Your Love with Me.” Richard’s vocal gave me the shivers, it was so moving. Right after we recorded it, out of nowhere George Harrison walked into the studio. “I’m sorry to barge in like this,” he said. “Well, no, actually I’m not, because I wanted to ask you a favor. Ringo is making an album. I wrote a song he’s going to record and I wanted to see if you guys would play on it. It’s quite simple and won’t take up much of your time.” We said we’d be happy to help out. Now that the Beatles had broken up and they were all making solo albums, you couldn’t help but be reminded how hard it is to keep a band together.
We showed up the next evening and recorded “Sunshine Life for Me (Sail Away Raymond)” at Sunset Sound. It was a bit of a haze because we were in midstream of doing our own record. After George sang us the tune, we immediately went into our mountain-music mode, with Rick on fiddle, Garth on accordion, Levon on mandolin, and George and me on guitars. It was fun to hear these Brits doing a real shit-kicker kind of song. George, Ringo, and the producer, Richard Perry, were in flight, and we were clouds streaming by—one of those dreamlike experiences.
We ended up having a hell of a good time making our own record, which we decided to call Moondog Matinee after Alan Freed’s old radio show. For the cover
Bob Cato wanted me to meet with an artist who did paintings and photography for Sports Illustrated. He thought Edward Kasper could capture this vision of the Band revisiting a place in our past. I gave him some of our backstory, and he took it and ran. He conjured up pieces of this music built around a hangout—half street gang, half rock ’n’ roll musicians.
—
Dominique and I seriously discussed selling our house in Woodstock as we considered David Geffen’s suggestion that we move to Malibu. I talked it over with the guys to see if a change of scenery had any appeal for them, but nobody knew what this world of Malibu even meant. I thought if I went and checked it out to see if it could be musically inspiring for us, and a healthier atmosphere, I could report back.
I told Albert that I was thinking about selling my house and moving west. That was disappointing news to the person who was building a music mecca here. Albert was no longer managing us or hardly anyone else at this point, but I could see the letdown in his eyes. I knew I would miss him and Sally, but the feeling in Woodstock had become stale and confining to me, and especially to Dominique. I did feel a bit like I was abandoning ship, leaving Bearsville behind—and the guys too—but I felt the need to search for a new frontier. Between finishing the Rock of Ages record and recording Moondog Matinee, the Band hadn’t played any gigs in over a year, and things had begun to get pretty ragged again among the boys.
Then we got a request from Bill Graham, who was putting together a show “just up the highway from us” at the Watkins Glen Raceway. We’d be performing with the Allman Brothers and the Grateful Dead. Playing some gigs could help us get “back on the stick,” as they say.
Testimony Page 46