Levon had been my dearest friend in the world. My teacher. The closest thing I ever had to a brother. We had seen it all together and survived the world’s madness, but not our own.
When Rick joined the Hawks, we didn’t know if he would make the cut. He had talent and looked the part, but he turned out to be a force—a dependable rock who was there for you night and day. How does a spirit like that get broken?
I first met Richard face-to-face when we were seventeen years old. He had been drinking that night and was somewhere between pure joy and deep sadness. He still had that same yearning sound in his voice, which we loved. We always wanted to help Richard, but we didn’t know how to help ourselves.
Garth was our in-house professor, and I felt the worst for him. All he wanted to do was make music, invent, and teach. He operated on his own wavelength and never bothered anybody—even, at one unfortunate point, when his house burned down.
I loved these guys beyond words, until it hurt inside. But this beast was wounded, and we were unsure of its recovery. The natural thing was to find a cave, a quiet place to heal, and then—hopefully—return with a vengeance. My instinct was to have a celebration of our music and then get out of the way, get out of the public eye. So I proposed that we go underground and let the dark clouds pass over. Nobody had the answer, but something inside of me said, You boys gotta get off of this train.
We’d been playing live and touring for fifteen or sixteen years, so it was a shocking proposition to remove that part of ourselves. But we couldn’t keep going out there incapable of doing our best. On any given night, something or somebody would be broken. On some nights we could hit our stride, but more and more it was becoming a painful chore. The best painkiller, of course, is opiates, and heroin had been creeping back under the door for some time now. Larry Samuels talked about it openly and bragged that he had a great connection. I worried that Garth and I had three junkies in our group, plus our so-called manager. Finally I declared, “No more.”
We had a meeting at Shangri-La and I suggested that we do a final concert at Winterland in San Francisco, where we had played our first show as the Band.
No one was opposed to the idea. Richard seemed relieved and said, “I need some time anyway, for my neck to heal properly.”
“I think we could all use a good time-out for health reasons,” Garth added.
Rick said, “I like the idea of doing a special concert to bring this period in our journey to a conclusion.”
Levon knew we couldn’t continue with our live shows in this state, and was convinced we had to do something. I hoped it would give us the opportunity to regroup and get back to a productive, inspired place.
It was still September, and I thought Thanksgiving would be an appropriate occasion for the show. We agreed that having Ronnie Hawkins and Bob Dylan join us would be a respectful thing to do: they had both played an enormous part in our musical journey, and we appreciated them tremendously.
When I called Bill Graham to discuss the idea of doing our last show where we had started, at Winterland, he was shocked to hear the news. But he agreed it was the proper venue for this momentous occasion, and that we needed to figure out a way to document the event.
Each day that passed, we couldn’t help but think of other musical friends to invite. We wanted to make it a musical celebration, something that captured the essence of what we were about. We hoped to have not just artists who were close friends and influences but people who represented the many different musicalities we respected: Eric Clapton for the British blues, Dr. John for the sound of New Orleans, Joni Mitchell, the queen of women singer-songwriters, Muddy Waters as the king influencer of the Chicago blues, and harmonica master Paul Butterfield; then, representing the tradition of Tin Pan Alley, Neil Diamond; the Belfast Cowboy, Ireland’s greatest R&B voice, Van Morrison; Neil Young to represent our Canadian roots; and, of course, Ronnie Hawkins and Bob Dylan.
We went on a mission to track everyone down; Richard reached out to Clapton, Levon got in touch with the Hawk and Muddy, and Rick called Butterfield. I got in touch with Neil Young, Joni, Van, and Neil Diamond. Hearing the idea, they all seemed moved to be part of the show. I asked John Simon to be the musical director. He’d know just what to do all the way around: arrangements, signals, horn section—he had our backs covered. John was thrilled at the idea. I also called Albert and asked if he and Sally would like to come out for the event. The idea of gathering everybody who had played a special part in our past was just what the doctor ordered. Before long, it was becoming bigger than anything we had ever imagined
Filming this event and recording it could add up to a special project if we had the financial support to pull it off. I went for a meeting with Mo Ostin, the president of Warner Bros. Records. Mo had always had an interest in the Band since he wanted to sign us back in 1967. I told him our plan and that I hoped we could figure out a way for the concert soundtrack to be on Warner. The Band only owed Capitol one more record, which would come out before this soundtrack release. Plus, I told Mo, a lot of the guest performers for the show happened to be on his label. He said he was definitely interested in being a part of the project.
I knew we would need someone special to capture this event on film. I didn’t want to go the typical “music documentary” route, so I started thinking about directors who had a special relationship with music. Hal Ashby had used music skillfully in some of his movies, like Harold and Maude. Same with George Lucas in American Graffiti and Francis Ford Coppola in The Conversation, and Miloš Forman was definitely a music guy. One name that stood out for me was Martin Scorsese, whom I had met briefly at a screening of Mean Streets that Jon Taplin had set up back in ’73. His use of music in that film showed he had a powerful connection to it, as did the fact that he’d worked on the Woodstock movie and directed Taxi Driver, which featured the last score by the great Bernard Herrmann. I called Jon Taplin, who had produced Mean Streets, to see if he could set up a meeting between me and Martin Scorsese.
Jon made arrangements for us to gather a few days later at the Mandarin Restaurant in Beverly Hills. Marty had a dark Vandyke beard that made his eyes quite piercing. He came with his wife, Julia, and Liza Minnelli, who was starring with Robert De Niro in a musical Marty was shooting called New York, New York. I brought Dominique and her friend Geneviève Bujold. Jon Taplin introduced everybody. When I told Marty about the Band’s final concert event and the artists we were hoping to include, I could see the wheels turning in his head. He made no secret that music played an enormous part in his life.
“We have one basic problem,” Marty said. “When you’re directing a movie for a studio, you’re not allowed to go off and shoot another film at the same time.”
I mentioned that we were going to do the concert over the Thanksgiving holiday, if that would be helpful at all. Everybody around the table was hoping there might be a way Marty could do it, but like he said, you can’t do two movies at once.
After dinner we decided to stop by the after-hours lounge On the Rox for a nightcap. Lots of friends were there, and the place was hopping. Marty and I talked about Van Morrison’s songs, and Joni’s, and Muddy Waters, and Bob, until he finally said, “The hell with it. I gotta do it. These are my favorite artists, and the Band—oh my God. I have to do it, and that’s it. Fire me. They can fire me. I have to do it.”
Jon Taplin lit up like the Fourth of July, and I was over the moon. I had strong feelings about Marty being the right man for this—he had music under his skin. We wanted to have a toast, but Julia and Dominique were the only ones with drinks. A couple of friends in the club asked me if I wanted a “taste,” a little cocaine, then somebody came over to shake my hand, palming a little bottle of coke.
Marty looked to be coming down with a cold. He seemed all stuffed up. “Do you think anybody would have any nose spray?” he asked me. “I can hardly breathe.”
I took a chance. “A friend just slipped me some coke. That can sometimes clear up you
r nasal passages.”
Without skipping a beat, he answered, “No. I’ve got that,” showing me his own little bottle of coke. “I just need some Afrin or something.”
The night ended with Marty asking me and Jon Taplin to come to his office in a couple of days so we could start figuring this out. He had to be discreet so that the studio wouldn’t get wind of what he was up to. We had two months of whispering ahead of us before Thanksgiving to put this whole thing together.
—
When I told Bob about the final concert, he said, “Is this going to be one of those Frank Sinatra retirements where you come back a year later?”
“No,” I told him. “The Band has to get off the road. It’s become a danger zone, and we’re afraid of what might happen.” Bob knew from all the car wrecks back in Woodstock and from his time with us on the road that it could be a delicate balance inside the Band keeping things from steaming off the tracks.
I brought Mo Ostin up to speed on the development of the concert and the film, and he said he would put up the seed money for us to record and film the show. Warner would get the soundtrack, and he thought it would be good if we gave Warner Bros. Films the first shot at purchasing the movie and distributing it. It was great finally being in business with Mo, one of the most respected and well-liked executives in the industry.
My excitement in telling the guys about landing Martin Scorsese to make the film went slightly unheard—they didn’t have the cinematic passion that I did, and that was okay. It was my responsibility to make this happen as best I could. Sitting up at night putting together pieces of the puzzle for Bill Graham’s concert production, and for Marty’s filming needs, became my calling. Rock Brynner and I would imagine all kinds of possibilities for our limited budget. One thing I needed to address was what to call this concert, this gathering. Rock and I threw all kinds of ideas against the wall, and the one that stuck was “The Last Waltz.” It sounded old and, under these circumstances, new at the same time. It made me want to write a movie theme for the show in the tradition of some of the great Johann Strauss waltzes or “The Third Man Theme.” I borrowed an old Gibson harp guitar to compose something in this vein. The instrument had the regular six-string setup and then about twenty other strings that, when tuned properly, vibrated and were sympathetic to certain notes played—a similar concept to some East Indian instruments.
Meanwhile I was hoping Richard’s voice would hold up through our next shows at the Palladium in New York City with promoter Ron Delsener. Richard had taken to carrying a bottle of Grand Marnier or Drambuie around with him. He claimed it helped lubricate his throat. The Palladium had formerly been the Academy of Music, where we did the Rock of Ages recordings, and one of the shows at the Palladium was going to be broadcast live on the radio, so we needed to be in shape for it.
We were staying at what was then the St. Moritz Hotel on Central Park South and Sixth Avenue, and a time had been set up for Lorne Michaels, the producer of NBC’s Saturday Night Live, to come by. I was looking forward to meeting him. He was also from Toronto, and his groundbreaking comedy show, now in its second season, was probably the hippest thing on television. When Lorne came up to my suite, I immediately thought he must be the coolest-looking TV producer around, handsome and well dressed, with a sharp sense of humor. We chatted for a few minutes about our Canadian backgrounds and then Lorne got down to business. He had heard that the Band was going into exile after our Thanksgiving show, and before that he wanted us to play Saturday Night Live.
“You can host the show, not host the show, play several songs, whatever you want to do,” said Lorne. “We really want to make this happen.”
I told him we wouldn’t want to host the show; we weren’t really that funny. He laughed. “Okay, how about this? We’ll get a great host for the show and the Band can do four songs—nobody’s ever done four songs. How’s that sound?”
We shook on it. “I’ll tell the guys. Let us know when you’ve got a date.”
He didn’t blink. “October thirtieth. The show before the presidential election. Let me go to work on getting the right host.”
Everyone said the radio simulcast of our Palladium show that night sounded really good, but our next shows were hit-or-miss. I was looking forward to getting back to LA to feel the grounding of my family and work on the details for “The Last Waltz” concert.
My kids looked fantastic. Alexandra was getting taller and had the brightest smile around. Delphine had a magnificent coloring to her skin. You could see her native heritage when the light hit her just right. Sebastian, being raised on the beach in Malibu, was totally blond. He looked like a miniature beachcomber. Dominique looked thin and a bit tired, though, and I was worried about the way her relationship with alcohol was progressing. She didn’t like discussing it and said it was no big deal—she was just having a good time.
Whenever he had a break, Marty would come out to Malibu with Julia and sometimes his assistant, Steven Prince (who played the guy who sells the gun to Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver), and we would go over ideas for the show. He said as soon as we chose which songs we would play, he’d need a copy of the lyrics to turn into a shooting script for camera moves and lighting cues. László Kovács was the director of photography on New York, New York, and Marty said he was going to ask him to be the DP on The Last Waltz too.
We had a meeting with László at Marty’s office. He carried himself with a level of confidence that was undeniable. His credits spoke for themselves: Five Easy Pieces, Paper Moon, Shampoo, and many more. “If you’re going to do this movie, don’t shoot it in sixteen-millimeter, do it in thirty-five,” he declared. “It will look so much better.”
Marty immediately liked the idea. “Yes. If we can do this in thirty-five, it would look beautiful. It’s never been done for a concert before. Can the cameras even shoot that long?”
“You won’t know unless you try,” said László. “But you have to do it in thirty-five, or it won’t live up to these performers.”
Marty agreed. “If the cameras melt, the hell with it. We’ll know we gave it our best.”
He suggested we ask the production designer Boris Leven, who was also working on New York, New York, to help us out. Boris was famous for being the man behind the designs of West Side Story and Giant, James Dean’s last movie.
“What will Boris say when we tell him we have no money for sets or design?” I asked.
Marty laughed. “Well, I guess we’ll find out.”
If everything by the grace of God should come together and we actually ended up with a finished film, I would be credited as producer and Jon Taplin would be executive producer. Jon was coordinating between Bill Graham and Marty’s assistant, Steve Prince. Bill was now insisting on serving a full Thanksgiving turkey dinner to the audience before the show. It was a grand gesture, and unique. “But that’s hundreds of gallons of gravy!” I joked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” said Bill. “We’ll have tables with white tablecloths and serve dinner for five thousand. Then the tables will magically disappear and the show will begin.”
One day, I stopped into an art gallery in Santa Monica where a couple of collages by the French surrealist artist Georges Hugnet caught my eye. They were works from 1935. One of the images showed a man in a suit in front of a naked woman, with the same woman in a chair watching herself and the man; in the background, an older couple heads in their direction, with the man carrying the woman in his arms. Something about the piece said “Last Waltz” to me, so I purchased both Hugnet collages. I showed the one with the man and naked woman to Bob Cato and asked if he thought it could make an interesting Last Waltz poster. This was right up his alley. “Let me at it,” he said.
Confiding in Art Linson, my movie producer friend, about the challenges of putting the whole event together became a regular routine. One evening he said, “Well, I can tell you one thing: it sounds unbelievably amazing. And I’m sure not going to miss it.” I found some comfort
and reassurance in his words, and got up for the next round.
—
Lorne Michaels informed us that he had booked Buck Henry to host our episode of Saturday Night Live. I loved the idea—Buck was extraordinarily talented and a terrific guy. Lorne asked if the Band could come to New York for the whole week leading up to the show, that way his team would have the opportunity to come up with something special for our performance.
We showed up to the studio at Rockefeller Center on the Tuesday before the show, and the place was like a beehive—people running around, changing things up, proposing outlandish ideas. We met the cast, who were funny before they even said anything. The place had a wonderfully crazy, out-of-control feel to it, with Lorne somehow holding it all together. John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd were the most musically connected cast members, and throughout the week, while Dan was busy working on skits, John would hang out with us until somebody called his name. Lorne introduced us to Edie Baskin, who was responsible for the great photographs of the cast members and guests. If we were going to do four songs on the show, we needed to find a way to break it up with images. She wanted to do some montages with classic photos of the Band, especially Elliott Landy’s shots.
We played through a few songs so they could figure out different possibilities for camera moves. Everybody on the show gathered around while we took a couple requests from Lorne and crew. I told them we weren’t going to do “The Weight,” to change things up, and that we wanted to try some tunes we could do with the Saturday Night Live band’s horn section. We ran through “Life Is a Carnival” and it felt like a keeper.
Back at the hotel that night, John Belushi stopped by. I don’t think John knew how to turn off his wit, quickness, his impersonations—it was truly mind-boggling. Then, suddenly, he went quiet and pulled me aside. “Who’s got the blow?” he whispered. “I mean, you’re musicians, right? The musicians always got the cocaine—is what I’ve been told. Please, don’t burst my bubble. The musicians on our show aren’t always dependable. Some do, some don’t—you know what I mean? But they’re not legends like you guys. They’re not in your league. So who’s got the blow?”
Testimony Page 51