Testimony

by Robbie Robertson

  Van Morrison came directly to the hall in San Francisco. We needed to learn his song “Caravan” and run it down with the horn section. John Simon helped us get the arrangement straight by figuring out hand signals to alert us to which sections of the song were coming up next. When we played “Tura Lura Lural,” we heard Henry Glover’s horn chart for the first time. It needed some adjustments but sounded very soulful. Van was wearing a beige trench coat, like a private eye would wear in a 1940s movie with Robert Mitchum or Humphrey Bogart. I had never seen a rock ’n’ roll singer dress like a private eye before and told Van it was a great look. “Really?” He smiled, considering whether he should wear it for the show.

  For our full-on Canadian sequence with Neil Young and Joni Mitchell, we started by trying “Acadian Driftwood” with them joining in on the choruses. Then, when Neil sang “Helpless,” Joni did a high background vocal that sent shivers through the hall. In the show Joni wasn’t going to perform until after Neil, and I didn’t want to give away her appearance before that. I asked Marty if we could film Joni from behind the curtain while she sang her part on “Helpless.” “Definitely,” he said. “We’ll have a handheld camera back there.”

  With Bob, we ripped through three or four songs without hesitation, not a medley, though everything was interconnected. He wanted to do a combination of material from our early days together and Planet Waves. I pushed for us to do “Forever Young” and he was completely up for it. We even joked about doing the Basement Tapes song “Tiny Montgomery,” which went, “You can tell everybody down in ol’ Frisco, tell ’em Tiny Montgomery says hello.”

  We still felt a deep kinship with our old ringmaster, Ronnie Hawkins. We hadn’t seen Ron in a while, but he showed up looking spry in his new official uniform: black suit, white straw cowboy hat, red neck scarf, and a black T-shirt with a picture of a hawk on it. Ron hadn’t lost a beat with his famous southern expressions. As a young female crew member passed by, he called out, “Hey, you sweet thing, I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.”

  By the time we got to run over a tune with him, though, he was getting cold feet. With all these big-name performers, he worried he wasn’t going to fit in, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. We immediately waved off his uncertainty and told him he was the first one we’d invited to this event; as far as we were concerned, he deserved to be here as much as anybody. He hemmed and hawed, but we wouldn’t hear it. The Hawk was our beginning, and if we were going to throw a last waltz, he was going to have a dance.

  —

  I hadn’t found time to think about what to wear for the concert, so the day before the show I asked if any of the guys wanted to go clothes shopping. Richard and Rick joined me and we hit a couple of vintage shops. Richard found a loud checkered suit for the occasion, something you might see W. C. Fields wear to a wedding. Rick picked out a vest that fit him to a T. A sharp-looking scarf caught my eye, as well as a George Raft–ish dark suit jacket with a thin pinstripe. Levon said he was just going to wear something that “breathes.” It would be getting hot under all those lights, and it was going to be a long night. Garth said he was going to wear a suit because, if you remember, he didn’t sweat—ever.

  When we got to the hall, the whole set from La Traviata was now assembled and looked incredible. It stood big, bold, and beautiful, with a dark red tone to it. Lit from the front and the back, the set could look regal, gothic, theatrical, or invisible, depending on the light from the cyc screen.

  Our sound guys had been working furiously in the recording truck parked outside the hall, trying to figure out how to mic this whole extravaganza. Sure, they could get it on tape, but when you turned everything on, would it sound like a big cluttered mess? Recording engineer Elliot Mazer was leading the charge, and Ed Anderson, our sound mixer on the road and head engineer at Shangri-La, was invaluable because he knew our music so well. Other engineers, like Neil Brody and Tim Kramer, also helped organize the live recording. All this had to sync up with the film, so there were many elements to account for and it took a small army. They didn’t have the opportunity to get cues and levels on everybody’s performance because we were rehearsing in different locations. There was so much left to chance, but you’ve got to play the hand that’s dealt you.

  We ran over Bobby “Blue” Bland’s song “Further On Up the Road” with Eric Clapton. He also wanted to do one of the songs he had recorded at Shangri-La with Rick and Richard. Every chance I got I would break away for a few minutes to finish writing “The Last Waltz Theme” and “Evangeline.” The problem was that with all the work prepping the event and rehearsing with the guests, I didn’t have time to properly teach the songs to the other guys.

  Still, we were making progress on other fronts. Our horn section was sounding better with each rehearsal. Some of these guys we had played with before, like Tom Malone and Howard Johnson; they were so good, we brought them in from New York. We were also familiar with Jerry Hey and Jim Gordon, Rich Cooper, and Charlie Keagle, because they had played with so many artists we knew. As a sound experiment, we even added Larry Packer on electric violin. John Simon was helping tremendously in bringing together the horn section’s arrangements. We were using some of Allen Toussaint’s charts, along with Tom Malone’s, Howard Johnson’s, and Henry Glover’s. Our players would have to double on many woods, reeds, and brass.

  As I kept handing over song lyrics to Marty, I observed his method of turning each song’s words into a shooting script. Besides pointing out specifics in the arrangement of each song and noting particular lyrics, he wrote out camera moves and lighting changes. He had a multitude of little boxes in the margins beside each verse and chorus, filled with drawings of directorial instructions. It looked masterful and precise. He went over this two-hundred-page script meticulously with Michael Chapman, and for the actual show he would call out these instructions over headsets to all the cameramen and lighting people. This wasn’t the usual way, where the camera operators wing it and see if it cuts together later. This was serious direction, focused on capturing these performances with control, even if everything was “take one.”

  The big question, still way up in the air, was, “Will these thirty-five-millimeter cameras endure constant shooting for many hours?” No one knew. We called Panavision and the various camera companies, but no one could guarantee anything because this had never been done before. Marty knew that we couldn’t shoot every song because they had to reload film and change batteries. Those breaks might save the cameras from burning out, but it also meant we had to make some choices. We went over the song list for the whole show and decided what we would shoot and when they could reload. Some of the decisions to not film certain songs were painful, but we had to be tough-minded and realistic.

  While going over these song lists, it also weighed heavy on me whether or not the guys and I would be able to remember the arrangements for all our guests’ songs. With our limited rehearsal time, this was an overwhelming challenge. “That’s like twenty new songs to remember, with nothing written out,” I said to Marty. “Holy shit! All you can do now is pray.”

  “Oh yeah, there’ll be a lot of praying.” He smiled.

  —

  As we got closer to the day, friends and family started arriving in San Francisco. Uncle Natie’s kids—my cousins David and Vicki Klegerman—came in from Toronto. When Dominique and my mother arrived, Ronnie called out, “Mama Kosh, is that you, darling? So galled-darn good to see you!” as he gave her a big bear hug. “Have you been taking those pretty pills again? I swear you get better-looking all the time.” She couldn’t have smiled any wider as the boys and I looked on like proud children.

  Day for night, soon we didn’t know the difference. Our crew was on duty around the clock leading up to the show. Larry Samuels wore so many hats, he could have been his own parade. When there was something wrong or something that you needed, you called Larry. Some of this could be absorbed by Sandy Castle, a steady hand fr
om Malibu who was part of Neil Young’s crew, but he was more of a goodwill ambassador than a troubleshooter. In walking this tightrope, we depended so much on the capabilities of Jerry Caskey and Cliff Crumpler, two of our equipment wranglers. They made sure our instruments worked. Easy to take this kind of thing for granted, but these guys put the bullets in the gun.

  Finally, morning arrived on Thanksgiving, our D-day. As everything teetered on the edge, Rock Brynner felt the pressure. I could see the worry written all over his face and hunched shoulders. He began pointing out in detail the many things that could go haywire. In that moment I was incapable of listening to words of failure; my obligation was to turn my back on adversity and negativity. Maybe it was blind faith and a certain amount of denial on my part, but I had to be a stone believer—so much of this whole odyssey was my doing. I couldn’t get weak at the knees at a time like this, and I had to send Rock on his way until I got to the other side.

  The guys and I finally snuck in a quick run-through of “Evangeline” and “The Last Waltz Theme,” but it was easy to see our dance card was full. Trying to absorb any additional arrangements, lyrics, or chord changes felt numbing. “We’ll see if we feel brave enough during the concert to give these a whirl,” I said, while thinking, But no more demands, no more pressure, if you please.

  —

  A short nap, thirty minutes, that’s all I asked. I couldn’t remember if I had slept since we had gotten to San Francisco. I lay down as soon as I got to the hotel, but I couldn’t sleep—not even close. In two hours they would start serving Thanksgiving dinner, and the Berkeley Promenade Orchestra would begin its set of classic waltzes. I wished I had the ability to close my eyes and fall deep asleep for a power nap. Instead, I felt strangely empty inside. Despite all the hubbub and the clamoring of people all around, I felt very much alone. How was this possible? Why was I drifting into a dark place now? I sat up, unsteady and disoriented.

  Then I sensed a feeling running through my bones: pure exhaustion. Drained from pushing forward with the help of drugs in place of food and sleep. But man, oh, man, this was not the time to be having a revelation about not getting proper rest and nutrition. I threw myself into the shower and turned it on cold, telling myself, You gotta pull it together. You’ve got to rise to the occasion.

  When I got out of the shower, Dominique had come back to the suite. She ordered me some soup, and I tried on some of the clothes I’d bought. With a little food in my stomach and Dominique helping me get my style on, I could feel the blood start to flow again. Then the phone rang—it was almost time to go. I gathered my change of clothes and Dominique said, “Wait a second, you look so pale.” She took a brush out of her purse and said, “Close your eyes.” She swished the brush over my cheeks and a bit around my face. “There, that’s better.”

  —

  When we got to the stage door at Winterland, Barry Imhoff was standing there with a mile-wide grin. “This is so amazing. Wait till you see.” We entered, and Bill Graham came dashing by in a white tuxedo and top hat. He had most of the staff in formalwear as well. After we got settled in our dressing rooms, Bill came in and said, “Let me show you something.” He took Rick and me up a back way to the balcony. From there we looked down on the Berkeley Orchestra and hundreds—no, thousands—of people having Thanksgiving dinner. Some couples were waltzing on the open dance floor.

  It was spectacular, and Bill couldn’t have looked more proud of himself. He rattled off, “Four thousand pounds of turkey, two hundred of them! Three hundred pounds of Nova Scotia salmon, a thousand pounds of potatoes, hundreds of gallons of gravy, and four hundred pounds of pumpkin pie.” It sounded like some kind of a world record. On the way back to the dressing area, we stopped into the Cocteau room to see if anybody was putting it to good use. Albert and Sally Grossman were in there with Emmett Grogan and Dominique, all of them laughing at the spectacle. “When the musical guests arrive,” said Larry Samuels, “it will be interesting to note who hangs out in here the most.”

  I saw Marty backstage. He looked anxious but ready. We discussed the spectacular dinner going on, and the dancing. He said there was a sixteen-millimeter camera covering the waltzing, just in case.

  In the dressing room, I got in a huddle with the other guys in the Band to get a pulse on how everybody was feeling. Our spirits were soaring, but a focused calmness was most apparent among us. Richard held out his hand to show he wasn’t shaking too bad. When his hands trembled a lot, it meant he needed a drink. He nodded. “Looking pretty good on my end.” Rick seemed genuinely pumped. He asked me what key a couple of the guests’ songs were in, to refresh his memory, but otherwise he was ready and raring. We had certain moves to signal one another, and Levon reminded me to look over at him for certain breaks or endings. Some technical issues were on Garth’s mind, and he went through them with one of our road crew; otherwise he appeared quite unfazed by the whole event, but thrilled at the same time.

  Marty stood by the side of the stage with a headset on, communicating with all the lighting guys and cameramen. Jon Taplin and Steve Prince were there beside him to help in any way necessary. I was extremely caught up in running all the details of the guest artists’ songs through my head, and had to remember that the audience had no idea who was performing tonight besides the Band. Word had crept out that we might have a guest or two, but nothing concrete. How should I properly introduce everyone? Just then Bill Graham came over to us in the wings and said, “Gentlemen, are we ready?” We gave a thumbs-up and took the stage in complete darkness.

  When the cameras were rolling and we were in position, I signaled Levon, and he said over his mic through the darkness, “Good evening.” The crowd erupted, and we kicked into the guitar intro for “Up on Cripple Creek.” When the lights came up, Boris Leven and Marty’s brilliant staging looked stupendous. The lighting was warm, natural and cinematic, nothing like a regular rock show. The sound on the stage felt powerful and clear. Levon was knockin’ on wood—his drums were punching right through Garth’s electric jew’s harp sound and my rumbling guitar tone. We were all adjusting to the altitude and finding our footing. I looked over at Rick and Richard, and they were both in the zone. Levon’s vocal was strong and authentic, and he did the yodel section at the end of the song with a grit I’d never heard before. Okay. This was it. I let go of the rope and never looked down.

  Richard turned to his clavichord and adjusted the vibrato, and we tore through “The Shape I’m In,” with Rich in his scotch-plaid suit singing, “Out of nine lives, I’ve spent seven.” Garth played some wild riffs in the solos, and Richard sang with real power—only a bit shaky in a couple of spots, nothing to sweat about. Now we were locked in. Soon as Rick’s voice came in on “It Makes No Difference,” you knew he was weaving a spell. Following his vocal with guitar harmonics, I saw that he was looking as good as he sounded. That was the first moment I thought about the filming and I hoped that they were capturing the emotion he was sending out. I glanced over at Marty in the wings, and he was in a flurry, talking into his headset and waving pages of the script. I ripped into the solo at the end of the song, with Garth stepping into the spotlight to join me on soprano sax. We ended the tune looking at one another like: Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

  By the time we got to “Ophelia,” the horn section was warmed up and pouring it on. Levon could hardly sing for smiling, the way Garth’s horn chart allowed them to go off script and dance around his vocals and my solos. John Simon was the only one smiling more.

  Right from the horns’ new free-time intro reminiscent of “I Wish I Was in Dixie,” I felt we were ready to take flight. I don’t know if I’d ever heard Levon sing and play “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” better than on this night. Looking back at him while he was singing a verse, I saw the horns behind him looking like some kind of glorious funeral procession. His truth in that vocal could tear your heart out, and when we hit the final chorus the roar of the crowd felt like it helped us lift the stage a f
oot higher. It took me back to when I first wrote the song, wanting to come up with something that Levon could sing better than anyone in the world.

  As we ended “Dixie,” I could see the camera crews scrambling like a pit crew to reload, racing to beat the time before we would kick off the next song. Garth’s intro to “Stage Fright” swung like mad, floating over the audience like a wave of invisible birds. Marty had full-on film noir lighting glowing on Rick when he stepped to the mic and started to sing with all the passion of the song’s protagonist. His shadow stretched across the piano, and when the amber footlights came up they cast a glow that could give you chills. When the spotlight hit Garth for his solo, I looked back with amazement and realized he was playing the whole solo with his left hand, which I’d never seen him do before.

  We played for about an hour and headed off to take a little intermission while the San Francisco poets took over. Emmett Grogan had brought together Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Michael McClure, “Freewheelin’ ” Frank Reynolds, and “Sweet William” Fritsch of the Hells Angels, along with Diane di Prima, Robert Duncan, Dave Furano, Steve Gagné, and Lenore Kandel. During the break, I went back to finish writing the bridge in “The Last Waltz Theme” and went over the words for “Evangeline” on cue cards with the guys. We were going to play these songs when we went on again, for better or worse.

  I didn’t see any of the poetry during the intermission, but somebody told me that Michael McClure recited the introduction to The Canterbury Tales in the original Chaucerian English, and then Ferlinghetti did his own interpretation of “The Lord’s Prayer.” Wicked, I thought. That’ll certainly help people digest their turkey dinner. Our friends and guests gathered backstage, and everybody looked to be in great spirits, thrilled to be here. Ronnie Wood from the Rolling Stones and Ringo Starr were in the dressing room, and I had to stop and think for a moment if we were scheduled to do a song with either of them. It was a sign that I had a little too much going on. I asked them to come out and join us for the finale. Bill Graham informed us that Governor Jerry Brown had been spotted in the audience.