When we went back on to kick off the sets with our guest artists, naturally our first performer had to be our original fearless leader, “the Hawk,” Rompin’ Ronnie Hawkins. He cast off his nervousness from the rehearsal and took the stage in blazing form, yelling toward Bill Graham, “Big time, Bill. Big time!” We played “Who Do You Love,” Bo Diddley’s song that we had covered years earlier. I whipped out some of my old Hawks-style guitar playing, and Ronnie growled like a mad dog. In the middle of one of my solos, he took off his hat and fanned my fingers like the guitar was going to catch fire, just as he had done back when I was seventeen.
Next I introduced our old friend Mac Rebennack, otherwise known as Dr. John, the Night Tripper. He was dressed to the nines for the occasion, with a pink bow tie, a frilly shirt, a black jacket with pink flecks, dark shades, and a French beret. He sat down at the piano and said, “Thankfulness to the Band and all the fellas,” looking over at the horn section. He sang and played his song “Such a Night” with pure New Orleans gumbo ya-ya, like it was the theme of the evening. The whole vibe on the stage and in the house rejoiced. Our buddy Bobby Charles came out next to pay further tribute to the music of Louisiana, and Dr. John picked up a guitar to join in. Bobby and I had written some additional words to an old Jonnie & Jack bluegrass song called “Down South in New Orleans”: “I’m gonna get too loose on Toulouse Street, and kiss all the pretty girls I meet.” We gave it a funky rumba treatment—our own special inside joke.
We called out Paul Butterfield to join us on Little Junior Parker’s song “Mystery Train,” which we had recorded for Moondog Matinee. Richard joined Levon on our second set of drums. As we kicked into the rhythm of the song, the stage lights died. At first I thought it was a special effect for the filming, but then I realized there was a problem: The film crew had blown a circuit and knocked out all the lights except for one spot coming from the back of the house. It looked noirish—and almost on purpose. Butterfield had choked out that train rhythm on his harmonica and blown all the lights out.
When Muddy Waters performed “Mannish Boy,” Butterfield held a note through the whole song. He used circular breathing, and you couldn’t hear him ever take a breath. I had never seen or heard that before. Muddy took control of the stage like a master, and hammered out, “I’m a full-grown man,” right between your eyes. When he sang the line “I’m a rolling stone,” you believed every word.
When I glanced over at Marty, he was yelling and waving to get the cameras rolling. Later we learned that there was confusion over the song list, and that they were reloading instead of filming during “Mannish Boy.” But fortunately László Kovács had taken off his headset because he couldn’t take all of the hollering and he never got the message to reload. He kept shooting and did a slow continuous move-in on Muddy’s incredible performance. The gods were on our side.
I was slightly dizzy after Muddy Waters’s performance. It took me a moment to gather myself as I stepped to the mic and said…
“Play guitar? Eric Clapton.”
I had been concerned about how everybody was holding up backstage, waiting for their turn to go on. But Eric slid effortlessly into the beginning of “Further On Up the Road,” like he’d just walked in the door. As he was starting to turn up the heat on his Strat, the strap suddenly came off, and his guitar fell into the grip of his left hand. In a split second, I had him covered and took over the solo. I turned up the heat too and stoked the fire for Eric while he shifted into second gear. He came in singing, and this shuffle took flight. He played another solo—and I played another solo. It was like raising the stakes in poker, higher and higher. I flashed back to my guitar slinger showdowns with Roy Buchanan. Finally Eric couldn’t hold back anymore, and wailed off into the cosmos like only he can. Touché.
As soon as Neil Young took the stage, I could tell no one at Winterland was feeling better than he was. He made a profoundly touching statement about how proud he was to be onstage with us that night, before we steamed into “Helpless.” Right away, his harmonica set the mood and was magnificent. Neil’s vocal was so moving on this beautiful Canadian song of remembrance. When Joni Mitchell’s high falsetto voice came soaring in from the heavens, I looked up, and I saw people in the audience looking up too, wondering where it was coming from.
Then, when Joni came out and the lights hit her, she seemed to glow in the dark. She was wearing a beautiful Native American necklace, and I was slightly surprised when she walked over and kissed me. She looked thoroughly enchanting as she sang her song “Coyote,” and it sounded sexier than ever. Joni’s songs might have been the most challenging of the night, with their syncopation and chord structures that kept you on your toes, but we sailed through that one like a cool breeze.
I had to smile when Neil Diamond joined us onstage. In his blue suit and red shirt, he looked like he could have been a member of the Gambino family. The first thing he said was “I’m only going to sing one song, but I’m going to sing it good.” I thought it was brave of Neil to not sing one of his well-known hit songs. Instead he chose “Dry Your Eyes,” the tune he and I had written together—a cool album track that not too many people were familiar with, although Frank Sinatra did cover it. We started out in a slow march, and it built beautifully. He turned the words into a prayer, like a sermon out of Elmer Gantry. Toward the end of the song I heard myself yelling, “Yeah!” Neil was absolutely right when he said he was “going to sing it good.”
Then the lights came down, and John Simon sat at the piano. Richard picked up the microphone, and we rolled into the refrain of “Tura Lura Lural.” Henry Glover’s horn arrangement flowed like a gospel lament, and Richard’s voice, of course, simmered on heartbreak. An empty spotlight shone down on the middle of the stage, and just in time for the beginning of the verse, Van Morrison walked into it. This was the way I wanted to introduce him, to not say his name—let the crowd do that. I could see Van had abandoned the idea of wearing his private-eye overcoat. Instead he had chosen a snug-fitting maroon outfit with sequins—something like a trapeze artist might wear. He looked ready for action, but I didn’t know yet what he had in mind.
John Simon moved back to his position in front of the horn section, where he could give them direction and give us hand signals. Just a short intro, and then—bam—we slammed into “Caravan.” That voice, this tune—we were on an immediate high. With his barrel chest stuck out like Caruso, the veins in Van’s neck bulged as he poured on the steam. Hills and valleys, we would build it up and then come back down—the dynamics were like a roller-coaster ride. “Switch on your electric light,” he sang, and Levon went “clink” on his cowbell in the nick of time.
In the middle of the song, after Van sang, “So you know it’s got soul,” I played him some soulful runs. “Yeeeah,” he said as he eyed my fingers. We brought it down, quieter and quieter. I glanced over at John Simon, who had his hand in the air like Leonard Bernstein, ready to give the downbeat as we quietly treaded water. Then Van screamed, “TURN IT UP NOW,” and we hit ten on the scale. The place went berserk as Van sang out, “Turn up your raa-dio!” He moved across the stage and each time he let out a “turn it up,” he kicked his leg in the air or threw his arms over his head. We built and built, and Van kept kicking and pounding his fist in the air until there was nothing left. Finally he dropped the mic to the floor and walked off, still hitting the accents with his hand above his head. Now I understood why he was dressed like an acrobat. He could have never done those kicks in regular clothes. The Flying Kandinsky Brothers would have been proud—but not as proud as me.
—
Right after we ended “Acadian Driftwood,” with Neil Young and Joni joining us to make six Canucks onstage pining about our country’s history, Garth started making amazing sounds. He jabbed from every direction on his keyboards, with monks chanting in the background and possibly a cow mooing. The rest of us left the stage so as to, in the words of the Hawk, “make room for the Phantom of the Opera.” Garth’s hair f
lew above his keyboard like Tchaikovsky on psychedelics. Again we were all reminded that nobody could do what our keyboardist could.
While we were standing over in the wings, I asked Marty how the filming was going. “We’ve had some problems,” he said, “but the cameras haven’t died yet, so that’s a good sign.” He smiled through the lines of concern on his face as the rest of the guys and I headed back out to launch into the intro of “Chest Fever.”
We were feeling loose and riding high, which gave us the confidence to take a shot at playing my new songs, “Evangeline” and “The Last Waltz Theme.” We got through them by a hair’s breadth, but I knew these songs would have a better day to come. By then the show had been going on for close to four hours, so you’d think the audience would have been getting a little tired and weak at the knees. But when I played the introduction to “The Weight,” the crowd let out a roar like they had just arrived. I looked around the stage and none of us seemed to be fading either. Adrenaline is an amazing drug.
The crowd was still whistling and cheering as I stepped to the mic and said, “We’d like to bring on one more very good friend of ours.” Bob Dylan walked out and the energy in the air turned electric.
Onstage, we were still figuring out the order of the songs we were going to do. It was after one in the morning, but Bob still had a bolt of energy. He looked somewhat like he had when we first hooked up back in 1965; his red and white polka-dot shirt and black leather jacket were certainly reminiscent. Under his white fedora he looked almost biblical. We hit “Baby Let Me Follow You Down” like we hadn’t missed a beat since our first tour together. It felt as natural as waking up in the morning. With Bob, we shifted into a different zone. Our past came back and we charged forward.
Next we eased into “Hazel,” one of the songs Bob wanted to do from Planet Waves. No one in the crowd saw that coming, and the looks on their faces were almost comical. From where I stood, I could see that the cameras weren’t shooting. Perhaps it was time to reload, I thought, or maybe the cameras had finally given out.
Then, back to one of our old standbys, “I Don’t Believe You.” I always liked playing that guitar riff behind Bob’s vocal on this song. Tonight I approached it with a little extra pizzazz on the vibrato. With no endings on these tunes, we slipped effortlessly from one into the next.
All cameras were now rolling again. I noticed a scuffling over by the side of the stage, with Bill Graham pointing his finger and yelling at someone. I wasn’t quite aware of what was going on but I guessed Bob had told his road manager or somebody that he didn’t want to be filmed, or that only a portion of his set could be shot, and Bill was letting Bob’s guy know that if he went anywhere near the cameras he would break his neck.
When we hit the downbeat of “Forever Young,” Levon looked at Bob to see if he wanted to pick up the tempo. Bob shrugged back like, Sure, why not? So we glided along, gradually picking up speed until it felt just right. Bob sang “Forever Young” with such passion, and I tried to keep up with him, note for note. By this point my hands were growing numb, but it seemed like for every verse Bob sang he nodded at me to take another solo. For a moment at the end of that song everything hung suspended in the air. We had to change keys once more before we slammed back into a reprise of “Baby Let Me Follow You Down,” and one more time it was 1966 and we were raising hell. Each of the guys had a jubilant smile on his face like we were reliving the bad old days all over again. Music should be fun, and by the look on Bob’s face and the faces of everyone in the entire place, we were having nothing but fun.
When we finished our segment with Bob, almost all the guest performers were crowded in the wings. I told Bob we wanted to end the show with everybody coming out to join him and Richard singing “I Shall Be Released.”
“Okay,” he said. “When? Now?”
I laughed. “Yeah, we’re going to do it now.”
Everybody came out and gathered around the mics. Ringo sat at our second drum kit. Ronnie Wood strapped on my other guitar and joined Eric on that side of the stage with Butterfield as the Hawk hung back next to Levon.
I pointed at Richard, and he started the piano intro. I joined in on guitar halfway through. Bob took the first verse, and everybody came in on the chorus. Seeing Dr. John and Neil Diamond singing side by side was a sight to behold. Van joined Bob and me on our mic in the chorus. As glorious as the moment was, there was a melancholy to all those voices that ran right through me, especially when Richard came in, singing the last verse in falsetto with Bob. The song took on another meaning in regard to this “last waltz.”
At the end of the tune, everybody looked a bit stunned that it was all over. It was impossible to believe, and the audience wasn’t going to accept it. As many of the performers left the stage, some just couldn’t do it. Levon and Ringo weren’t going anywhere yet. They kicked into a funky, feel-good beat, and I put my guitar back on. Eric Clapton, Ron Wood, Neil Young, and Butterfield all started trading licks. Dr. John took over at the piano. Rick, Garth, and I continued our duties as hosts and let the good times roll.
After about ten minutes of jamming from “the band” that’s renowned for not jamming, I looked over at the side of the stage and saw Stephen Stills standing there. I waved in his direction and offered him my guitar. He came out just in time for the boys to start another groove. Rick gave his bass over to Carl Radle, a terrific musician friend of ours, and he and I slipped backstage to change clothes and catch our breath. I passed Marty on the way. “Is that it?” he joked. “What, no more? It’s over already? We still have a few rolls of film left.”
I freshened up and changed, feeling elated exhaustion. I was standing in the shower, dressed, retrieving my clothes from the show, when I saw that somebody had stolen one of my shirts. Annie Leibovitz took a shot of me standing in the shower looking dismayed.
Garth and Levon came back to the dressing room. Richard was already there, and the five of us stood there looking at one another in awe. We had just played for close to five hours, going from Joni Mitchell to Muddy Waters, from Neil Young to Neil Diamond, with no major fuckups. Nobody has any real idea of what a feat that is. We saluted one another like we had just pulled off one of the best musical celebrations in rock ’n’ roll history. It really, really does not get any better than this.
Dominique and my mother came into the dressing room, followed by all the friends, relatives, and guest performers. Everybody was shaking their heads like we had just won the marathon. Strangely, everyone else looked more tired than the five of us. We hadn’t come down yet. Just as we started to lean back and take a deep breath, Bill Graham came banging and barging into the dressing room.
“No one has left,” he said. “The audience is out there stomping and cheering. You have to go back out there.”
“Go back out there?” I said. “Are you kidding? This show has been going on for five hours, and before that they had a feast and waltzed. Come on—enough!”
“They know this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and they’re begging for one more,” Bill pleaded. “Do it for me. If this is the Band’s final concert, for god’s sake, give us one more.” His voice cracked as he repeated, “The final concert of the Band. Man, that’s heartbreaking.”
Hearing that “final concert” line got to me. I felt his sadness a hundred times over, but knew I wanted to ride this train into the station with purpose and pride. “Shall we?” I asked the guys. “Maybe we should do ‘Don’t Do It,’ and then maybe they won’t ‘do it’ anymore.”
We alerted Marty and his crew that we were going to do one more. “Wait,” he told me, grabbing his headset. “Okay, everybody,” he said into the mic, “we got one more.”
Steve Prince chimed in, “Everybody back to their battle stations. This war’s not over yet.”
Jon Taplin laughed as he quickly spread the word. “Back on. We’re back on.”
When we came out again, the roar was deafening. I couldn’t believe the crowd still had this much energy
. John Simon hustled the horn players back into position and they pulled out the only chart we hadn’t used tonight. Larry Samuels alerted the mobile recording truck. “They’re doing another one. Hit ‘record’!”
“You’re still there, huh?” I mumbled into the mic. “We’re gonna do one more song, and that’s it.” Levon looked around the stage at all of us and went, “One. Two. Three. Uh!” He and Rick pounced on the intro like it was the first song of the night. Richard came in, tinkling ivories, with Garth adding sonic wonderment. I crashed down with my guitar riff, and the horns followed with their Allen Toussaint New Orleans punch. When Rick and Levon started singing with that sassy attitude, we were off and running.
Looking back at Garth behind his array of electronics, I thought, God only made one of those. Garth joined the Hawks (the last to become a member) under the guise of “music teacher.” His family did not want him getting mixed up with rock ’n’ roll and “our kind.” I didn’t blame them. Garth was a teacher, but much more. A sidekick. Part of our street gang. A brother in arms. An inspiration in showing how much a musical instrument has locked inside of it, and how much you can truly get out of it. For me, in particular, I savored Garth for turning me on to the glorious sounds of Anglican choirs, Greek and Arabic sounds with rhythms accompanying hip-rattling belly dancers, classical music maestros and their masterpieces (some through the impeccable touch of Glenn Gould’s piano), jazz masters’ unique tones and techniques. I couldn’t get enough of it, and it broadened my sonic horizons as far as the ear could see. Garth caught me staring at him, and he threw his arms in the air and then down on his keyboards and played a phenomenal lick, laughing.
Testimony Page 54