Richard and I came in singing. “Pleeease, don’t do it, dontcha break my heart.” He smiled his big-toothed smile at me and dug in on his piano part. Man, oh, man, Rich could break your heart, either with that voice, sounding like it was on the verge of tears at times, or with his deeply sensitive personality. He had such a rich tone. He could sing lower and higher than anybody in the Band, which made us refer to him as our “lead singer.” He didn’t like that. He didn’t like being singled out, for better or worse. We all knew Richard had a special gift when he first joined the Hawks. What put him on top of the heap, though, was his vocal on the song he wrote with Bob, “Tears of Rage,” the first cut on our first album, Music from Big Pink. That separated the men from the boys. We were awestruck by his power and soulfulness. I think Garth appreciated Richard’s piano playing more than anybody. And before Levon came back to join us, when we were making the basement tapes, Richard sat behind the drums. We all messed around playing the drums a little, but Richard became a real drummer on the spot. What happened? Where the hell did that come from? Yesterday he didn’t play the drums at all, and today he’s a monster. He ended up becoming Levon’s favorite drummer. Yep, God only made one of those.
As I tore into the guitar solo on “Don’t Do It,” Rick pushed me higher with his churning bass part. His support in music and in life was unparalleled in this group. You never even had to look around: Rick had your back come rain or shine. And boy, what an ear! He could hear intricate intonations and parts like he had a dog’s superhearing. He was the king of harmonies in the Band, but not because he studied harmony or read music; it just came perfectly natural to him. It was because of Rick that our vocals became known for their harmonies. For a long time Rick played a fretless bass while singing countermelodies and harmony and killer lead vocals. That’s a full-on high-wire act. He had no idea how incredible I thought that was. For him it was just normal. It pissed me off how easy he made it look. He was one of those musicians who could pick up a trombone, a violin, or a pennywhistle and be playing it competently in ten minutes. He evolved into an incredible force in the Band’s machine, and I knew God only made one of those. I finished my guitar solo, and Rick nodded at me like, Good work, my brother.
Breakdown! We all stopped, except Levon. What a beat! What a feel. He sang, “Go down to the river and there I’ll be, I’m gonna jump in ’cause you don’t care about me”—pure music through every bone in his body. The very first time I ever saw Levon play, when I was fifteen years old, it struck me right then and there: God only made one of those. He was a star already, playing with Ronnie and the Hawks. Five guys from Arkansas, all with remarkable talent, but you couldn’t take your eyes off Levon. Ronnie knew it too; he danced in front of him, sang in his direction, and looked to him for musical cues, while Levon played eighth notes on the kick drum, the cymbals, and the snare, with a backbeat on the toms like a locomotion. All the while laughing until everybody joined in. I had never seen anything like it, and still haven’t to this day.
When I joined the Hawks as the first Canadian in for the long haul, I hoped that some of Levon’s southern magic would rub off on me. The two of us started a brotherhood with a big lock on the door. We let no one in until Rick, Richard, and Garth arrived. They were the goods. They were road warriors we could go to battle with anytime, anywhere. This band was a real band. No slack in the high wire here. Everybody held up his end with plenty to spare. Over the years, Levon and I did a lot of foolish things and probably could have wound up in prison for some of it. In the end, we did a whole lot more beautiful things, and I am honored to have been in his musical grace. He was our leader when we left Ronnie, and I would have followed him into the fires of hell—which I nearly did. In the last couple of years, our brotherhood came into rough times, whether from drugs and alcohol or our own pure madness, and we sure didn’t want to see anybody get taken down.
At the end of the chorus on “Don’t Do It,” we sang out for the last time, “Pleeease, don’t break my heart.” Levon gave me a nod to go into the solo at the end of the song. I clawed at the strings on my guitar with an anger, with a sadness, with a finality I could hardly stand. In that moment, there was only the five of us in the world. No audience. No celebration. Nobody. Just the sound of the Band ringing in my ears. As I descended back into the signature guitar riff to signal the end of the song, we all locked eyes and crash-landed. Bam—the end.
Each of the guys bowed his head. Levon looked up at me, winked, and waved at this phenomenal audience. My eyes circled the stage, taking in my brothers Garth, Richard, Rick, and Levon. This can’t be the final anything. This cannot be the end. What we have can never die, never fade away. We all raised our arms in the air and thanked the crowd for being here with us right to the bitter end. I adjusted the hat on my head, stepped to the microphone with what little strength I had left, and said:
“Good night—Good-bye.”
Nobody wanted to come down—
Many of our guests had hardly got warmed up. They’d just had a taste and needed to play more music. Impromptu sessions were starting up in hotel suites and various locations, but for me, my cup had runneth over. I couldn’t play another note. I found myself sitting on the floor against the wall of the hotel banquet room as people came and went in party spirit. Marty joined me on the floor. We didn’t need to talk; we just had to remember to breathe.
The Band felt a tremendous sense of relief and accomplishment at having got through the concert alive on Thanksgiving Day. To be thankful, pay tribute…and celebrate at the same time was good medicine. I don’t know if I’d ever felt as proud of our band as I did on that day.
After all those years on the road I’d discovered that, for the most part, things don’t just happen. No, it depends on who comes along. And I’d had some doozies come down the pike: geniuses, ruthless individuals, gifted savants, goddesses, master thieves, swamp rats, hit men, hustlers, record-business shysters, and muses. I thought I knew where I wanted to go and what my calling was, but if I hadn’t run that red light, or gone downtown on a Tuesday night, or hopped that southbound train—who knows?
—
A few days later back home in Malibu, Marty called me sounding pretty jazzed. He said he’d seen some of the footage from the concert and it looked beautiful: the 35mm, the staging, the lighting—all of it had paid off. We had the makings of something special, and now he wanted to film the Band telling stories of our days on the road, so it would be clear what The Last Waltz was all about.
I mentioned to Marty that although we’d been able to embrace many different flavors of music in the show, there was still something missing: We never got to pay tribute to gospel or country music. I suggested we shoot my new song “Evangeline” with the exquisite Emmylou Harris and “The Weight” with our favorite gospel group the Staple Singers (who had covered the song themselves). He liked this idea and thought we should shoot it on an MGM soundstage where many of the great Hollywood musicals had been filmed. One of Martin Scorsese’s great gifts was how he moved the camera, and this would give him full rein to do his thing.
The guys and I got together the following day to stir up our next move. We all took a deep breath, as if shedding one skin in anticipation of a new one. The Band had an album to complete for Capitol called Islands, which would mostly be made up of outtakes and B-sides (an unusual concept at the time). I had some new songs in the works for it as well. We had to deliver this record before The Last Waltz concert soundtrack could be released on Warner Bros.
There was also the possibility of doing a suite of new music that would include “The Last Waltz Theme,” which I was writing in the tradition of a classic movie theme. Everybody agreed that we’d roll up our sleeves and start recording the following Monday at Shangri-La. Over the weekend I could get a couple of the tunes ironed out. When I got back to the house, I went straight up to my music room, looking forward to organizing the new material. I was fired up, so the lyrics came pretty smoothly.
&nbs
p; We’d made a plan to meet at Shangri-La around high noon. I got to the studio early so I could tell the engineer the instrumentation of the first song and what to mic. By midday we were set up for the guys to walk in and sit behind their axes, ready to go. While waiting, I sat at the piano and found a couple of nice breaks and turnarounds for one of the new songs. Our recording engineer asked me to play some guitar so he could get a sound before everybody got there.
A while later, our studio manager, Larry Samuels, walked into the control room and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I don’t know where they are.” I asked him to call each of the guys to see what was happening. In the meantime I wrote out a couple of lyric alternatives, just in case one might sing better than another. When Larry came back he said he couldn’t reach anyone, and now it was past 3:30. We all know that in rock ’n’ roll the rules are vague and sometimes there aren’t any. And sure, there were occasions when somebody didn’t show up, but to have all four guys be this late was disturbing.
I knew we would eventually finish all of our commitments. We would get the music recorded to deliver the album we owed Capitol, and we would cut “The Last Waltz Suite” come hell or high water. But waiting there as the sun went down, it finally hit me—what I had been in true denial about: this train we’d been riding for so long was pulling into the station, not just for touring, not just for recording, but for everything. Nobody showed up. Nobody called. And I had to read the writing on the wall.
—
“The end of an era” was how many people referred to the close of 1976. The dreams of the ’60s and early ’70s had faded and we were ready for a revelation, a revolt, a changing of the guard. The United States, Russia, and China were all testing nuclear weapons. Destruction loomed boldly in the air. Punk rock and hip-hop wanted to give music and culture a good slap in the face. It felt like everyone wanted to break something.
The Band had come to a crossroads. So many mixed emotions leads to confusion—and confusion can lead to self-destruction. The feeling was, if we can’t break something else, we’ll break ourselves. None of us wanted to destroy the thing we loved, but we didn’t know how not to—and we didn’t know how to say good-bye.
Still, through all the turbulence, I am left with such a deep appreciation for my journey, this shining path I’ve traveled being part of the Band—and there will never be another one like it. Such a gift, such talent, such pain, such madness…I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
A fresh canvas, a new beginning, that’s what you wanted, that’s what you got, I told myself. I was venturing into the great unknown, quite daunting after having been a member of the Hawks and the Band for the last sixteen years, more than half my life. But I felt a shimmer inside, looking outward to the explorations and challenges that lay ahead: Bring on tomorrow, I want to get some on me. Let’s turn the page, let’s take the high road, let’s break some rules…like we did before the revolution.
© Elliott Landy
Dedicated to my family with boundless love:
Alexandra, Delphine, Sebastian, and Dominique
Tim, Rich, Dawn, and Nicholas
Donovan, Angelica, Gabriel, Seraphina, and Dominic
And to the memory of Rosemarie Chrysler Myke
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First of all, I want to thank Jared Levine, who has walked through the fire with me writing this book from the beginning.
Kevin Doughten—editor extraordinaire, for his dedication and help getting this manuscript down to a digestible length while never limiting the color of my voice.
Louise Dennys—with deep appreciation for her brilliant eye and intuitive ear, always in search of the soul.
Ryan Harbage—who made this book a reality and has supported its existence every step of the way.
Jim Guerinot—who read the first incarnation, the very long version of this book. He never flinched and even asked for more.
Sam Benjamin—for his enthusiasm and prompting me to dig deeper.
Tricia Boczkowski, Maya Mavjee, Molly Stern, and David Drake—for their fervid support and encouragement.
DG for the writing sanctuary and glory of RS.
LG for a healing hacienda and the ghost of Gary Cooper.
PA for the phantasmic destinations.
JW for offering the hand of experience and perspective.
MS for his friendship and timeless collaborations.
And LA for the love and inspiration.
SPECIAL THANKS TO:
Heather Reisman for her guidance.
Rob Bowman for his historical insight.
Elliott Landy and John Scheele for their photographs, and Bill Scheele for his archival contributions.
Nick and Stephanie.
Art and Fiona.
Much appreciation to Kristin Cochrane and Brad Martin.
Gary Stiffelman, David Jackel, Steve Bing, Charlie Conrad, Christina Brehm, Lesley Anton, Mirena Kim, Jeff Greenberg and the Village, Tomas Hernandez, Michael and Diane Budman, Jim Finley, Bruce Hardin, Jon Friedman, Marty Davis, Chantal Renaud, Jan Haust, Sally Grossman, Mo Ostin, Mark Birkey, Elizabeth Rendfleisch, Jesse Aylen, Linnea Knollmueller, Christopher Brand, Ellen Folan, Rebecca Marsh, Tammy Blake, Julie Cepler, Kelsey Lawrence, Cathy Paine, Matthew Sibiga, Mary Giuliano, Lindsey Reeder, Lynn Henry, Amanda Betts.
And to my dear cousins David Klegerman, Vicki Klegerman.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robbie Robertson was born in Toronto, Ontario, in 1943, with roots in both the Mohawk community at the Six Nations Reserve and the Jewish enclave of the city’s downtown. A guitar player from the age of ten, he received his rock ’n’ roll education as a member of the Hawks, the backing band for rockabilly star Ronnie Hawkins. The Hawks went on to play with Bob Dylan on his legendary “Going Electric” tours in 1965 and 1966. Moving to Woodstock in 1967, Robertson and his bandmates recorded the seminal “basement tapes” with Dylan before changing their name to the Band and cutting the groundbreaking Music from Big Pink in 1968. Over the course of seven studio albums, Robertson penned such classics as “The Weight,” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Up on Cripple Creek,” “Acadian Driftwood,” and “It Makes No Difference.” The Band’s farewell concert at San Francisco’s Winterland on Thanksgiving 1976 was filmed by Martin Scorsese and released as The Last Waltz. Robertson has created music for many of Scorsese’s films, from Raging Bull and The Color of Money to The Departed and The Wolf of Wall Street, and has been a creative executive at Dreamworks. In 1980, he produced and co-starred in the movie Carny. He has released five solo albums and has been the subject of the PBS documentary Making a Noise. Robertson has received the Grammy’s Lifetime Achievement Award, as well as lifetime awards from the National Academy of Songwriters and the Native American Music Awards. In Canada he has won several Juno awards, been inducted into the Canadian Songwriters’ Hall of Fame, made an Officer of the Order of Canada, and received the Governor Generals Performing Arts Award. Alongside the Band, Robertson was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He lives in Los Angeles.
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