The Cake and the Rain: A Memoir

by Jimmy Webb

  Occasionally I pushed it over the line. A current box office smash Ben-Hur featured an Oscar-winning score by Miklós Rózsa. It was a tour de force of Roman military marches and transfiguration themes representing a Christ who was never actually seen. It also had a dynamite love theme. One Sunday morning I coolly slipped the Love Theme from Ben-Hur into my offertory. The blue-haired music committee marched into my father’s study immediately after service. Dad later informed me I was clinging to the organ bench “only by your fingernails.”

  I began my first year in junior high at Stonewall Jackson Jr., only a few blocks’ walk from home. I also began to write my first pop songs, a practice that irritated my father within a micrometer of his self-control. The radio I listened to at night covertly, under the covers of my bed, was rich with Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” (w. Sam Cooke), Pat Boone’s “Love Letters in the Sand” (w. Nick Kenny and Charles Kenny), and a peppery mix of other music. Elvis dominated with “All Shook Up” (w. Otis Blackwell), “(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear” (w. Kal Mann and Bernie Lowe), and “Jailhouse Rock” (w. Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller). There were unlikely records such as Belafonte’s “Banana Boat” (w. Unknown), and Perry Como’s “Round and Round” (w. Joe Shapiro and Lou Stallman). There were songs that defined the era such as Marty Robbins’s “A White Sport Coat” (w. Marty Robbins), and Debbie Reynolds’s “Tammy” (w. Jay Livingstone and Ray Evans). I pecked a song out on the family’s old upright that I thought would be good for the Everlys. It was called “Someone Else” and I was twelve years old. Years later Art Garfunkel would record this song.

  It’s someone else

  I saw you out last night

  Holding him so tight

  And it’s someone else

  It drove Dad crazy. He had developed a notion that all kids’ music, especially rock ’n’ roll, was about sex. What a concept. Dad was not, however, universally opposed to the idea of sex. Two little girls, Little Susan and Baby Sylvia, joined our family in rapid succession.

  1969

  I planned to meet Evie in Venice and then return to London to spend time with Richard Harris. Evie proposed a meeting on the Grand Canal at the Hotel Metropole, rightly calculating that it was probably the single most romantic place in the civilized world. I was only a little surprised to learn she had also invited Ron Kass and Joan Collins. Ironically, Joan’s second husband, Tony Newley, was the songwriting partner of Leslie Bricusse, Evie’s husband. It all seemed not a little bit incestuous to me but Evie said, “Darling, everybody in London is having an affair! No one makes a fuss!” I had been hurt by that. When we had met the previous year, she was quite fussy about it because, she told me, Leslie was rumored to be having an affair with Lana Wood, Natalie’s stunning sister.

  At dawn I arrived on the dock right in front of the Hotel Metropole. I stood unsteadily a few paces from the Piazza San Marco and the winged lion high atop his pedestal. Evie was standing there. She smiled and tossed her long black hair and fussed over me on the short walk to the hotel. I breathed her in, the exquisite olive skin and deep brown eyes of this exotic being from Malta. In the early dawn the gondola lamps still burned outside the millionaires’ row of exorbitantly expensive hotels that fronted the Bacino di San Marco.

  We sat on the balcony of our suite and sipped bloodred Mediterranean orange juice. We watched the sun rising up on the rhythms of the water traffic. We walked to a small espresso shop, one of many on the sprawling piazza, and sipped the hairy-chested coffee, watching the Venetians stop in on their way to work. And then we slept.

  Reluctantly, we dragged ourselves out of the deep downy mattress around nightfall. The four of us met for the first time at a restaurant that night. Joan was strikingly beautiful, and her fianceé, Ron Kass, who became her third husband, was a virile-looking specimen, what women like to call a “hunk.” Physically imposing, open-faced, and quick to smile in a shy sort of way, Ron was CEO at Apple Corps and manager of The Beatles. I didn’t know much about him except the London papers had been hinting at trouble within The Beatles’ famous company for weeks.

  It was odd, even in the swinging ’60s, to be sitting there openly in view of the international jet set, a foursome with so many complicated and intertwining connections. The four of us looked at one another in quite a sober fashion for a minute or so, and then we all laughed helplessly and proceeded to get rip-roaring smashed on Dom Pérignon. Joan turned out to be a hoot, like most British theater folk, and one got the feeling that for both women the immediate past had been sad and stuffy enough. It was time for a little fun.

  Theretofore, Ron had enjoyed near superstar status. He was thirty-four years old and a corporate success symbol even though Apple had been hemorrhaging money for months on schemes that at times bordered on the absurd. It was a rough spot to be in. Apple had been founded by The Beatles as “a new kind of corporation,” one that would provide funds to impoverished artists who had the will but not the way. The Beatles were a moneymaking machine whose public stance was antiestablishment and whose private machinations were a dicey mix of group politics (Paul and John were senior partners; the other two had to scuffle) and virtually unfettered personal spending on a scale with any newly minted capitalist. John and Paul fought an ongoing private war over group supremacy and conflicting girlfriends and such, each reserving the right to okay expensive and risky ventures outside the control of Ron Kass or anybody like him. Enter Allen Klein. Klein was a New Jersey–born hustler who had managed the Rolling Stones in the early ’60s and ended up owning their publishing company (all songs before 1971) thank you very much. Klein had contacted John Lennon after Lennon had complained in the London papers that the band was “going broke.” By early 1969, John had convinced Ringo and George that Klein was their man. Paul refused to warm up to Klein and never signed the contract. This bone of contention continued as a significant factor in the band’s slow-motion dissolution.

  On this night, while dining with us in Venice, Ron received a call informing him that Klein was charging him with “financial impropriety.” I remember Ron’s and Joan’s faces went pale, and he charged out of there with barely a wave. He was going to try to fight Klein off. Ron canceled his lavish room at the Metropole and flew straight to London. Joan decided to stay over with Evie and me so as to try to make the best of it. It was a chaotic moment and suddenly Joan was moving in with her cases and wardrobe. The bed was roughly queen-sized, so I offered immediately to take the couch. The ladies would have none of it. I suppose I could have entertained a couple of James Bond–like fantasies about sharing a bed with not one but two of the hottest chicks in London. But no. I loved Evie, to distraction.

  As we prepared for bed, any exotic thoughts I may have retained became ludicrous. Off came the false eyelashes and makeup. Out came the rollers and the bobby pins, green masques, serums, and Mother Hubbards. I tried very hard to maintain a contact-free zone in the middle of the bed; but as the night progressed, arms and legs were thrown about and it became a kind of wrestling match. It was not very unlike being in bed with my brother Tommy and sister Janice. So much for the romantic weekend in Venice.

  The three of us flew back to London the next day. There was much upset as Ron was unhorsed at Apple. Klein was ousted scarcely two years later when Paul McCartney sued the other Beatles, and Apple went into receivership. Klein subsequently went to jail for defrauding the Bangladesh concert and UNICEF. On top of it all, the bastard ruined our weekend in Venice.

  I had learned in Venice via telegraph, somewhere in the confusion and departure of Ron Kass, that I had won a Best Orchestration Grammy for Richard Harris’s recording of “MacArthur Park.” My father had accepted for me. I’d gone the previous year and won for “Up, Up and Away” but still somehow couldn’t get myself into that self-aggrandizing room again. The lens of hindsight clearly focuses my priorities at that time of my life. At any rate, had I been there, I still would have been disappointed. A Tramp Shining wasn’t Record of the Year? “MacArthur Park” wasn�
�t Best Single? When had there ever been anything as remotely ambitious and well recorded? Looking ahead to our meeting, I realized Richard had probably been disappointed that only the orchestration had been deemed good enough for a Grammy. He had poured his heart into his vocal performance but lost Best Pop Male Vocalist to José Feliciano, for his cover of the Doors’ “Light My Fire.”

  After the unavoidable slog through immigration and customs at Heathrow, I parted ways with Evie and Joan and waited for the arrival of my favored driver, Terry Naylor, who appeared smiling to beat the band and displaying some very dodgy dental work. He helped me with my large case, which had already been to Brazil and back, out to a chilly world of visible exhalations and into the backseat of a Phantom V idling at the curb.

  Richard and I had agreed to meet at a country house he was renting in Sussex. Totally unlike Richard was this change to a bucolic environment, but it sounded as though it might be the very place to get a few things straightened out.

  Hours passed and we were on a farm road with fences close aboard and hummocks of tall grasses frosted with white. We slowed to make a turn into a long driveway and I just caught a glimpse of a weathered sign tacked to a fence post: COTCHFORD FARM.

  1958

  There was a talent show at Stonewall Jackson High. It happened once a year, qualified competitors or not. I was mature enough to go out on the evangelical circuit with my father. What was the difference in performing in church and performing on stage? Same adrenaline, same nerves, and for most people, a healthy dose of fear combined with a tremendous impetus to hit the notes and hit them right. I auditioned my jazz piece one day in the school auditorium. To the school’s credit they had a proper proscenium arch and as my hands moved over the real ivory keys, the lighting department sent down a lavender shade that lit up the whole keyboard. As my hands moved they left indigo shadows following just behind. I was so entranced by it that I played a blooper or two and the teacher stopped me outright.

  “So, Webb … do you call that music?”

  I did, sort of.

  “Well, I’m not going to hold you back; be an idiot then!”

  He wrote my name on a clipboard and I was in the talent show by way of a kind of vengeful default. Come the day of the show he had a good portion of crow to devour as I unsteadily but relentlessly improvised my way to a chorus of screams from the female students. I knew in that instant there was no turning back. It was my first acknowledgment of any kind from the opposite sex.

  The closest I had ever come to going to a real dance had been an after-school sock hop in the gym at Stonewall. When my father found out about it he made a special trip over there to complain about dances at school. Glen Campbell used to ask: “Do you know why Baptists don’t make love standing up?”

  (Nope. Can’t say as I do.)

  “Because they’re afraid people will think they’re dancing!”

  The social lives of the five Webb children were pretty much ruined for life by this nonsense. It made us outsiders and squares but it was the official doctrine of the Southern Baptist Convention. The Lord was more merciful to the Methodists, who were allowed to hold civilized dances inside their actual church. Most Baptists thought the Methodists were just a tad shy of going to hell anyway.

  1969

  At Cotchford Farm I had a momentary impression of a thatched roof cottage out of a Constable painting and a crusting of new snow under my leather soles, and then was bustled into a cozy interior by Terry and the houseman. My leather case was promptly brought in and I had time only to dispatch Terry Naylor and the hired Phantom V back to London before Richard appeared at the front door, tousled hair to the shoulders and a few brandies to the advantage. He greeted me with a quick hug and beckoned me into the Hobbit-scaled rooms. Both of us, well over six feet, had to duck to gain passage under the doorways so that after a bump or two I complained, “Okay, where’s the real house?”

  “They were smaller then, Jimmywebb!” Richard retorted.

  “Who? When?” I asked.

  “People were smaller three hundred years ago, my overfed American friend!” He speared me with a stern expression and his unearthly blue eyes. We sat down in front of the fire. He poured me a brandy straight and said, “Here, have a look at these.” He tossed over a stack of photos and I caught them in my lap. Rolls-Royce limousines in gay profusion. On top was a Silver Ghost cabriolet, the kind where the driver sits exposed to the weather out front. An oldie with wire wheels. I feigned interest and looked at a few shots. “You’re lookin’ knackered, Jimmywebb!” He always called me Jimmywebb, in one clipped flourish.

  “While you yourself appear as fresh as a dew-covered blooming rose.” I smiled back. He laughed. We were still friends then, but the excitement we had felt for each other, the electricity that it takes to grab the world by the scruff of the neck and shake it … that might have been lacking. I had some new songs for him, and we ended up playing a few demos on a battered old stereo as there was no piano.

  “This place is haunted, Jimmywebb,” he said at one point and nodded toward a row of leaded glass windows behind his chair. “Brian Jones died out there.” Everyone knew that Brian Jones had quit, or been forced out of, the Rolling Stones. It was common knowledge that within a matter of weeks he had drowned in a swimming pool. I fought my way up and out of my chintz armchair and looked out through the glass panes. All was white. No sign of a swimming pool or errant ghost.

  “Yeah, I heard about it. I think I’m going to pack it in, Rich,” I said, polishing off the dregs from a brandy snifter and standing up.

  “All right then.” He led the way back toward the front door and a cramped flight of stairs. “Come up here then.” He grabbed my cowhide bag and led me up and through the first door at the top of the stairs. The door was about five feet tall. I stooped and entered a small room with antique lace curtains, a single bed, and quilted coverlet.

  Richard crouched in the doorway as I sat down and prodded the down mattress.

  “Y’know, Jimmywebb, that you’re sittin’ on Christopher Robin’s bed now.”

  “What? Are you putting me on?”

  “Not at all.” He sprang the surprise he’d been hinting at. “This is A. A. Milne’s house, you illiterate youth!”

  I was speechless. So this night I was to sleep in Christopher Robin’s bedroom on a tiny child’s bed. I wondered if Winnie-the-Pooh might be stopping by. It was the kind of magic we had once reveled in. At least Richard was still trying.

  “Good night then, lad.” And he was gone. The cottage grew quiet and dark and colder around me as I quickly donned pajamas, doused the one bedside lamp, and slid deep into the downy cocoon of English linen. After the flight and the brandy I dreamed of nothing.

  “Will ye take yer breakfast, Jimmywebb? I have an appointment in London I must attend!” Richard spoke from somewhere, impossibly loud. I raised myself enough to peer over the top of the duvet and discern him leaning through the doorway, hair long and reddish blond, if a little thinner than when we had first met in 1967.

  I rolled off the bed, shocked by the cold floor, and donned some thick woolen socks out of my case. Downstairs the elfin kitchen was all copper, brass, and cast iron. An ancient carved rectory table was laden with two English breakfasts: poached eggs, plump sausages, broiled tomatoes, fried mushrooms, sautéed potatoes, and hot brown beans with sides of muffins, toast, and jars of country jam and farm-churned butter. Whatever shortcomings generally ascribed to English cuisine, breakfast could not be faulted.

  We both tucked in and between bites I opened a discussion.

  “So I understand you have some problems with Canopy, royalty statements and such,” I said.

  “Lippman has been in the till,” he said brusquely. “Rupert says so.”

  I was no huge fan of Harvey Lippman and had reasons of my own to suspect him of financial shenanigans. He was a year gone then, had passed on in a particularly unpleasant way, and honestly I hadn’t really thought of him much. He was, howev
er, in the thick of things when “MacArthur Park” had been at the top of the charts.

  “Well, Richard, he might have done something.” Rupert was one of the most respected figures in British management and he lent considerable weight to the allegation. “In which case we’ve both been cheated. I will go over the royalty statements with Howard, and we will put it right if it’s been tampered with.”

  “If?” he barked across the table. “If is it?” His indignation manifested itself in the narrowing of his icy blue eyes and the thrust of his magnificent beak.

  I dropped my cutlery on my plate with a great clank. “Listen, Rich, while we’re on this tack let’s just forget the Rolls-Royce, can we? I was excited about having your Rolls because I care about you! Not this array of antiquity!” I gestured at the photos of Rollers casually left on the table by my plate.

  “Array of antiquity, is it, Jimmywebb?” he raged. He dropped his own knife and fork and quickly gathered a huge woolen coat and his papers. He went out the front door, turning to say, “We’ll have a word on this when I return from the city!” Outside he disappeared into an idling Daimler limo and left me there to finish my breakfast.

  I took a hot bath and dressed, sobered by the exchange. There wasn’t much to do in the cottage except listen to the ticking clocks, so after a couple of hours of reading I dressed warmly and stepped outside. A valiant sun was making futile attempts to pierce a low-flying stratification. I wandered around to the back of the house where a small swimming pool was staked down tight under a tarpaulin marbled with eddies of wind and frost. So Brian Jones really did cash it here. I stood in reverent silence for a minute.