I ran into Warren and Crystal at the Nucleus Nuance. J. D. [Souther] and John Boylan and Linda Ronstadt and Don Henley went there a lot. I went there. It was suddenly the new hangout. The night of the Waco Bloody Mary, we ran into each other and I went back to where they were living. There was an upright piano, and Warren and Crystal were taking care of two kids. I never met anybody that was doing, or who would do, what they were doing. That was just the most grownup thing I’d ever heard of.
Warren kept making these Waco Bloody Marys, and that’s when he played so many great songs. My God, it was staggering how good the songs were and how formed he was. We all got really drunk, but the real memory was listening to these amazing songs Warren had written.
Impressed as Jackson was with Warren’s songwriting, he recognized that his voice lacked the polish necessary to make record companies get excited about him. He had an idea that his own vocal teacher, Warren Barigian, might be able to help Warren.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: Warren saw Barigian on and off for a couple years. I would drive him because the sessions were so emotionally intense, Warren didn’t trust himself to drive home afterward. I was thrilled with what came out of those sessions because afterward Warren never felt like drinking, at least not right away. He was much more relaxed.
Barigian would pound him in different places on his body and make him scream. He didn’t have to talk about the traumas in his life, he just had to scream until they moved out of his body of their own accord. Several times, Barigian came outside and asked me if I noticed that Warren was more relaxed—if he drank less. He definitely developed a vocal confidence he hadn’t had before, and at the same time, he was working through emotional issues he’d never dealt with before.
As weeks turned to months and there was no recording contract in the offing, Warren slept later and drank more. Sundays were often spent at Don Everly’s apartment in the Sunset Towers, where Don and his girlfriend, Karen, hosted a cavalcade of Hollywood characters, from the up-and-coming to the already-rich-and-famous—among them Harrison Ford (still a carpenter), Billy Al Bengston, and Bobby Neuwirth. Occasionally, Warren got odd side jobs, which brought in a little cash, but not much.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: Warren was incredibly jealous. He thought every man on the street was after me, and once we started drinking, it always became my fault. We lived walking distance from our favorite restaurant, El Coyote. The main attractions in those days were the margaritas, the green corn tamales, and the price. One night we were at El Coyote, and the subject of my past relationship with Waddy came up. The fight lasted for days. Warren was convinced that I was sleeping with Waddy, who lived about three blocks away. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I told him he should just leave.
I didn’t expect him to do it, but the next day I came home, and he was gone. Apparently, he’d called Tule, and she helped him find a tiny bachelor’s apartment on Hudson Street. She also fixed him up with a girlfriend of hers named Barbara who worked as a Playboy bunny. Later, after Warren and I got back together, Tule told me that when he chose me over Barbara, she finally believed it must be love.
At the time, I was devastated. I didn’t hear from him for two or three weeks. I was inconsolable, but I had the two kids to take care of, so I called my parents, who always bailed me out of my messes. They suggested I come home to Aspen for the summer and it sounded like a good idea.
A day or two later, I came home from work and there was a toy Rolls Royce with a note from Warren to Bart. There was a p.s.: “Tell your mom I miss her, too.” I picked up the phone to call him about twenty times. Finally, I went out, bought a bottle of vodka, and got drunk. At two A.M. the phone rang. Warren said he loved me and he wanted me to come over. Right that minute. I was so drunk I left without my glasses. I remember having to get out of my car to read street signs to figure out where I was.
When I got to Hudson Street, he had a mattress on the floor, a blanket but no sheets, and the place looked like a tornado had hit it. There wasn’t an inch of space that wasn’t littered with clothes, bottles, old fast food wrappers, spilled ashtrays, music manuscript paper, cassettes. Just walking through the door made me start to itch, but Warren was sitting on the floor with his guitar playing the theme song to the old TV series Paladin. In an instant, all was forgiven. The desolate surroundings were rendered irrelevant. We made love, laughing and shouting Paladin’s motto, “Have gun, will travel.”
The Everly Brothers put Warren back in the game. He got a call from their tour manager, Don Wayne, saying they were booked to play Las Vegas and needed Warren.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: I took advantage of his good mood over the Everly news to tell him I was going to Aspen. He was outraged. I got a call a few days later at one A.M. He was in Las Vegas and he wanted me to come. Immediately. I got a friend to baby-sit and I arrived before ten A.M.
There was a message at the Landmark desk to meet Warren by the pool. He kissed me, then rushed off to mount the very high diving board. I watched, amazed, while he dove from some spectacular height. The fright nearly killed him, but he said he had to do something that scared the shit out of him to prove how much he loved me. He was always putting himself through some test that, in his mind, made up for ways he’d been bad, even if the badness was only in his own mind.
We drank a lot and cruised the lounge shows. Warren was obsessed with taking pictures, and when we got the film developed I got a foreshadowing of things to come. There were about ten pictures of some girl…to this day I can still picture her face.
One night Don, Karen, Warren, and I went downtown to gamble. Warren didn’t gamble, but he cheered Don on when he rolled snake eyes at the craps table. He’d bet conservatively, but after a couple more good rolls, he upped his stakes. He couldn’t lose. Finally, Don scooped up his chips and we left. We were all drunk on luck and Don split his winnings with us. When we got back to our room, Warren talked about his childhood and we watched the sun come up and held on to each other knowing how much we had to lose. Or gain. That night, he scrawled the beginnings of a new song called “Mama Couldn’t Be Persuaded” on the hotel stationery.
When Warren got back to L.A., we only had a couple weeks together before the kids and I left for Aspen. We spent every second together. We cried and made love and laughed a lot. We played Candyland with the kids and Scrabble with each other. We drove to the beach and took walks at sunset. It seemed impossible that we were separating, but the day finally arrived, and I loaded Cindy, Bart, and our dog, Sherman, in my Datsun station wagon, and we left. In Las Vegas, we had lunch at the Landmark, and I called Warren. I almost turned around, but the kids wouldn’t let me.
Warren had concluded that he would give Los Angeles only one more shot. The magical moments of the late ’60s—with his feeling like the golden boy—were fading.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: I started working at my father’s insurance agency. I was eating extended lunches at a place called the Pub with old high school friends, watching the Watergate hearings on TV, then going home to write or call Warren. I was obsessed and so was he, although Barbara, the girl Tule had fixed him up with, was right there to take my place the minute I was out of sight.
LETTER FROM WARREN, JUNE 1973:
Friday night
…part of my growing self-awareness of my feelings for you is the realization that I would go berserk if you cheated on me…What I’m leading up to is my dilemma about why I should enjoy the double standard. The only rationalization is the old notion that women’s sexuality is more directly emotional, and a man’s can be either loving or simply lustful, that is, biological necessity. Is it true?…I’ve never since 15 gone too long without a sexual release. This seems unjust. I cannot work it out in my head, all I can say is that I can make love without emotion. (not to you, ever, I swear)…I carry the thought of you as securely as a picture in a locket, you just seem right for me…
(It’s funny…we said the silences were like peaceful conversation, now it seems I can just go on and on writing to you, even th
ough I have little to say—I’m just carried along by the happy thought of speaking to the you I dream of. )
…Incidentally, I love your body, have I told you that lately? Did I ever confess that I thought of you as Katherine Hepburn?…(Listen to me! I’m sounding crazy, aren’t I? Don’t let nobody see this letter. I never wrote an erotic letter in my life!) I close my eyes—I can feel your shoulder bones—!!
Saturday
…truly want to avoid Barbara…I really don’t mind being alone most of the time…I passed out quite soundly on the floor. (For six hours or so, apparently)…
Sunday
…I’m working steadily on Empty-handed heart…It rambles on and on, like the uninhibited style of my letter writing to you. Perhaps if I work out good enough music to this rather long goofy tune I’ll have accomplished something—who knows.
…I feel like everything’s us again (I like those words)…I love you. I wish you were here to hear the Clancy Bros. singing. And try to evaluate my current work frankly, and just be the way you are in my arms at night…punch and kiss the kids.
I love you.
Warren
LETTER FROM WARREN, POSTMARKED JUNE 22, 1973:
…wish I could come to Aspen today…I do feel a very Denveresque (John, that is—no, Hunter Thompson’s a better example) yearning for Colorado. Anyway, it’s you I yearn for, keep thinking about dumb domestic stuff like watching T.V. and neckin’ like we were doing before you left (not that I expect our love affair to revolve around the tube, but you know what I mean. You just seem to make things peaceful and pleasant for me).
Crystal I love you.
Your Warren
P.S. Getting writer’s cramp, so I’ll postpone notes to the kids but tell them I love them and miss them. Very much love, W.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: Warren decided to come to Aspen. He had almost gone through what he’d earned in Las Vegas, so I sent him a check for his plane fare. He returned it immediately.
The check was endorsed “Robespierre Duck.”
LETTER FROM WARREN, JUNE 1973:
Dearest Crystal…
Hope your father liked my birthday greeting. Confidentially, men (or at least I) size up a woman’s parents very carefully to try and anticipate what they might get stuck with in 30 years, and yours win out. It might not hurt to pass that little confession on to them, sentiment might flatter them and/or ingratiate me with them (since it is true)…
LETTER FROM WARREN, JULY 5, 1973:
Dearest Crystal…I hope empty-handed heart’s nearly done. I foolishly put a rough-cut of it on your demo tape, and I’m afraid to erase it (and forget it)…
Don called, said he wanted to tell me personally the Bros. were through. I told him how sorry I was, but I also said that maybe reviving the act singing Jackson’s songs or something was like asking Beethoven to write his fifth symphony over and over—“but I’m writing my 6th!”—“But we liked the 5th!”…It’s nice Don called me. Guess I’m flattered—hardly talk to anyone anymore. Phil called the other day, too. Funny how both of ’em have called me these past few days, and nobody else. A peculiar lonesome honor…
Later (at 1:10) Crystal, this is important. I just wrote a love song to you—about you. I’ve never written a “yes” love song, only some “no” ones (and one about my fondness for the B flat maj. 7 chord)…You’ll know by all the lyrics that it’s all and only us. And even if I hate it in the morning, it’s taped and all finished. Got ambitious and decided to give Warner Bros. a pretty little song, and there you were in front of me. It’s called IN EACH OTHER’S ARMS. I think it’s okay…Yeah—(I think, I hope)—I DO have a “yes” song. YOU’RE MY YES.
It’s 2:00 a.m…I’ve written a short ditty about Aspen, worked on Kensington Mail (it’s now called). I started a C&W juke no. A HOBO’S HAND-ME-DOWN HEARTED.
Be happy, honey. I miss you—
Love, Warren
LETTER FROM WARREN, JULY 11, 1973:
Dearest Crystal—
…Monday’s Barrigian lesson was amazing—I finally had the emotional break thru he’s been waiting for. He said he used “an old technique that’s just too rough to use on most people.”…I’m one of the tensest students he’s ever had…He said, “…it takes a lifetime to get that tense. I could tell you a lot about your childhood: not enough affection and too much discipline”…When I disputed he said, “…there’s affection and qualified affection.” “Momma don’t go, daddy come home, arrggghh!!” Eh?…
CRYSTAL ZEVON: Warren called and begged me to come to L.A. for a visit. Don and Phil were breaking up, but they had contracted to play a three-night gig at Knott’s Berry Farm. Warren wanted me to be there for the Everly Brothers’ last performance.
It was July 14th, 1973. We arrived and Don was drinking heavily. Phil and Patricia were locked in their dressing room, so after going on a few rides, we hung out with Don, mostly watching him drink and hold court. There was a star-studded crowd, including George Segal, whom Warren and I adored. I watched the show from the side curtains with Karen. I’d seen Don perform with the flu and a temperature of 103°. I’d never heard him hit a sour note or be anything short of professional in front of an audience. But, this night, he walked onstage dead drunk. He was stumbling and off key and I remember Phil trying to restart songs several times. It was embarrassing.
The fourth or fifth song they did was “Wake Up, Little Susie,” and Don was forgetting people’s names and insulting the audience and Phil. Finally, Phil stormed offstage. He smashed his Gibson guitar and said, “I quit.” It was stunning. A few minutes later we were standing in the hallway between Don and Phil’s dressing rooms when Phil and Patricia stormed out. Patricia looked right at me with wide eyes, but Phil just marched dead ahead. He didn’t speak to anybody, but it was clear he wasn’t coming back.
Don said he could do it alone, and the band agreed to back him up. Then we all went over to Barry and Marsha Farrell’s house. The band was jamming; Harrison Ford was there. George Segal drove to his house in Topanga Canyon to get his banjo so he could play with everybody. It was Hollywood heaven. By the end of the night, Warren and I had practically forgotten the tragic end of the Everly Brothers.
Soon after I got back to Aspen, Warren arrived. I stopped going to work at my father’s insurance agency altogether. One night we were out drinking at the Mother Lode bar with my high school friend, Jeff McFadden. Warren was cozying up to a bunch of rugby players, thinking he fit right in. Jeff and I watched Warren getting drunker and drunker with these macho maniacs. All of a sudden, Warren got it in his head that one of these thugs was making a pass at me. The next thing I knew he’d called the guy a “fucking feckless freeloader.” He was obsessed with the word feckless at the time, and he liked trying out other “f” words next to it. Anyway, he accused the rugby player of “trying to put his limp dick in another man’s woman.” The guy tried to ignore him for about three seconds until Warren said, “Whatsa matter, droopy dick? Scared to take it outside?” Before we knew it, the whole rugby team was ushering Warren out the door and he was flailing around, ready to take them all on. Somehow, between my tears and Jeff’s assurances that Warren would not drink at the Mother Lode ever again, we got out of there with Warren emotionally battered, but still breathing. The postscript to the story is that we were back there the next night and so were the rugby players. We had a good laugh and became friends.
BARBARA BRELSFORD: We were very concerned about the direction Crystal’s life seemed to be taking. She’d assumed the responsibility for two children, but she couldn’t be counted on to show up to work. We didn’t know what to do but try to be supportive. We helped financially, and we took the children a lot.
I wouldn’t want to say we disapproved of her relationship with Warren. We could see that they loved each other, but at the time, they seemed to be so irresponsible. They were drinking a lot, and it worried us. But, we also realized how determined they were to be together, and so we just tried to help where we could.
CLIFF BRELSFORD: Crystal had always had a mind of her own, and I guess we should have expected that the man she would fall in love with wouldn’t necessarily be a doctor or a lawyer. I’m a musician, and so I understood her love of music, but she and Warren shocked me more than once. They just didn’t seem to know any boundaries, and I found it hard to relate.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: When the kids and I returned to L.A., we rented a house in Sherman Oaks with a little shed out back where Warren figured he could work at night. My father got me a job at an insurance brokerage on Wilshire, and life was almost normal. The kids and I would get up early and leave for school and work. Warren would be up by the time the kids got home. He and Bart developed a pretty close relationship; they would listen to Dolly Parton and talk. I’d come home and make dinner, and we ate as a family.
Warren knew he was an alcoholic, and he never pretended otherwise; but, rather than look upon his alcoholism as a scourge, or acknowledge it as a disease, he found ways to flaunt it like a badge of honor. He used his drunken episodes to build a reputation on and as material to write songs about. Warren believed that alcohol fueled the fire of his creativity.
Warren made his first semiserious attempt to get sober. He emptied all the liquor bottles in the house and bought gallons of fruit juice and soda. But it wasn’t long before he was stashing pints in the shed out back.
BART ASTOR: I went out to my playhouse, and Warren was out there drinking. He was upset, and he was embarrassed that I’d caught him. He started crying, but I was too young to really understand why.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: One day I got home from work, and Warren was blitzed. I found out he’d been hiding bottles in Bart’s playhouse and getting a nine-year-old kid to lie for him. I was livid. We had a raging battle, and he took Bart and my car, and they roared off down the street. Cindy and I were watching as Warren smashed into three parked cars, then steered right onto the lawn of a house down the block and drove smack into their front window.
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