Miraculously, Bart came out of it with just a bump on his head. Warren’s head was bleeding, but the alcohol had softened the blow. The entire neighborhood was gawking when the police took him away in handcuffs.
Warren’s friend Stash invited us to stay with him. I said, “Lead the way.” I left Warren a note saying I couldn’t take it anymore and that he should pack his things and leave. Stash lived in a little guesthouse in Van Nuys, and we took up every inch of space, but he didn’t seem to mind. He even drove me to work and the kids to school and picked us up every day.
They kept Warren in jail for three days, but the moment he got out, he started calling and, of course, he was furious that I was at Stash’s, and he was convinced we were sleeping together. We weren’t. Finally, I agreed to come back, but only if he promised to stop drinking and go to AA.
I didn’t know anything about Alcoholics Anonymous except that people said it might help Warren and it was free. I thought if he went one time, he could stop drinking. The meeting started, and the speaker was a piano player from Las Vegas. He talked and I was weeping through the whole story—it felt like our story. He talked about abusing wives and abandoning his children. He talked about how he’d started out as a protégé, then the more he drank the fewer jobs he got until he ended up on the streets of Vegas playing in piano bars for change people threw in his jar.
I could see Warren’s jaw set. He was listening, but with clenched teeth. When we left the meeting, he didn’t want to talk about it, and he refused to go back again.
We found an apartment in Hollywood. By this time, Bart was having emotional problems. I knew the life we were leading with Warren wasn’t good for him, so I got him into therapy. The therapist said he needed a more stable environment, and suggested foster care. When Bart met the foster family, he wanted to go. Warren encouraged it, pointing out that he would come home every other weekend and we’d have more fun. So, on the day that Warren, Cindy, and I moved back to Hollywood, Bart moved in with a family in Northridge.
BART ASTOR: Every time I tried to see one of his shows as an adult, I’d never get a response. I would have liked to have known him as an adult, and not just as this kind of scary drunk from my childhood.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: It was a new beginning, and we tried hard. I took up macramé and bought Warren an electric piano and dedicated a corner of the living room to him. But, the neighbors objected to the noise, which infuriated Warren. We fought.
I was going to work while Warren stayed home ostensibly to write songs, but when I’d get home, he was always watching game shows on TV. Finally, he decided to go to Berkeley and stay with Danny McFarland. He figured he could find places to play up there and a change would be good for his writing.
DANNY MCFARLAND: I lived up in the Berkeley Hills. He called me and wanted to get away from Los Angeles, so I said to come on up. He called me his quasi–band manager. I’d get off work, or on weekends, I’d take him to clubs in the Bay Area. The Longbranch was one. He’d play and pass the hat. One time, it was after Warren played, some guy says, “Warren Zevon? I know this one song.” It was “Tule’s Blues.” He came out of nowhere and played it.
I had a little part-time job on weekends. I’d borrow the company’s truck and haul old pianos around San Francisco for Sam Duvall of the Great American Music Hall. One Saturday, Warren was helping out to make spare change. We had to make a delivery from San Francisco over to Berkeley. So, we get into Berkeley and he hops out of the cab and goes in the back and starts playing the piano all the way through Berkeley until we delivered it. That was funnier than hell.
He came up with this recipe for chili. He taught me how to do it and I still have the original recipe.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: Warren called and said he was coming “home.” I went to the airlines on my way to work that day and paid for his ticket. He was back the next day.
I had taken Cindy to stay with friends, and when I got home, Warren proposed to me. He literally got down on bended knee, tears rolling down his cheeks, and asked for my hand in marriage. Of course, I said yes.
The phone rang almost immediately. It was my parents. After everything with the Aspen visit and the totaled car, they hadn’t bothered to make their relief a secret when Warren moved to Berkeley, and so I knew they wouldn’t be dancing in the streets when I told them we were getting married. I handled it the way I handled a lot of things in those days: I didn’t tell them.
We found two friends, Arnie Geller and Rebecca Winters, who were up for driving to Vegas with us to witness our union. Arnie had some blotter acid in his refrigerator. After scouring the closets for wedding wear, we all congregated at Arnie’s and dropped acid, then took off across the desert.
We stayed at the Stardust…it sounded romantic to a bunch of hip-pies on acid. Besides, Warren’s father had history there, so we decided it would be in keeping with family tradition. We were totally nuts. We checked into our room and made arrangements for the wedding. At ten A.M. I called my parents to tell them we were being married at one P.M. They were devastated—not that we were getting married—I guess they expected it, but they couldn’t believe that we hadn’t invited them.
BARBARA BRELSFORD: When Crystal called us, she said, “Sit down. I have something to tell you. I’m getting married.” I said, “When?” “Right now. We’re in Las Vegas and we’re going to be married.” I was shocked…I just kept thinking, why couldn’t you have let us in on it? It was our daughter’s wedding. We would have flown in on a moment’s notice, but we weren’t invited. We felt left out. Every mother dreams of being there for her daughter’s wedding…
CRYSTAL ZEVON: When we got to the Chapel of the Bells, Warren realized he didn’t have a ring for me. While I waited in the anteroom, which is more of a gaudy gift shop, Warren went to the bathroom. Somehow, he took the faucet apart and found a washer that became my wedding ring.
Warren and Arnie went into the chapel, and when the organ music started, Rebecca and I walked down the aisle. I thought I was hallucinating again—everything was swirling and sparkling—and I started to giggle. Rebecca started laughing, too, and just as it was about to become one of those uncontrollable contagious laughing bouts, my eyes met Warren’s.
(L to R) Rebecca Winters, Crystal, Warren, and Arnie Geller at Chapel of the Bells, Las Vegas, May 25, 1974.
He was dead serious. His eyes were filled with tears as he watched me walking toward him, and then all I could see was him. Somehow we managed to repeat the wedding liturgy, Warren put the washer from the sink on my finger, we kissed and posed for pictures, and it was over. We were married.
The night we got home, we had dinner with Don Everly. He asked Warren to be the band leader for his first solo tour. As a wedding gift, I could come along. A couple nights later, we had dinner with Warren’s dad, and he gave me a set of wedding rings. Then we went to Aspen to honeymoon at my parents’.
I’d still never met Warren’s mother or grandparents, so I insisted that we stop in Fresno on our way back to L.A. First, we met the grandparents, and they told us his mother couldn’t see us that night, but she’d be there for Sunday lunch the next day. Maybe Elmer would come, maybe not. I never was even invited into his mother’s house.
The next day we drove around Fresno, and Warren showed me where he’d been to school and the bridal shop where his mother and grandmother worked. We ended up at shopping malls, until finally we went back to the grandparents’ house. It was all incredibly awkward.
Finally, Nam [Warren’s grandmother] announced that we’d have to eat without Warren’s mother, but as we sat down, she and Elmer arrived. Elmer walked over to Warren and shook his hand right away, and I had the initial impression it was like a peace offering. Later, Warren told me he thought he was going to break his hand he gripped it so hard. Warren’s mother looked like a sparrow the cat had been toying with but hadn’t bothered to kill.
I immediately understood why Warren appreciated home cooking so much. I don’t think there was anything on the
table that wasn’t out of a can. Canned ham, canned peas and carrots, Wonder bread still in the polka-dotted plastic with margarine and raspberry jam.
Elmer started in on Warren. “So, Warren, ya met manual yet?” I’m so naïve, I actually thought he was referring to a person until Bop [Warren’s grandfather] stood up, looked at Warren and me, and said, “If you want to leave now, we’ll understand.” Warren got up to go, but I put my hand on his leg and we finished dinner.
Warren’s mother didn’t say a thing unless it was to comment on the dinner. I caught her looking at Warren and at me several times, and when I caught her eye, she’d smile but then quickly find something fascinating on her plate. What a nightmare. We left immediately after dinner and I apologized to Warren for putting him through that. He said it was probably just as well that I saw it all for myself in case I ever doubted the bleakness of his childhood.
Warren places the “ring” on Crystal’s finger.
FIVE
WEREWOLVES OF LONDON
Ahhwooooo…
JACKSON BROWNE: The selectivity of who Warren engaged with is very important in understanding Warren because there was a certain chemistry that produced “Werewolves of London.” That song wouldn’t have happened with Warren and me.
ROY MARINELL: Writing “Werewolves of London” was a good lesson in never taking yourself too seriously. On most songs you write, you labor and you craft a song for weeks. You put everything into it, every word is agonizing, and people say, humm, that’s a nice song. “Werewolves” was literally a fifteen-minute song that none of us took seriously. We did it as spontaneously as could be, and look what happened.
The story starts out with Crystal, Warren, and me sitting around my house in Venice…Actually, Phil Everly likes to stay up all night and watch old movies, and he had talked to Warren about a great English movie called Werewolf of London that was made in 1930. He thought we should write a song called “Werewolves of London” and make it a dance craze. So, Warren was telling me the story and I said, “What a great idea.” Waddy walks in and he said, “You mean, ah-oooh.” We said, “Whoa, great.”
I had this great lick—dum dum, dum dum, dum dum dum dum—I’d been carrying around for years. Knew it was a good lick but no idea what to do with it. So, I was playing that lick, Waddy did the “Ah-ooh,” and Warren said, “Waddy, you sing the first verse.” Then Warren wrote the second verse, and I wrote the third verse.
Now, I must say that I did have a little to do with Warren’s verse. He had said originally, “An old lady got mutilated last night,” and I said, “Why don’t we make this really an example of alliteration…little old lady got mutilated late last night.” Of course, Warren, literate fellow that he was, loved it. We finished the song and Crystal said, “Wow, what a great song.” Fools that we are, we said, “You think it’s so great, why don’t you write it down?” Otherwise, that song never would have gone anywhere.
WADDY WACHTEL: The day we wrote “Werewolves of London,” I was going from Venice into town. I had to go to work somewhere, but I stopped by Roy’s. Warren and Crystal and Roy were there. Warren said, “Hey, man, you’ve got to help us. Phil Everly gave me this title. It’s called ‘Werewolves of London.’” And, I instantly said, “Oh, that’s easy,” and then I spit the first verse out.
I don’t know. I’m no literary fucking genius but since I just got back from England, that’s how it went. I wrote the meat of that fucking thing. But, I just like…“You mean, like, I saw a werewolf walking down the street with a Chinese menu in his hand.” “Yeah, yeah, like that.” “Walking down the streets of Soho in the rain.” And it just kept going. I don’t know. It’s the most complete verse I ever wrote.
Oh, no. What started it was Roy had this fucking lick sitting around for like a year. I said, “‘Werewolves of London’? Roy, play that fucking lick of yours.” Then, I went “Ahh-oooh” over that, and I started spitting the words out. And I said to Crystal, “Write this down.” That’s how it went.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: Warren and I drove to Venice with him obsessed about Phil’s idea of starting a dance craze. When we got to Roy’s, our first priority was the sinsemilla pot Roy had just bought. We got stoned, and then Warren started telling Roy about Phil’s idea. Waddy dropped in and they wrote the whole song in ten or fifteen minutes.
Roy and Warren kind of finished it off after Waddy left, but none of them were taking it too seriously. I kept telling them it was a hit, and they just laughed and said, yeah, yeah, well, write it down if you like it. I always carried this steno pad around in those days. I wrote everything down—from grocery lists to clever things Warren, or anybody, said. I knew this song was good, and the next day Jackson invited Warren to come to the studio. Jackson was trying to get Ronstadt and the Eagles to record Warren’s songs, and he wanted to make some tapes or something.
When we got there they started talking about what they’d record. I told Warren to play Jackson his new song. He said, “What new song?” I pulled out my trusty steno pad and started quoting the lyrics. Jackson loved it. If Jackson hadn’t responded the way he did, or if I hadn’t written it down, that song might never have ever been recorded.
JACKSON BROWNE: I got bootlegged doing that song because based on that one hearing, I knew it sort of, but I played it all wrong. People from my record company would say, “That’s great, are you going to put that on your next record?” I don’t think it would have been nearly as good if I’d recorded it. My impulses were to record Warren.
There’s a vast catalog of great songs that bear the stamp of Warren’s writing voice and his point of view and his personality and the depth of his character that don’t have to be done the way he did them. He had a limited instrument as a singer. But if you love those songs, they’re inseparable from the guy who wrote them no matter who sings them. And yet, I always bore allegiance to hearing the writer sing his songs. That kind of flies in the face of the music business.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: I got a job working for Len Chandler and John Braheny, who founded what was then called the Alternative Chorus Songwriters’ Showcase. We worked out of a space that had been turned into a studio behind Len’s house. John and Len auditioned unknown singer/songwriters, then showcased the ones who showed promise to recording industry professionals at Art Laboe’s on Sunset. As soon as I got the job, I scheduled an audition for Warren. He got the featured spot, which meant he got to perform six songs while the other writers did two or three.
GENE GUNNELS, drummer, played with the Everly Brothers: Warren put together a band with me on drums, Waddy on guitar, and Roy Marinell playing bass. We’d been rehearsing and making home-recorded demos with Warren for some time, and the promise was that when he got a deal, we’d be the backup band.
I’m a pretty forgiving guy, and I don’t hang on to resentments, but when Warren did finally get a deal, he never even called me, and that hurt. We’d known each other through the whole Everly Brothers thing, and I had a wife and a baby to support, so as much as I loved doing the music, I was also doing it with him because I thought it would become a paying job. I loved Warren dearly, and I don’t regret the experience, but I do regret that I wasn’t a part of the album that came later.
The night he performed for the Songwriters’ Showcase, Warren was at his raw and raunchy best. Before he left the stage, producer John Rhys was at his side. He wanted to finance a demo of Warren’s songs with an agreement that he would produce the album once Warren signed with a label.
JOHN RHYS, PRODUCER: I had made up my mind that this was something I had to do. I just loved Warren. He blew me away as a writer. Warren had two distinctive personalities. One was the classical side where he was very quiet and introspective, and then there was the “Werewolf of London,” which we all remember. I went to my attorney, and we sold half a publishing company to raise about thirty thousand dollars.
(L to R) John Rhys; his girlfriend, Michelle; Crystal; Warren; and “Little John,” Warren’s teenage sidekick and roadie.
> Warren contacted his musician friends, all of whom agreed to defer payment to help him cut a demo. The later album included some not-yet-written songs, while the demo with John Rhys included songs Warren never again recorded, such as “Frozen Notes,” “Working Man’s Pay,” and “Studebaker.”
JOHN RHYS: It was Waddy, and Roy Marinell playing bass, and Eddie Ponder playing drums. The Everly Brothers came in separately. Warren got Don in first because they weren’t talking to each other at the time. Then, he got in Phil and he told me, “Don’t play Don’s part because if Phil hears it, he won’t sing.” So, we put both of them on, unbeknownst to each other, singing on “Poor, Poor Pitiful Me.”
There were a lot of people who came in and out on that session. Barry Cowsill, Jackson, T-Bone Burnett, Lindsey Buckingham, and Stevie Nicks. But, mostly it was the nucleus of Warren, Waddy, Roy, and Eddie. I left the studio set up for over a month. Eddie’s drums never left the position. David Lindley played slide and fiddle on “Poor, Poor Pitiful Me.” It was just one big, giant party. It was a mighty time.
EDDIE PONDER, musician: I was the studio drummer for Hollywood Central at that time, so if anybody came in and needed a drummer, I played. So, I walked into this recording session that started around nine P.M. and went all night long. I saw this crazy person who acted like an Irishman but looked like a Russian playing these songs that just made my weenie hard. I just loved them.
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