by Tommy James
Once again, things were thrown into a chaotic state at Roulette. I remember Morris really looked bad. He was visibly shaken by this. Tommy Eboli was not only Morris’s connection and protection “downtown,” but they had been pals for a long time. I felt like I should say something consoling to Morris, but what the hell was I going to say? And after my forced hibernation in Nashville the previous year because of Morris’s Mob shit, I had really had it. One way or the other… I was getting the fuck out of here!
There wasn’t much time for mourning before I went in to see Morris. There was never a good time to confront Morris about anything, especially money, but I did not care. I had had enough. I walked in high on uppers to keep my energy level as acute and searing as I could. It was the most upsetting thing I ever had to do. The confrontation started loud and got louder and more and more visceral. There was venom in every word we said to each other. It was like we had been rehearsing our final act for the past six years. I didn’t care anymore. I was overwhelmed with pills and booze and resentment. I was sick to death of Morris Levy. Morris was behind the desk, sitting down. I did not sit down.
“Aaron told me what you said to him. I can’t believe you told him that.”
“Fuck your accountant. Nobody threatens me, you understand?”
“I’m so sick of this bullshit. I’m sick of you and I’m real sick of not being paid. I made you a fortune. I’m sick of living this kind of fucked-up life, living with your gangster friends and worried if somebody is going to blow my brains out because I work for you.”
“You do what the fuck you’re told.”
“Fuck you,” I screamed. “I’m one of the most successful acts on the planet and I have to beg for money like some bum off the street. I have two dozen gold records and I have to come to you with a tin cup. Jesus Christ, Morris, I even had to steal my fucking gold records off the wall. I’m sick of trying to make music for some ungrateful fuck like you. I’m getting out of here.”
“You ain’t going anywhere. Sit down and shut up.”
“What are you going to do?” I said. “Beat my brains out like you did to Jimmie Rodgers?”
“Listen, you little prick. There wouldn’t be a Tommy James if it wasn’t for me.”
“You’re psychotic, you know that? You and your fucking obsession with other people’s money.”
He sounded like the possessed girl in The Exorcist. “You were some fucking nobody ’til I put my money into you. I made you a fucking star, you ungrateful little shit.”
“Fuck you. I would have been a star without you. Every record company was going to sign me until you put a fucking gun to their heads. I’m going someplace where I’m appreciated. I don’t care if you fucking shoot me. It’s better than living this fucked-up life.”
“I held still for all your fucking craziness. You and your fucking pills and your booze. You still owe me money from all the recording sessions.”
“Oh, really. Did they cost forty million fucking dollars? You cocksucking thief.”
“Fuck forty million dollars. Fuck you. Fuck Tommy James. You think you’re a big man now. You ain’t going nowhere.” He paused and looked at me. His eyes were popping out of his head. “Don’t try nothing either or you’ll be sorry.”
“You might as well do it now.” I stood up and threw my arms out. “Come on, shoot me now, you son of a bitch. I’m leaving.”
I walked out and smashed the door against the wall. No one said a word to me, not even Karin. For once, everybody up there was afraid of me instead of Morris. I don’t remember ever being that angry, to the point that I didn’t care what happened to me. If Morris had touched me and I had a knife I would have stabbed him like he told me he’d stabbed his brother’s killer. I don’t know whether I made an impression, but I know Morris had never seen me like that before.
I went home and was sick for weeks. Every time the phone rang I thought it might be him but he never called. I knew in my heart he would never call. That wasn’t Morris’s way. I hit him with everything I had and it did not faze him. It wasn’t anything a hundred other people hadn’t said to him. I stayed high for a couple of days and then concocted my plan. No matter what I said, Morris had me over a barrel. And no matter what he might have thought of me, he wasn’t going to let me risk his security or jeopardize his home and family, his hookers and Mob friends, his power and authority. The only way I could beat Morris was to sabotage my own career. I could have sued him but Morris didn’t care about lawsuits. Morris was a law unto himself. And when it came down to it, you weren’t just fighting Morris. You were fighting all of them, the whole Genovese crime family. And they had no problem shooting their own people. What would they care about a long-haired rocker and his accountant? It was the only way out. Everything I had worked so hard to create, everything I had ever dreamed of, would have to lie in ruins by my own hand. That was the killer. I was the one who would have to destroy Tommy James. If I didn’t, whatever was left of Tommy Jackson would not survive.
I decided that I would make no more albums for Roulette. Morris kept sporadically releasing whatever singles he had stored in the vault but the well soon ran dry.
In 1974, he finally let me go. I had changed lawyers again and David Carrabelle finally got me out of my contract. My publishing had to stay with Morris for several more years, but in 1974, Morris finally gave me my release. I felt terrible in one respect. This was my home. But everything had changed. There were dark clouds in the sky now. My marriage was over, Red was gone, and Morris was spending more time up at the farm. Tommy Eboli had been shot along with all the others lost in the gang wars. The ground under the music business was shifting. It seemed like everything was out of joint. The whole sense of play had gone away. Thank God I had found Lynda. She was the only thing keeping me sane.
By 1974, I was gone.
CHAPTER TEN
Draggin’ the Line
Just before I officially separated from Roulette, Morris got into a curious haggle with John Lennon. The Beatles had released their album Abbey Road back in 1969. The first song on the album was John’s song “Come Together.” In the mid-seventies, Morris discovered that a couple of lines from “Come Together” were taken from a Chuck Berry song called “You Can’t Catch Me,” and Morris owned the copyright. The Chuck Berry song was about a car chase with a “flat-top” “moving up” on Chuck’s car. There was a similar line in “Come Together.” Morris and his publishing company, Big Seven, sued John Lennon and his publishing company, as well as the Beatles’ record company, Apple Records. But Morris never collected on the suit, because he and John had become friends. Whether he wanted to find someone to replace me as Roulette’s main money earner by trying to steal John from Capitol or whether he just wanted to be associated with an ex-Beatle, I don’t know. Whatever his motives, Morris talked John into recording three songs from his publishing company for the next Lennon album, a project John was planning with Phil Spector. John was going to do a cover album of fifties rock and roll classics. Recording the three Morris songs would satisfy the suit. I found out from Karin later on that Morris had invited John down to his house in Jupiter, Florida, and offered John his farm in upstate New York for rehearsals. Morris was courting John.
Things didn’t work out. John was late with the recording, and by this time Capitol Records had gotten involved. Morris not only wanted to have John record his songs, he also wanted to handle the distribution, which he intended to do through television marketing; a virgin field that Morris wanted to control. Capitol was distributing John’s albums and told Morris to get out of the picture. Morris said that if Capitol didn’t back down he would release his own John Lennon album of outtakes that John had foolishly loaned him and that Morris had no intention of giving back. John called Morris, almost in tears, and begged him not to release the record, but Morris, of course, said, “Fuck you.”
Morris released Roots and Capitol hurried out what became Rock and Roll. But by this time, everybody was suing everybody els
e. The case dragged on for another year and Morris lost. None of this surprised me. Morris made millions and would go on to make more, but there was something inside him that could not do it legitimately. Morris would always rather make ten cents illegally than a thousand dollars honestly. Thank God, I thought, it wasn’t my problem anymore.
Now I was on my own. My manager was still Mark Allen, and he got a deal for me at Fantasy Records. At that point, I wanted to get as far away from New York as I could, and Fantasy was out in Berkeley, California. Just before that, I did a short stint at MCA with a single that I had just recorded called “Glory Glory.” We had a single on MCA, which got some airplay but didn’t do that much. MCA had just opened a New York office, and George Lee from Warner Brothers came over and headed it and Carol Ross, the greatest PR gal on the planet, worked there, so it was a great place. But MCA was not going to spring for albums. They already had Elton John and Olivia Newton-John, and my name didn’t end in John, so I left.
Then I went to Fantasy and released two albums: In Touch and Midnight Rider. While I was with Fantasy, I had to finagle a deal with Jeff Barry because Morris would not give up my publishing. Anything I wrote up to 1979 was his. Anything that had my name on it, even though it had Jeff Barry’s name attached to it, would go through Morris and he would claim rights, which would mean that Jeff would never get paid either. So Jeff, knowing this, asked me if every other song on Midnight Rider could be a Tommy James song and he would claim credit for the other half, and that’s what we did.
I had gone up to see Morris at one point. The album was starting to go up the charts, and I made a point of stopping by Roulette while I was in New York just to say hello, but I really wanted to stick it to him. I was high, but not like at our last meeting. I was filled not so much with anger as I was full of myself. We were meeting for the first time as equals, at least in my mind. I almost said, “You have my publishing? Fine. Let’s see you get out of this.” After some pleasantries and talk about the good old days, I left him a copy of the album and walked out.
Morris went crazy. He called Jeff Barry and scared Jeff to death. “I know what you guys are trying to pull. This is bullshit. You think I don’t know a Tommy James song when I hear it?” Jeff called me and screamed, “Why did you go see Morris, for Christ’s sake? You trying to get me killed?” But Morris could not prove anything. I wanted to stick a pole into the lion’s cage and rattle it and make him roar.
While I was out in California, I visited Red Schwartz, who had married and relocated to the West Coast, as far away from Morris as possible. We had lunch at an L.A. restaurant and talked old times. When I mentioned Nate McCalla, Red said, “Didn’t you hear?” I said, “Hear what?” Red got nervous and spoke softly, like he used to do at Roulette when the boys were in Morris’s office. “They found Nate’s body in a bungalow in Florida. He was strapped to a chair and had been shot in the face. The body must have been there for a couple of weeks.” We traded stories about what we had heard of Nate since we’d both left Roulette, that he was running guns, that he owed the wrong people money and had to leave the country but he couldn’t stay away. Knowing Nate, both stories were probably true. The funny thing was that all the time we were talking, no matter how insane the situation was, how insane the world of Morris Levy was, we realized it still had been the best time of our lives.
I signed eventually with Millennium Records back in New York, which produced the Three Times in Love album and the single of the same name. It was a successful album and the single went number one, plus two other chart singles, “You Got Me” and “You’re So Easy to Love.” I then left Millennium and signed with Freddie Haayen, the president of Polygram, who had started his own label called 21 Records. We were right in the middle of doing an album when he lost his distribution deal with Polygram, and because of another problem he had over taxes, and because he was a Dutch citizen, had to leave the country at the request of the federal government.
On April 17, 1981, Lynda and I were married in a little church her parents attended in Mars, Pennsylvania, just outside Pittsburgh. Lynda was a Pittsburgh girl. I was very happy and content that once again the town of Pittsburgh had changed my life. You would think that after everything I had been through, I would learn a lesson, any lesson. Not likely. In 1986, I got high and decided to see Morris Levy.
I had written some new songs and recorded them as rough mixes. I do not know what compelled me except that I wanted him to see what I had done on my own. I wanted his approval. As insane as it was, I missed Roulette and the electricity of the place. I missed the sixties. I went up to Morris’s new offices on Broadway. The space was big but it wasn’t nice. It had all the outward things that Roulette always had, but none of the people that I had grown up with, none of the people that made it work. Morris’s office was strangely the same. The same plaques, the picture of Cardinal Spellman, the UJA awards, and the great desk. Morris was making his usual fortune. He was involved in a lot of cutout deals. He had bought Strawberries, which was a huge record store chain out of Boston, and he went all over the country building outlets. Morris, of course, loved the new stuff. “This is a fuckin’ hit.” I told him I wasn’t looking for a record deal. “I want my own label,” I told him. “You got it.” No hesitation. We drew up papers. The lawyers got together, but in the end I could not sign. I could not do it. One of the points of the deal was that I could not collect my own money. It would all have to go through Roulette. There was no way I could do it. Morris would just keep the money.
Morris was very glad to see me. He had not had a hit to speak of since I left. He was making his money from his catalog, Strawberries, and his cutouts and marketing deals with his new companies, Adam VIII and K-tel.
About three months later, I was watching the news about an MCA/FBI sting. My mouth dropped open. Brian Ross on NBC News was announcing, “Morris Levy, the Godfather of rock and roll, has just been arrested at his Boston offices.” They had shots of the MCA building in Hollywood. Morris was arrested at one of his Strawberries stores and taken out in handcuffs. He had a suit coat over his cuffs. The FBI must have cued the TV stations.
At first I was stunned. Seeing Morris arrested and in handcuffs was as upsetting as if I had seen my parents arrested. I thought it was impossible. Morris beating the rap, any rap, was almost a law of nature to anyone who knew him. The thought of him going to prison was as inconceivable and chaotic as if the laws of gravity had been turned upside down. But as I followed the story more closely and talked to people who were still close to Morris, I became furious. The feds had Morris’s office staked out for months. There were microphones under the desk, embedded in the walls, cameras spying on all proceedings from two discreet holes drilled into the ceiling. One directional microphone was behind the O on his favorite plaque, “O Lord, Give Me a Bastard with Talent.” And the mikes and the cameras were running when I had gone up to see Morris. Now I likely had my own separate file in FBI headquarters. I kept trying to remember every word I’d said. Did I say anything incriminating? Was I going to be considered one of Morris’s partners? Was my home in New Jersey bugged? Did the FBI sneak in while Lynda and I were away? I was seething and scared and still in amazement over Morris’s arrest. I had tried to escape Morris, and yet I came back. No one forced me to go up to Morris. There was a part of me that missed the insanity, excitement, power, glamour, and danger of it all.
That night I went home and started drinking heavily. Lynda was sympathetic, but as soon as I went over the edge, she went to bed in disgust. At some point during the night I began taking out what was left of my gun collection, the one that Morris took from me years before and kept at his farm. I eventually got most of them back and kept them up at my farm, but when that was sold I brought them to New Jersey. I don’t know whether I was paranoid about the FBI or if the guns brought Morris back to me in a kind of drunken reverie. It’s always pointless to speculate why a drunk does what he does, because all the reasons are hidden inside a bottle and they make
sense only to the one doing the drinking. Apparently, at some point, I loaded up one of my rifles, opened the kitchen window, and started firing the thing at my pool in the backyard. One, two, three, I don’t remember how many times, I don’t remember what I hit, what I was aiming at. The next thing I remember was the police at my door.
Lynda was frantic. I was calm, reserved even, most likely in that comatose state of awe when the lights go up and you just don’t care anymore. My whole gun collection was scattered over the living room floor. One of my neighbors had heard the shots and called the police. It wasn’t long before I was led out of my house in handcuffs. The police gathered all my weapons as evidence and I was driven to the station, where I spent the night in jail.
When I woke up the next morning I was terrified and in a state of panic. I had no idea what I had done. Did I take the car out and kill somebody? Did I hurt Lynda? Those initial seconds of dread were the most frightening I had ever known. What had I done? I could not remember.
Lynda eventually bailed me out and called my attorney, but no attorney I had ever had was going to help me with this mess. When everything had been explained to me, all I could think about was Morris. Why didn’t I listen to Morris and get rid of those guns? He was right and I was crazy. For a second I actually thought about calling him, asking him for help. Morris, get me out of this. But Morris could not do that anymore. There were no more adults left to call. And why should there be? I was almost forty years old. My lawyers worked feverishly on my case, I prayed like I had never prayed before, and, by some miracle, I was found guilty of nothing more than disturbing the peace. I knew, in my heart, that God was giving me one last chance.
It was right after that that I decided I had to do something drastic. I initially was going to go to England for a radical treatment that was popular back then. I was desperate enough to do anything. Then I saw Liza Minnelli on 60 Minutes. Liza had just come out of Betty Ford and she raved about the place and I decided to go, but I could not go right away. We had a lot of concerts already booked and we would have been sued for a lot of money if I did not keep the dates. The last day I got high was October 9, 1986, in Atlantic City, when I really tied one on at the gambling tables. I won a lot of money too. Lynda went with me out to the Ford Center on the thirteenth. We flew into Palm Springs, and they picked me up and took me to the center. Lynda was going to stay with friends while I was getting treatment, and it was six of the best weeks I ever spent in my life. I haven’t had a drink or mind-altering chemical since. It changed my whole life. One of the most dramatic moments for me was the realization that I was a Christian who did everything a Christian should not do. I could no longer live with that hypocrisy and double-mindedness. When you’re cross-addicted as I was, you have no real conception of how saturated you are with that poison. As it wears off, a weird thing starts to happen. Your feelings come back to life. It’s like you are watching black-and-white TV and someone switches on the color. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I had not felt this good or healthy in thirty years. I did not realize I was a flat-liner. My world had become colorless, and now I could see it in all its splendor. I felt like I had been in a coma or under anesthesia for the last two decades and now I was waking up. I couldn’t wait to do all the things I had erased from my life, simple things like going to the movies, taking walks, looking at the ocean, living. This gush of emotions even worked itself into my songwriting. I actually started using verbs again. I gained almost an octave in my voice. It was like being born again. It was truly a death, burial, and resurrection. I left my old corpse back at the center and walked out a new person.