by Don Felder
“That was great, Dad!” she told me when I saw her later that day, her eyes bright. “The kids loved everything we bought them. Can we do it again?”
With her encouragement, we repeated the exercise often, and she became so committed to the idea that she even called a number she saw on a television appeal in her hotel room one night and made a monthly pledge to another kids’ charity, which I still pay today. I knew then that she would never again take our good fortune for granted. And I don’t think she ever has.
Hell Freezes Over went on to be a very profitable and successful album. But the carrots that had been dangled in front of us turned out to be much less juicy than some of us had been led to believe. Furthermore, when the video and DVD came out, a large percentage of the camera footage was of Don and Glenn. For much of it, you’d think the Eagles were a two-man band. Even for the introduction of “Hotel California,” you only see my hands playing it, rarely my face. Joe had more airplay than Timothy or I, presumably because of his own solo status. The black and white mannequins on the miniature stage suddenly made sense. The limelight belonged to “The Gods” and “The Gods” alone.
That feeling was reinforced by the credits on the album. “Hotel California” was mine. It was my chief claim to fame, and I’d written most of the music at my beach house in Malibu. It was my understanding that, when it came to the credits, the person who contributed most to the song was listed first, followed in descending order by those who added something later, like lyrics. Thus, on the original Hotel album, the credits read, “Written by Don Felder, Don Henley, and Glenn Frey.” Suddenly, on Hell Freezes Over, the credits changed. After “Hotel California,” it said, “Written by Don Henley, Glenn Frey, and Don Felder,” relegating me to the final position.
Furthermore, not a single song by Bernie Leadon or Randy Meisner appeared on the new album. The classics they’d written and contributed so much to, like “Witchy Woman,” “On the Border,” “Try and Love Again” and “Take It to the Limit,” had been excluded. Neither of those founding members of the Eagles would earn a penny from our latest success. Faced with such pettiness, the antagonism between us increased. Everything started to become an issue, especially Joe and me larking around onstage with cardboard cutouts and some gimmicky tricks, providing much-needed comic relief but unintentionally drawing the camera away from “The Gods.”
Don would spend hours agonizing over publicity photographs, trying to decide if he looked too old or too wrinkled, or if his hair was just right. These were images for T-shirts or for photos to be signed and given away, not to be etched in stone in Mount Rushmore. We accepted his fastidiousness and appreciated that it was sometimes a good thing, both a blessing and a curse. The blessing was that he set new standards that we all had to strive to achieve. If you expect greatness of people, they often rise to greatness. The curse was that it all took time and energy.
The issue of how many people were on the payroll reared its ugly head once more. Don and Glenn had lackeys around them all the time—personal assistants, secretaries, press agents, attorneys, accountants, and various hired hands, even when they were in L.A. My new guitar tech was hired out of Nashville, where he returned between tour legs. On the road, the homeboys would share Don’s and Glenn’s enormous presidential suites. A constant presence at their side, they would escort them down in the elevator when it was time for the limos to take us to the gig. By contrast, I was given a walkie-talkie and was called up by one of the security people when it was my turn to come down.
These might seem trivial and insignificant matters compared to the bigger picture of being back together again and on the road and doing what we did best, but added to the sense of being taken for a ride financially, these individual digs added up, causing a permanent feeling of dissatisfaction and apprehension—like when you’re breaking up with someone and everything they do suddenly annoys you.
Sometimes, I admit, I let it eat me up too much inside. It was truly a case of this could be heaven or this could be hell, depending on how I was feeling on any particular day. Mostly, I was genuinely delighted to be on the road, playing music with the band that I loved. I’d close my eyes, let go, and play from my heart, which was what I enjoyed doing the most. When I was up there on the stage, I’d try to radiate that purity out of me and my music in a positive force that counteracted all the bullshit and gave the fans their money’s worth for the three hours they had us to themselves. The audience just wanted to be entertained. That’s what they had paid an exorbitant amount of money for.
Behind the scenes, I’d try to work with “The Gods” as much as I could, and not let the tensions destroy me. “Just think about the money, Fingers,” Don would say, grabbing my arm if ever he saw me getting upset with Glenn.
“The music is what it’s all about,” Joe would remind me. “That and the fans are all that matters.”
If the stress became too much, I’d take a deep breath, hang out with Joe, have some fun, and try to cool off. Now that he was sober, he’d become a computer nerd and radio ham. All the time he’d have previously devoted to drinking, taking drugs, or playing practical jokes he now spent tuning in to fellow hams all over the world. You could always tell which room Joe was in, because out on the balcony some weird contorted antenna would be set up, and you could hear muffled voices with foreign accents through his bedroom door.
Joe and I had already rebonded as friends in the “guitar camp” to which we had been relegated. He was great at shoring me up. While the new divisions between us and the singers’ camp eroded support, confidence, and the willingness to be spontaneous musically or speak our minds, Joe and I grew closer and closer. Without him, Don and Glenn would have sucked all the fun out of what should have been the best time of our lives.
Susan was always telling me that I’d never be rid of my stomach problems unless I accepted things more, and I knew she was right. I already had serious back pain, originally caused by a surfing accident in Malibu and exacerbated by so much time sitting in cars and planes. It had flared up on the road, requiring Glenn to have a doctor flown out to treat me. I also needed a different vehicle from the others, just to be more comfortable. Every cloud has a silver lining, however. I began to have daily sessions with Don’s personal Pilates instructor, a wonderfully spiritual woman named Isa Bohn, who was already on the tour for him. Isa was in her seventies, with the body of a twenty-year-old. She corrected my guitar player’s slump and taught me a great deal about being positive and calm and in touch with my inner self.
“You need to relax,” she’d tell me in that silky smooth voice of hers, as she adjusted my posture. “There are things you have no control over and which you need to let go. Life is too short to waste it worrying.” She was right.
Our road crew on Hell Freezes Over was one of the best we ever had. They worked damn hard, tearing down the set at two in the morning before riding a bus for six hours to the next venue. Their schedule was punishing, and they’d sleep where they could before scrambling to set up the stage for the next show. Meanwhile, we were in five-star suites and limos and private planes with all the glitz and glamour you can imagine.
Usually, the crew slept on the bus, but when we stayed in a town for a couple of days, they would be put up in a hotel. Previously, they’d always stayed in the same place as us, which allowed for a sense of camaraderie and shared experience. We could hang out together after a gig, spend time in each other’s rooms, get high, or shoot some pool. With Hell Freezes Over, that changed. Suddenly, the band was in the Four Seasons and the crew was in the Holiday Inn.
Among our crew was a man named Bill, who handled our wiring and built the synthesizer racks we used. He played good bass and was a great person to have around on the technical side. The crew had just done several shows in a row, finishing one in Vegas and reaching Phoenix in the wee hours of the morning, finally getting to their hotel rooms. Each was given a plastic keycard at reception. Exhausted, Bill went up to his room. He swiped his card in
the door, but it wouldn’t open. They’d given him the wrong code, so he went to a friend’s room and called the front desk, but the night porter didn’t answer. Frustrated, he went back to his room and kicked the door in. A hotel security guard was called, saw the damage, and contacted Irving. The next thing we knew, Bill had been fired from the tour. The message was, anyone who caused problems, even as understandable as this, was gone.
Our press agent, Larry Solters, nicknamed Scoop, had been with us for over twenty years. He was a long-time adviser to Irving, almost part of the furniture. In Germany, Glenn was particularly grumpy. He couldn’t buy the particular type of Marlboro cigarettes he smoked, Marlboros in a box. He asked Larry to call the States and have his assistant send some cartons via Airborne Express. The messenger arrived with the package the next day, and Larry literally ran them up to Glenn’s room. But Glenn tore open the package and saw they were soft packs instead of boxes, and I soon learned Larry had been fired. There was nothing Irving or any of us could say, although Irving did rehire Larry much later on. The exercise of power seemed to me to be getting out of hand. Anyone’s head could be on the block for no reason.
I’d seen such behavior many times over the years, and mostly I tolerated it. We’d tell each other: “Let it slide, think about the money,” anything to keep the peace and keep the band together. Older and wiser now, though, I found myself increasingly unable to not only witness the abuse but take it myself and keep smiling. There were times when I could barely stand to be in the same room as Glenn. I guess he picked up on it, because soon he let it be known that I was “making him unhappy.” As I once told Irving, “Irv, you made that guy too rich too soon.”
Trouble was, we were all thrown in together on the road. There were few areas for avoiding each other. To keep explosive confrontation down to a minimum, Irving, who had long ago decided on a policy of divide and conquer, separated us as much as possible. Hotel rooms were chosen on separate floors or several corridors apart. We’d have five separate dressing rooms. Gone were the days of a jovial a cappella vocal rehearsal in the shower room. The fleet of limos went and was replaced by individual vans, where possible, complete with executive armchair seats, air-conditioning, DVDs, cell phones, and blacked-out windows. There’d be enough room in each van for the immediate families, bodyguards, and assistants to travel with each band member.
Even the stretch Boeing 737 plane we chartered had separate compartments. You could step out of your own car, walk onto the plane, go to your own “room,” close the door, and wait for a stewardess to bring you refreshments. Rarely would Glenn or Don abandon the comfort zone of their own private compartment to walk into the communal areas and help themselves from the “trough,” with the thirty or so support crew. If they did, there was a clear hierarchy; they had to be served first before anyone else could dig in.
Orders would be issued from the private compartments like edicts from the presidential plane. In New Orleans, someone announced, “Don would like the Cajun shrimp from the NOLA Restaurant. Please arrange for it to be brought to the plane before we take off.” Or in Texas, he’d ask for a special chili or favorite barbecue dish. The rest of us were expected to go along with all these directions and just be grateful for the leftovers.
We’d manage to avoid each other completely until the moment when we all had to walk onto the stage with a big smile and say, “Hi, we’re the Eagles,” and pretend that everything was wonderful. It was a lonely, isolating experience and one that made a complete mockery of how we’d started and what the fans thought of us. If they’d known what each one of us was thinking as we banged out our methodically rehearsed version of our hit songs, they’d probably have walked out.
I can only remember a few times during that whole tour when Glenn and I had a laugh. We’d just arrived at a charter airport somewhere like “Pisshole,” Idaho. I went into the bathroom and was at the urinal when Glenn came in and stood at the next one. I told a joke, then he told one, and we were having a good time, standing there with our dicks in our hands. When we were both done and went to wash our hands, Glenn turned to me and said, “You know, Fingers, I wish we could be like this all the time. Why can’t we just laugh and have fun together?”
I replied, “I don’t know, buddy. That was great.”
Smiling, we walked out of the bathroom together, but within the hour, that sense of carefree friendship and camaraderie was gone. We fell back into our self-assigned roles, dealing with the egos and the struggle for power and control. I’ll never really understand why. The passive-aggressive atmosphere was all encompassing. The message was still clear. “If you rock the boat too much, you might just tip yourself out. Remember Bernie and Randy.” What was so sad was that it was completely unnecessary, because there was never any challenge to dominate the Eagles by anyone other than Glenn, Don, and Irving.
The second leg of our box office record-setting tour got underway in Philadelphia in the fall of 1994, but Glenn didn’t show for the sound check. He’d not been well for some time, and we suddenly heard that he’d been admitted to the hospital for surgery. That show and several after it had to be canceled, beginning a sixty-day hiatus.
Don called me in my room after I’d heard the news. “What are we gonna do with this guy?” he asked, exasperated.
“Well, I’m trying to help him by visualisation,” I said, my eyes closed. “I’m sending Glenn soothing thoughts in a healing white light all around him.” I knew from personal experience how painful his condition could be, and I felt genuine sympathy. I sent him a telegram wishing him luck, and he sent me one back saying, “That’s the stuff.”
Don was less sympathetic. “You’re wasting your time,” he snapped. “They’re treating the wrong end of that asshole.”
When Glenn was better, the tour resumed. Irving kept tight control of the financial reins, promoting the concerts, selling the T-shirt concession through his own company, Giant Merchandising, and controlling everything from parking to posters and programs. The considerable income we generated was handed to Irving’s on-tour accountant, who then gave it to the Los Angeles-based accountants, who divided it among us. Irving placed himself firmly between the box office and the accountants, so that all the i’s were dotted and all the t’s crossed, the books perfectly balanced.
Whenever I asked to see any financial documentation, though, it was always very informal. I never made an appointment with my lawyers or demanded to see papers, as I could have done. Even so I was often made to feel like a nuisance, as if I was nagging needlessly when all I was trying to do was to make sure that we were on a level playing field.
Because of the way I felt, I found myself constantly questioning my own motives. Was I being too greedy, wanting more when I already had so much? Then I remembered the years of grief in which I had more than earned the right to every penny I was being paid. Whether they liked it or not, Don, Glenn, and Irving had originally agreed to an equal partnership. Now they were appointing themselves as primary recipients of the work that everyone had given their lives to for so long. There were uncomfortable echoes of my father’s experience at Koppers. He’d worked from his early teens to his death in his midsixties, giving up his nights, weekends, and Sundays, to do his very best for that company. He died of heart failure, and the only thing I remember them giving him was a gold watch. I found their ingratitude staggering. If this was going to be the Eagles’ last tour, as I suspected it would be, then I had to protect my own interests and those of my children.
Timothy and Joe knew that anything they said would be ignored, and although they backed me in principle and told me privately to “go for it,” they opted for a quiet life and just took what they were given. Not that I was getting anywhere. Irving would call up between each six-week tour leg and say, “Don and Glenn have agreed to do twenty-five more shows on the East Coast, from January to April, and you’re gonna make a bundle. Are you in or not?” There were no more band meetings; this seemed like a dictatorship, and mine was the
third phone call, after “The Gods” had already agreed. I have read a great deal about abusive relationships, and that’s just what I felt like—an abused wife financially and emotionally dependent on my husband, afraid that he’d dump me if I made too much fuss or did something to displease him. I was usually held off with Irving’s repeated maxim, “You make the music, Fingers, and I’ll take care of the business.”
Susan and I were getting along much better, and she remained a great sounding board for all that I was going through with the band. But my wife had developed her own life, and Cody and I were no longer the priorities we’d once been. The kids were growing fast, and, bored at home, she’d set herself up as a jewelry designer under the name Susan Harris, her mother’s maiden name.
As we became wealthier and she began to enjoy the pleasures of jewelry shopping, she studied some expensive trinkets and thought, “I could make that.” With my emotional and financial support, she took a course at UCLA and the Gemstone Institute of America and became a goldsmith, a course that proved to be an affirmation of her talent and abilities. She set up an office at home and honed her skills until she felt confident enough to offer her goods for sale. I was all for it, and invested heavily in the business to give her enough capital to get started.