Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  “Water?” Marv joked. “I thought this was a saloon!”

  Charlie didn’t laugh, or even smile. “Sometimes the bikers bring beer, but they’re not here today.”

  “I’m kidding, man!” Marv realized Charlie, for whatever reason, was in no mood to laugh, and he had better keep it serious. “OK Charlie. You know I’m in the music business. I push records for a living: to radio stations, fan magazines, reviewers - you name it. I go north and south here in California to convince radio stations to play new singles. I’ve been doing it since ‘61.” Marv took a drag. “Before that I was in the ‘Beach Riders,’ a rockabilly band. But that was another life ago.” He blew out the smoke and looked away. “I’ve got things going,” Marv said, as he tapped the table with his finger for emphasis, “with all the labels, all the players in Hollywood.”

  Marv wasn’t sure Charlie was listening. He watched Charlie’s knee bounce to a fast rhythm, barely mumbling some words to a song only he could hear.

  Marv continued. “I’ll tell you straight up, man. I’ll do anything to get a record on the air. I’m known for it! It ain’t pretty sometimes, but hey! – we’re all big boys here, dig?” Marv laughed. Manson looked at him, expressionless. Marv saw that his eyelids were drooping low.

  “Look!” Marv said, ratcheting up his energy. “It’s one thing to sign a contract, cut a record, get publicity shots. It’s a whole other trip to actually get a record on the 100.”

  “What the fuck is a ‘100’?” Charlie asked, tired, frowning, tapping ash off his cigarette.

  Marv explained that the ‘Hot 100’ is a system of ranking singles that are playing all over the US. The more stations playing a record, the higher it goes on the charts until it reaches ‘Number One.’

  Charlie responded, “If that’s for real, man, how come I don’t hear more of the songs I dig?”

  Marv lit another cigarette and went on. “Man, there are still only 100 slots, and ten times that number of new records! Not even counting the R&B records, or the country records. But every company, every producer in the business wants in on the rock thing, even if they hate the music personally. If small record companies don’t use guys like me, some schmuck in the back has to mail out 750 records to all the radio stations in the country. Then there are the big guys like Command, RCA, Capitol, and shit. They got more money and people - but, man! They put out hundreds of records a year – all kinds! There ain’t no way they can believe in all of them. And a lot of those record deals are just favors, or contracts that have to be made good.”

  Marv stopped, bone dry from the dust, the heat, the cigarettes, and his rap. He gulped his water down and re-filled his paper cup.

  “It’s a fucked up scene, man, but that’s how it is. Even if a producer is behind a group one hundred per cent, if he leaves the company before the record comes out – like, four months later - it’s a goddam death sentence for that record. It’s like an orphan, man – no love.” Manson nodded, and grabbed another of Marv’s cigarettes. Marv sensed that Charlie was following him now.

  “So that’s why this kind of partnership I’m thinkin’ about is way better for us. It’s just me and you, doing all we can to make your thing happen. I got the business end covered, and you got the talent – and I don’t mean just the writing and singing, man. You got way more than that – just look around at what you made happen here!”

  Manson started to perk up. “So you think all of us,” he swept his arm around the view of the ranch, “could be in this thing? That would be far out, man! Far out!” Charlie laughed his strange, giggling laugh. “I don’t know if the world is ready for us, man!” Now he was laughing hysterically. “Dig it!”

  Marv smiled, sure that his rap was getting through to Charlie. “Charlie! Think back on all the shit that’s happened in music, even just in the last two years, man! The world is, like, cracking, and all this great music is exploding out. There ain’t no reason you guys couldn’t be next!”

  Charlie suddenly looked serious, leaned back in his chair, and gripped at his hair.

  “But, man, I don’t have that kind of bread! What – are you loaded or something?”

  “Well,” Marv said, shrugging his shoulders, “I got some cash I can throw on the pile. And I got a lot favors due, know people. But you got more than bread, man. You got this scene here.”

  Charlie looked confused. “I know man, but … how does that – “

  “Charlie!” Marv said, serious. “Do you remember? I was up here about two months ago, after a party at Dennis Wilson’s pad. And, man! It was a wild scene - I couldn’t believe it! I was so wasted, man! And, like, I got blown by two chicks at once!”

  Charlie laughed. “That’s just how we live, dude. We’re like this every day!”

  “I know, I know. I mean - I know, and you know, but most people got no idea, man, what’s going on up here! It would blow their little minds!”

  “So?”

  “So – those ‘people’ I’m talking about are the ones we need to get your record played, man! A little partying, a little taste of this and that, some of that young pussy you got – and they are ours, man!”

  Manson laughed, then subdued again. “But - isn’t that against some kind of law or something, man? They won’t do it. They’re too straight.”

  Marv leaned over the table closer to Charlie. “Last I checked, there ain’t no laws against havin’ a rockin’ party, Charlie.”

  Charlie smiled wide, looking almost like a child.

  “You’re thinking about that old payola thing.” Marv said, leaning back. “That’s way over, man. In those days, they used to give money to the DJs, ‘coz the DJs picked the records. Now, it’s the Program Directors that pick the song. They tell all the DJs what to play. Sometimes in a bunch of different cities at once!”

  Manson mulled it over, then Marv saw his face cloud up again. “Fuck, man. It would never work! I’m a fuckin’ con, man! I’ve done time my whole life. No way they’re gonna let me tell my truth out there, man!” He stood up suddenly, kicking his chair back.

  “Charlie! There is no ‘they,’ man. And besides - that’s our hook! That’s our opportunity, man!” Marv felt he was really on a roll now. He stood up as well. “What you got is the Real, man! You’ve had a street life like nobody else. There is only one Charles Manson!” Marv knew he had him.

  The girl called Sherrie came running into the café out of the blinding sunlight of the street.

  “Charlie!” she shouted. “The pigs are here!”

  Them Changes

  1969 Buddy Miles

  August 11, 1969

  2:30 pm

  Marv heard a swish sound behind him – something like a belt being pulled from a pair of pants. By the time the sound registered in Marv’s mind Manson was on him. From behind Marv, Manson grabbed his head and pulled it back while the other hand brought a knife to his throat.

  “Don’t fuck with me, man!” Manson roared. “Are you a cop? I swear I’ll cut you, man! Don’t fuck with me!”

  “Whoa! Charlie! I’m no cop! Shit, what are you doing, man?” Marv hissed.

  “Sherrie! Get over here and get his wallet!” As Sherrie frantically searched Marv’s back pockets for a wallet, Manson, still holding Marv’s head, patted him down with his knife hand. He found nothing. He let go of Marv and took the wallet from Sherrie. Manson flipped through the wallet, examining all of the ID. No badge, twenty seven dollars.

  “Fuck, Charlie! Be cool, man, for crissakes!” Marv cried, rubbing his neck.

  Manson looked at him, his pupils as wide as a cat’s in the night. “Listen, Marv, if you want to be part of this thing, you’ve got to deal with me. Ask anyone here and they will tell you that you only get one chance to fuck with me, man. Once. After that, you are gone and gone. Dig?” He tossed the wallet on the table.

  “Yeah, Charlie, sure.” Marv said backing away. “I’m trying to help you, man.” He rubbed his throat. “Is this how you treat all your friends?’

 
; Charlie spun around and walked to the door, sheathing his Bowie knife. Marv had not seen the knife – the sheath was just another part of the buckskin outfit that Manson was wearing.

  As Manson reached the door, he turned to Marv. “Stay here and shut up. You don’t know nothing, man! You gotta think of a damn good reason you’re here in case they ask.”

  Manson and Sherrie walked onto the porch and looked toward the drive from the Pass Road. A single black and tan L.A. County Sheriffs’ patrol car was nearing the café. The pack of dogs charged out from under a giant oleander bush, falling over each other as they chased the car.

  “Only one car?” Manson said to himself, out loud.

  “What?” said Sherrie. Charlie didn’t answer, but she thought he seemed to relax a little.

  The police car pulled up to the café and its dust cloud blew past. Two cops wearing khaki uniforms and large aviator-style sunglasses stepped out. Each had a hand firmly on their revolver.

  “Get these goddam dogs away!” shouted the driver.

  Charlie finally whistled a loud, shrill signal, and the dogs fell back about twenty feet to the shade of the oleander. The closest cop approached the café porch.

  “Afternoon, Manson” said Cop One, wearily trying to be at least a little friendly. Usually the police came to the ranch looking for runaways, or had a warrant for someone they thought – or knew - was at the ranch. But they were tired of coming out here on dead-end runaway searches. The kids would run into the hills at the first sight of a patrol car. They sure as hell didn’t want to go back where they had come from. Without a search warrant, all the cops could do was ask.

  Manson stood tense, but unthreatening. He nodded.

  “We got a call from West LAPD. They’re looking for a guy named –” he looked down at a paper in his hand, “Shawn Danner. About 55? They have this place as the registered address of his car.”

  Manson looked puzzled. Then Sherrie touched Charlie’s arm and said, “I think that’s Shorty’s real name.”

  Manson stared at the cops for a few slow seconds. “He’s gone, man. He left last week.”

  “Gone where? Do you know?” asked Cop Two.

  “Don’t know. I think maybe he said Portland – somewhere north like that.”

  “We have a DMV record that says he’s registered for a ‘59 Ford. Cream and green. Do you know if he was driving it?”

  Manson scratched at his face. “Ah, he said he sold it, man. To some Mexican, I think he said. He was clearing out of LA, man. Got rid of everything. A lot of people doing that.” He stared directly at the driver cop. “It’s getting too heavy here.”

  “Well,” said Cop One, “we’re here because we found the car. It was in a bad accident – four people killed. We’re trying to find out if he was one of them.”

  Manson was very quiet. “There was no ID or anything?”

  Cop One looked down. “Uh, no. The car went over the side last night at a curve on Mulholland. It caught fire down in the arroyo. By the time the fire guys got there, nothing was identifiable. We barely got the vehicle ID.”

  Sherrie, pale and wide eyed, looked at Charlie. Manson stared at the ground. “Shit!” he said in a low, shocked voice.

  “All the people dead?” Sherrie asked, staggered. “That’s so horrible!” Manson turned and gave her a look.

  “Yeah,” said Cop One. “It was bad. So - you don’t know if it was Shawn Danner?”

  “He sold that car and left, man. Couldn’t be him.”

  The cop folded the paper and put it in his breast pocket. Most probably Manson knew more than he was telling, but there wasn’t much point in pursuing it. Dead people, the cop had learned, are even more dead when no one cares about them. “Well, if you remember anything, appreciate it if you’d call West LAPD and talk to Missing Persons.”

  Cop Two, the driver, leaned on his door and said, “You got any under-aged kids here that wanna go home, Manson?”

  “No, man,” said Charlie, looking off in the distance. “We send those little rug rats on their way. Too much trouble.”

  “You could call us to come pick them up, Manson.”

  Manson laughed. “Their chances are better on the street, man!”

  “Look. Just call us, OK?” said the driver cop, disgusted with the whole hippie camp.

  Manson crossed his arms. He was more defiant, now. “You got anything else, man? Warrants? Wanna plant some weed on me and take me downtown?” he sneered.

  The two officers stared at him coldly for a second, then got into the patrol car, started it, and revved up. The dogs immediately charged at the vehicle again, barking continuously. The car pulled away and made a sweeping turn across the wide dirt plaza, sending a rooster tail of dust and dirt into the air. The dogs chased behind it as the patrol car growled up the long drive.

  Manson and Sherrie stood watching the car disappear. Sherrie grabbed Charlie’s buckskin sleeve.

  “Charlie! My God ! They’re all –”

  “Dead, woman. That’s just the end of that scene. All anyone needs to know is that they drove off a cliff. Do you hear me?” He pulled a roach out of his pants pocket.

  Sherrie let go of his arm and tears welled up in her eyes.

  Manson looked at her. “I said: do you HEAR me?! Cry if you want, girl. Just shut up about it.”

  Sherrie stared at her feet. “Yeah, Charlie. I hear you.” She shuffled off, back to her “Assayer’s Office” cabin.

  Manson strode back into the cafe. Marv was waiting, sitting in his chair, arms crossed. Charlie walked up and Marv said, “Still think I’m a cop, man?”

  Charlie laughed and began to do a frenetic improvised dance that looked like a combination of the Frug and karate moves.

  This is weird – the cops come and his mood improves! Marv thought. The guy was a lot stranger than Marv had first sensed – and his first impression was that Charlie was way far out.

  “You? A cop!?” Manson sneered. “I don’t think so, man. What are you, anyway? What am I, man?” He giggled and fired up the joint.

  Marv was patient for a moment. “Well, what were the cops about?”

  “Lots of questions, man. You got lots of questions. But they, they had lots of answers.” He laughed hysterically, drawing on the reefer.

  “All right. OK. No more questions.” Marv stood up again. He knew he needed to close the deal. “Look - I got a producer friend lined up to listen to your tapes. Bob Helios – you know him? He’s had a lot of hits with groups like Midnight Train, The Stone Believers – he’s a hip guy.”

  “Is he hipper than Melcher, man? That guy blew me off in a real fucked up way, man. There’s some fuckin’ bad karma coming down from that,” Manson growled as he focused on the glowing end of the roach.

  “Terry? Yeah, Melcher’s too busy to see a tree in the forest now. He only works with people who have already made it. Pretty sweet deal,” Marv said, his eyes taking on a dreamy look. “C’mon,” Marv continued, almost pleading. “Let me at least take the tapes to Bob, and you can think some more about it.”

  Charlie sat in his chair, pushing so it was standing only on its back legs, and stared at the ceiling. “Everything’s different now, man. Everything!” Charlie said in a faraway voice. “Karma changes like lightning, dig it?”

  He straightened up his chair. It made a cracking sound like a gunshot as the front legs landed on the old wood floor. “Kat!” Charlie called out to the kitchen. “Bring me my tapes from the bus! And we’re not gonna go tripping tonight. I’m going to stay here and jam.”

  Goin’ Home, t’ See My Baby

  1968 Alvin Lee

  August 11,1969

  5:30 pm

  Marv was floating – high and happy. He was gliding south down Topanga Canyon Blvd., very proud of himself, oblivious to the slow traffic. The heat that had been so oppressive earlier now felt like a radiant, life-giving cocoon.

  Before Marv left, he had toked up with Charlie and Kat. Charlie returned to being the laughing, wor
ldly troubadour that Marv admired. He even made up a little song for Marv – too crazy! Marv couldn’t remember the lyrics – they had tumbled out and gone by too fast.

  Marv was very cool with how things had turned out today. He had needed to think fast sometimes, but felt he still worked the situation in his direction. There were definitely some heavy moments – Charlie had gone way weird a few times. But from his years of being around music artists, Marv knew that you would always be safe in saying they were all crazy in one way or another. It’s a rainbow of craziness, he giggled to himself. Maybe that’s what it takes to be an artiste.

  He came to a stoplight and lit another cigarette. There was a lot to do – his brain felt like it was a corral full of wild horses. Call lawyer, call Bob Helios, who can press the records? And Maxie - Maxie was going to be tough. She had been on his case to quit the business, quit the road, for a long time – whatever it would take to be home together more in LA.

  “But, honey! This is all I know how to do!” Marv always pleaded.

  “You can work for my dad! I know he’ll do it if I ask him. They always need good people down at the store,” she said. Her family owned a tire business in Van Nuys. Maxie, the youngest of three, had lived her whole life quietly in the Valley, but her family seemed to think she was some kind of rebel. Mostly, she’d say, because I love rock music.

  “Maxie, we’ve been through this before, hon. Even if I worked there seven days a week, it wouldn’t come close to paying for this apartment, this life.”

  “But - I could get a job too! And you’ll get a raise, eventually.”

  It was no use. Try as he might, Marv could never get Maxie to see the basic fundamentals about making real money. He remembered Maxie telling him how as a young girl, she thought money was like a flowing river somewhere, and men just walked down to it, whistling, and used a little bucket to get as much as they wanted.