“Hell, no!” Manson growled. “Let’s go!”
“But it -”
“Now, woman! I ain’t got no time for any squawkin’ biddie party. C’mon!”
Annie looked at him, wondering why he had turned so impatient and hostile. She let it pass, and got in the car.
• • •
The mood in the Chevy, tense since San Luis, turned into a thick silence. The girls sat rigid in the back, terrified by Manson’s driving. The group had reached the part of the coast where Highway 1 was literally carved into the side of the mountain range, hundreds of feet above the shore below. At least the northbound side - their lane - provided a little more safety as it hugged the mountain on the right. Everyone on the right side just needed to remember to keep their arms and hands inside the car.
The fog came in at full strength. Every so often, it would break a bit and they could see the Pacific below them, pounding the rocks. Charlie began making up songs, talking to himself, gripping the wheel as if to break it in half. Back at the gas station he and Steve had tossed some White Crosses down with their sodas to charge up for the trip. Now, everything they said and did had a jerky, manic quality to it.
“Charlie!” Sherrie screamed. “Can’t you slow down?’
“Shut up you cunt shut up you cunt shut up!” he sing-songed, and Steve howled, slapping his hands on the steel dashboard of the car in time with the new tune.
Manson continued to charge around the hairpin turns into walls of fog. Even though the highway was not as heavily travelled toward evening or at night, every unexpected appearance of a car or truck coming at them out of the fog was a heart stopper.
Annie was kicking herself for getting into this situation. Her dad was always on her case about hitchhiking, and this was just the type of scenario he would dream up to frighten her. These guys are crazy! she had finally decided. They were not at all like the college hippies she usually met. Now I know what a ‘freak’ really is, she thought.
“Charlie!” Annie yelled suddenly. “Stop and let me out! This is too crazy!”
“Stop where, girl?” asked Manson angrily. He turned to look at her, his eyes black, pupils wide open. “There ain’t no place up here to stop. How about here?” he asked, and jerked the wheel to the right. The car slammed into the mountain, scraping along the rock. The girls screamed and clutched each other.
“Charlie!” Sherrie pleaded.
“Or maybe over here –” Manson swung the Chevy toward the flimsy guard rail on the cliff side of the road. The car fishtailed as he pulled it back, and the rear left bumper bashed into a wooden post.
“Please!” Annie sobbed. “Just stop!”
Manson pulled the car back to the right and a semi barreled past them, filling the lane they had just been in.
“Fuck! You women want us to do for you, protect you - all that crap! And you will never leave us alone while we do it!” Manson screamed. “Shut up and let me drive!”
It was not too much later when they saw a sign for the Esalen Institute, coming up ahead. This was the beginning of the Big Sur community – one of the few populated places on this stretch of the California coast.
“I been here before – I know this town,” Charlie mused, trance-like. He saw a road approaching on the right that disappeared up into the mountain pines. He braked hard, wheeled the Bel Air onto the road, and accelerated into the foggy pine forest. The road quickly turned to red dirt and they went through a gate that said: “Property of Georgia-Pacific Corporation. No Trespassing.”
“Charlie – where the hell are we going?” Sherrie asked, afraid.
“The college girl wants out, so I’m letting her out,” Manson said dryly. Annie began to sob in her hands. “Shut up!” Manson ordered. “You love the trees and nature and all that shit, right?” He silently pulled his knife and slid it over to Steve. Steve looked at Manson, and slowly grasped the knife.
After a few minutes of running through the pines and fog, he stopped the car.
“Get out,” he said flatly, as he and Steve opened their doors.
“Charlie – no!” Sherrie screamed.
“Shut up!” Manson said, as Steve held the knife out for Annie to see. She didn’t move.
Manson ran around the car, grabbed the knife from Steve, and flung Annie’s door open. He grabbed her arm and pulled her out into the mud and pine needles of the forest. She stood clutching her backpack. What little light there was from the car faded to blackness not ten yards out.
Annie was shivering in the cold fog, bent over as if she was going to be sick. Manson grabbed her backpack and turned to get back in the car. “C’mon!” he shouted to Steve. Steve moved toward Annie and Manson yelled, “No! Let’s go!” Sherrie got out of the car, and ran up to Manson, grabbing him from behind.
“No, Charlie! You just can’t leave her here!”
Manson turned swiftly and hit her with his fist. She cried out and fell to the ground. Her head cracked against a jagged piece of granite covered by the pine needles.
“Are you coming, or not?” Manson yelled into Sherrie’s face as he stood over her.
“Bastard!” she gasped under her breath. She slowly got to her feet, stumbled to the car, and fell into the back seat.
“Sherrie! Don’t go!” Annie begged. “Please – please stay with me!”
Sherrie cranked the window down, and looked back at Annie. “I’m sorry, Annie!” she sobbed, as she held her hand against the streaming gash in her head. “I don’t got any other place to go!”
“Girl,” Manson said to Annie, “forget us. Forget you ever saw any of us!” He leaned into her. “You’d be dead by now if you weren’t doing good. You got good karma.” He got in the car, tossed Annie a sack of dates, and they drove out, back down to Highway 1.
We Are Rolling
August 21,1969
8:00 am
“This is such a gas!” Maxie shouted as their car climbed up Laurel Canyon Drive, the scenic route from the Valley into Hollywood. She threw her hands up into the wind breezing over the car’s windshield. She watched the world through small, oval wire-framed sunglasses everyone called granny glasses, and her blonde hair was swept up in a blue scarf. She loved riding in this convertible, and wished she had a car of her own. Marv had promised her one “next year,” but he had been saying that since 1967.
As they headed down the other side of the canyon into West Hollywood, Maxie figured out something that had been nagging at her: there were almost no hitchhikers. Even six months ago, the canyon would have been full of kids and people of all kinds with their thumbs out. So far today, she’d seen only one group of three girls during their whole ride through the canyon. It’s just too scary, she thought. You can’t tell who’s a goddam psycho now!
Marv was driving, but his mind was already at the recording studio down in Hollywood. Even though he could not contact Charlie, he decided he had to move without him to quickly take advantage of this recording opportunity. He’d been lucky to get this studio time with Roger Dimes at a discount. Apparently, not a lot of pop musicians were “available” before 10 am, so there wasn’t as much demand for recording studio time.
He and Roger had worked out that they needed about three hours to complete the record: adding other musicians and instruments to the edited version of “Look at Your Game, Girl.” Roger said he knew the right people to call for the session, so Marv left it up to him. Each player had agreed to do the session ‘under the table’ and accept less than union scale - cash only. They would get no credit on the recording. Roger was also demanding cash for his work.
Even with all the discounted costs Marv still had to come up with $400 more than he had on hand. He finally convinced Maxie to let him pawn some of the jewelry he had given her over the years, with the pleading promise that it would all be replaced with even better pieces when the money started to come in. In addition, Marv cashed in the last of the savings bonds he had received long ago at his bar Mitzvah. He didn’t tell Maxie about
that – it was the last of any savings accounts he had.
They pulled into Goldstar Studios at 8:30 am sharp. After ringing the intercom buzzer for what seemed an eternity, the door was finally opened by a very tired-looking teenaged janitor. The kid took them back to the recording studio where he and Roger were setting up microphones, music stands, and headphones. The whole building, acoustically shielded from the outside world and absent any other people, was quiet as a crypt.
“Morning, Roger!” Marv called out. “This is Maxine. She works with me at my record company. At MaxTone.” Maxie shot him a hurt look, but said nothing. This was new territory – Marv had never brought her along on business before, and she didn’t want to queer the deal.
“Hi,” said Roger, not looking up and making no effort to come over and shake hands. “Be ready in a minute. You know what would be great? If you guys could go make some coffee in the lounge.”
Marv turned to Maxie. “Sure,” Maxie said. “Where is it?” The assistant led her away to the lounge.
“Marv?” Roger said. “Sorry - I gotta get that cash first, before we start. It’s kind of standard procedure in my world. You’d be amazed how money magically disappears at the end of a session. I’ll handle the studio and musicians.”
“Uh, sure, OK,” Marv said, reaching into his jeans pocket. He produced the wad of bills and handed it to Roger. “It’s all there.”
“Great, man - outa sight! You’re gonna love these cats who are coming down today. Some of the best in the business!”
They entered the control room, where Roger had already prepared the tape machines. He had transferred the sound of the edited version of the song to a new tape on a machine with eight amber-glowing volume meters. There was now space to add up to seven new sound layers onto the original song.
First to show up was Julio de Cruz, a scruffy percussionist originally from Brazil. He brought a pair of beat up conga drums and a few tambourines of different sizes. He set up the congas in the recording room and when he was finished, Roger and the assistant moved microphones into place to record them. Julio came into the control room to listen to the song he was going to play on. Maxie returned with cups of fresh coffee, and everyone grabbed for the cups like drowning men grasping at a lifeline.
“Ahh!” said Julio. “Coffee: the poor man’s cocaine!” Everyone laughed, starting to feel charged up. “And, by the way, Roger, old pal, you wouldn’t be holding …?”
“Naw,” Roger said, laughing. “With the studio coffee, you don’t need cocaine, man! Besides - what do you think this is, a Command Records session?” Now both men laughed and slapped each other’s hand. This no-budget session was a far cry from a Command Records recording date with its perks and excesses.
Julio listened to the tape, eyes closed, foot tapping. “Man, this is going to be hard! Who is this guy? He’s, uh -” Julio said, catching himself. He glanced at Marv. “He’s really into it, man, but his rhythm is all over the place!”
“That’s why I called you, man! The Miracle Man from Rio!” said Roger, laughing again.
“Hah!” Julio snorted. “If I only had a dollar for each … “ and then thought better about saying anything else. “OK, I think I’m ready.”
Julio went out to the room and put on the headphones that were waiting for him.
In the headphones, he could hear the original recording, what he was playing on mic now, and instructions from the control room. He bopped on the congas for a while, and Roger adjusted his control knobs.
“OK,” said Roger into a mic in the console. “We are rolling.”
Julio waited until Charlie had finished singing the intro to the song, then started playing when the first verse began. It sounded interesting, but somehow not right. Then Julio just stopped. “Ay! Hold it, Roger. Let me try something different.”
Roger started the tape again, and this time, Julio seemed to fit into the song as though he had been there at the original recording. His rhythm part really helped propel the song and smoothed out some areas where Charlie had not paid much attention to the beat. At certain points, he would signal to stop, shaking his head, and Roger would back up the tape and start recording Julio somewhere before he had lost Charlie’s rhythm. The song ended with a big flourish on the congas.
“Great!” Roger exclaimed into the headphones. “Come on in!”
Marv and Maxie clapped when Julio came back into the control room, and Julio smiled. “Is it a hit?” he asked, laughing.
Next, on a new track of the tape, they recorded Julio playing tambourine at certain points. That track, too, helped energize the song.
Roger left with Julio to pay him. Soon after they left the control room, three women came in – two white and one black. “Hi,” said one, a blonde with very large sunglasses. “We’re here for the Roger Dimes session?” All the women looked like they were going out for the night, but it was only ten-thirty in the morning. They dressed very sexy – something that was not missed by Maxine. She wished she had worn something different instead of her old flowered bell bottoms and peasant top.
Roger came in and fell back in fake amazement. “The girls are here! Now it’s a party!” Everyone laughed, and then he quickly told them about the song. “So, we have to fill out the girls’ voices that are on the original, just make them sound better.” As he played the tape, the girls stood together to sing along in certain sections, adding harmonies. They would trade parts, seeing which voice in which blend sounded the best. “No!” Roger said at one point, stopping the tape. “That sounds too good – it won’t sound authentic. You’re going to have to dumb it down.”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment, but you called the right girls!” said the blonde, giggling. “OK, let’s go out and try it.”
The trio went into the room, and the assistant wheeled over a microphone that was hanging from a tall stand. He gave the girls three headphones, and brought over a music stand to hold their notes.
Again, adding this layer made the tune sound much more like a song a person would hear on the radio. The girls were added in exactly the right amount to make the Family singers sound more like experienced musicians.
Finally, John Neely arrived to play a flute part. He had been in many of the big bands and played on records since the fifties, and had made a name for himself - especially within the society of cool cat musicians. Now he was an elder statesman, no longer traveled with big bands, and made his living playing and recording in Los Angeles.
“What is this shit?” he asked Roger after he had heard the song for the first time. “What am I supposed to do here?” He seemed to be irritated, maybe hung over. Roger said, “We just need some flute magic, John - that West Coast sound you do so great!”
“You mean - invented? Like on that ‘Good Friends’ single, the million seller? The one where people sing along with the flute solo and I get paid nothing? Something like that?” he fumed, drawing on his cigarette.
Marv didn’t know what to say. Maxie was embarrassed and played with a frayed piece of fabric on her blouse.
“That’s right, John. That’s exactly what we want, which is why I called you. It’s $100 bucks cash, man. But I definitely hear what you’re sayin’,” Roger said, calmly and firmly. “I can call someone else …”
John stared at the floor for a moment. “Fuck it. Sure. Psychedelic flute, here we go.” John got up slowly - an old, embittered, but very talented man. He had helped create music and sounds that most everyone now labeled ‘classic’ but still needed to scrape for cash, feeling like a whore on the corner.
He entered the recording room, put out his cigarette, and assembled his flute. “Give me a few shots at it,” John said, and he played along with the song, trying various parts and riffs. “OK. Burn it.”
He recorded three performances on the flute, each track a different approach. His playing added a new mood and color to the song, and each time lifted it to another dimension. Any one of the tracks would be great.
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“You should have enough to work with there,” John said as he came in to the control room. “And don’t play it back for me! I don’t ever want to hear that piece of shit again! I gotta get paid and hit the road. I’m gonna be late to my Philharmonic rehearsal.”
Marv said thanks, it was great, but John Neely said nothing. Roger paid him, and John gathered his flute and case, and walked out.
“Whew!” Roger whistled. “He’s cranky, but worth it! Let’s mix this thing!”
They spent the remaining time combining all the sounds together to make the final mix of the song – now a ‘record’. Then they went down the hall to a smaller room where Roger made Marv a temporary acetate disc of the song. Marv would need it to play the song for anyone outside of the studio.
“Great job, Roger! Totally outasight! We gotta get Charlie in here and cut more tracks for the album!” Marv exclaimed. He was happier than he could ever remember. Roger, whom he had met by total chance, seemed like a lucky charm - a wizard who knew how to make things happen in the best way.
Marv and Maxie left, and got back into their convertible. He noticed that she seemed sad, staring off into the distance. “Hey, Max, what’s happening in there?” Marv asked, tapping on her headscarf. “Wasn’t that great?”
“Oh, Marv, it was great, but …” she stopped.
“But - what?”
“Marv, promise me you won’t end up like that flute player. It was so sad - such a great talent, but so bitter.”
“Maxie, honey, if I don’t do this I might end up like that! Charlie’s our ticket into the big money, babe!”
“And you’ve got the contracts signed?” she asked plaintively.
“As soon as I can see him. When he hears this single, it’s gonna be a done deal!”
She looked at Marv, smiling now. She saw their future together taking on a bright sheen. “I never knew that people made records this way, in little pieces, bit by bit. This makes it seem so easy!”
Marv laughed. “You have to have good people, Maxie. Otherwise, it would be the blind leading the blind! Or - the deaf leading the deaf.” They both laughed at his joke, and shared a long kiss. “I’m telling you baby: this is the big one!” Marv whispered.
Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band Page 7