Sign Here, Initial Here and Here
August 24, 1969
3:30 pm
“Man! I was calling you for days! Where did you go, Charlie?” Marv demanded. He had finally reached Charlie on the phone and got him to come to the apartment. They sat around a chrome, glass-topped dining room table. A china hutch sat against one wall and a poster of a Toulouse-Lautrec Paris street scene hung from another.
“Marv! I was gone! I had business up north. Now, I’m back. What is so fucking hard for you to understand about that?” said Manson, irritated. “You can’t put me on a leash, man! What the fuck is so important, anyway?”
“Charlie, we got a lot of serious business to take care of here! For example – yesterday, I went to the studio, on my own dime, and we put your first single together. It would have been nice if you had been able to make it, man,” Marv said sarcastically. “Do you want to hear it?’
“Fuck yeah, man!” Charlie said, excited, but confused. “How did you do that without me?”
“Well,” said Marv, holding up the acetate 45 record. “Here it is! Dig this, Charlie!”
Marv put the needle down on the disc as it spun on his stereo. He had spent a bundle on this system and he knew that it impressed people with its deep, brilliant sound.
“Look at Your Game, Girl” came rolling out of the speakers. Charlie’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped, but then he got a strange, frightened look on his face. The song moved along briskly, propelled by the new percussion tracks.
The song stopped, and Marv grabbed the tone arm of the record player. “Wanna hear it again?” he asked, grinning.
Manson sat at the table, staring at his reflection in the glass table top. “Man,” he finally said. “That – that doesn’t even sound like me! And what is that in there – a flute?”
“Well, it is you. That is straight from your demo tapes, with a little help from my friends down in Hollywood,” Marv boasted. “We spent a lot of time and money on it. It sounds great, man!”
Charlie still had an angry look. “But - I don’t like records that sound like that, man! It sounds too …” He searched for words. “Too sold out!”
“But it’s a groovy sound, man! Everyone I played it for loves it!”
Maxie, who had only just met Charlie, chimed in. “It’s wonderful, Charlie!”
Charlie looked over at her with a cold glare. Maxie could not remember anyone ever looking at her in such a way, and immediately decided not to say anything more. She drew a pillow from the couch to her chest, and pulled her legs up under her.
“Charlie,” said Kat, who had come with him to Marv and Maxie’s apartment, “it sounds really good, man! It’s just what you need right now. The album can be whatever you want, but this can get you started!”
“Exactly!” said Marv. “We need to get on the radio to get this show rolling, and this single can do it! Let me do my thing, Charlie!” he pleaded.
Charlie sat, arms crossed. They all saw him fighting within himself, trying to say “yes”.
“You got any fire, man?” asked Charlie, pulling out a joint. Marv looked at him, getting even more nervous. No one had ever smoked pot in his apartment before. He didn’t know how Maxie would react.
“Honey,” Maxie said, “there are some matches over the stove.”
Marv was startled, but went into the kitchen and brought back the matches. Marv begged off as Charlie and Kat dragged on the joint. Maxie came over, sat at the table, and held out her hand. Marv was completely shocked. He had never seen Maxine smoke pot even once since he had known her. It made Marv realize how much time he had spent away from her on business. She took her toke and passed the number back to Kat.
“Well,” said Charlie, sighing as he exhaled smoke. “I guess I should do this. It would be a real trip for the people to hear what I’m sayin’. And they need to hear what I’m sayin.”
Maxie and Kat clapped and squealed. “Yay!”
Marv went to his little office and returned with a pile of contracts. Each one – publishing, management, royalties - was thick, and each had duplicates to be signed and initialed.
“Whoa!” said Manson, leaning back in his chair. “What the fuck is all this, man?”
“Gotta do it, Charlie. This is the legal basis of all the things we are doing. Just standard stuff – necessary for you and me.”
Manson looked at the pile, shrinking into the chair. “Every time I sign something, I get fucked,” he said. He looked up at Marv. “Every time, since I was ten years old, man.” He leafed through the stack of contracts. His face had the look of a beaten child.
Kat stood up and put her arms around his shoulders. “It’s OK, Charlie. These are your friends, man. They believe in you! I think you should do it!”
Manson stood, pushing himself up as far as his slight frame would go. He brushed his hair back with his hand and looked at Marv.
“All right. I’ll sign these papers,” he said, his index finger tapping the pile.
“I’m not even going to read them – I wouldn’t know what they say, anyhow. But I’m telling you, Marv, like I told you before. Don’t ever fuck with me, man!”
Maxie shivered inside. It was a strange scene, playing out like a bizarre dream: happy, scary, happy, scary. She didn’t like it at all. I hope Marv knows what he’s doing, she thought.
“Remember, Marv,” said Manson. He turned to look at Maxie. “I know where you live.”
Goin’ to a Go Go
1965 William Robinson, Robert Rogers, Warren Moore, Marvin Tarplin
August 28, 1969
8 pm.
With help from the Family drug stash, Marv wrangled an invitation to the release party for Bob Helios’ newest album with Midnight Train. Command Records was really laying it down for this party – Midnight Train had several hit singles from their first album right out of the gate, and everyone was sure this second album would be huge.
Charlie and Sandy, one of the Family girls, got into the front bench seat of the new black Lincoln that pulled into the ranch. Marv had rented it for the evening – a point he made sure Charlie appreciated.
“It’s your trip, man,” said Charlie. “It’s got four wheels, don’t it?”
“All of these details are important, Charlie! Like, even Sandy – you can’t be seen at these things without a fox on your arm.” He winked at Sandy. Marv had noticed her at the ranch right away. She was a natural beauty, but also had a kind of serenity about her. An old soul, he mused. “And do you have the stuff for that photographer friend of yours?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie laughed. “I got it, she got it, we all gots it, man!” He and Sandy doubled over in laughter.
“Are you guys high?” Marv asked nervously, twisting in the driver’s seat to get a good look at them.
“It’s a party, ain’t it?” Charlie pointed out.
“Just don’t go all freaky on me, man, OK? We need these people on our side.”
“A cube fill of sugar helps the LSD go down …” Charlie sang, giggling. “Just trying to make a groove out of a bummer scene, man.”
They drove into West Hollywood and up to the line of cars stopped outside the Whiskey a Go Go on the Sunset strip. Teenaged Latino valets were running frantically, like recruits at boot camp. The head valet, overweight and stuffed into a red vest two sizes too small, barked orders in Spanish and pointed wildly.
Marv, Charlie, and Sandy got out and Marv tossed the keys to a sweating teenager. They stood on the corner outside the club. Marv had been able to talk on the phone with Sandy to make sure Manson cleaned up for the party. She got Charlie to wear his newest jeans, his buckskin vest buttoned over a clean flowered shirt. And she fit the bill as ‘the beautiful hippie chick’ - straight blonde hair, braless, peasant blouse, bell bottoms, and sandals. A photographer, two cameras and flash gear hanging from his neck, approached them from out of the crowd on Sunset.
“Hey, Henry!” said Charlie, in a haze. “Looks like you are in for a busy night
!”
“Yeah, man. That’s why I need a little help, ya know?” the photog hinted. Charlie just smiled at him.
“Oh sure – yeah,” said Marv, turning to Charlie. “You got that thing, man?”
Manson looked at them, not seeing, his mind far away. Sandy came forward and rummaged in her string purse. She held out a small glassine bag filled with white pills.
Marv snatched the bag from her, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. “Sandy! Jesus! You gotta remember - you’re not at the ranch!” Marv hissed. He passed the pills to Henry in a handshake. “Happy shooting. Prints on Monday?”
“Sure.” Henry turned and went inside. The three followed him into the club, which was closed to the public for the night. Nearly empty, the Whiskey was as dark and hushed as a cave, the walls and ceiling slopped in flat black paint. There were dim lights over the long bar, and a soft spotlight that hit the red curtains across the stage. An elaborate, candle-lit food buffet was set up along the one bare wall of the club, attended by two women in Indian saris, Hindi makeup, and henna tattoos. A few early people were standing at the bar, trying to start conversations. A woman in a black miniskirt scurried between the customer entrance and backstage juggling a clipboard, a cigarette, and a tequila sunrise in a tall, thin glass.
“What’s up, man?” Charlie asked Marv, looking around. “Not much of a party!” he snorted. “We stayin’?”
“We’re early,” Marv explained. “I need to get with people before it gets too crowded. Get a drink or something – just don’t get too far away. I’m going to need you soon.”
Marv knew from years of parties like this one that when enough of the stars and power brokers showed up there would be no chance for a low man on the pole like himself to talk to any of them. Those guys were all in the same, exclusive private club – it was just the location that changed night by night. But ultimately, everyone was there to do business and at an empty party even a record company president was approachable. Especially when a photographer was there, pulling the camera up to his eye.
He spotted Jack Bailey of Cisco Records coming into the club with a woman. Marv had worked several records for him in ‘67. As Marv started to walk in that direction, the club’s sound system began to play Midnight Train’s first album at a sound level loud enough to ensure that people would have to yell at each other to be understood. The Whiskey people seemed to believe that shouting over music in the dark was the key to creating real excitement.
Marv fumed, looking for Charlie. Where the fuck is he? He saw Manson and Sandy around the corner from the bar, huddled with a bartender. He hustled over.
“C’mon, we gotta do this!” said Marv, slapping his hand on Charlie’s shoulder.
“Hey! I know this dude, man, from the Haight! Far out!” Manson choked out the words and smoke and handed the joint back to the bartender. He shrugged off Marv’s hand.
“Later! Come on!” Marv insisted.
Marv led them over to where Jack Bailey, looking lost and disappointed in the middle of the empty club, was staring up at the go-go dancer’s cage suspended from the ceiling. A girl dressed in a fringed miniskirt and boots was climbing down a ladder to get into the cage.
Marv waved at Henry, the photographer, got his attention, and they all converged on Jack Bailey. “Jack! Marv Feld! Where you been, man?” Marv exclaimed heartily.
Bailey looked startled, a low-grade fear in his eyes. He recognized Marv, but mostly recognized the Hawaiian shirt. Never come too early! he reproached himself. Seeing that there was nowhere and nobody to run to, Bailey smiled weakly and held out his hand.
Flash!
Charlie’s hand flew up to his eyes, and he fell back as he shouted, “Hey! Fuck you, man!” Marv pulled Charlie and Sandy close with one arm, and wrapped the other around Bailey’s shoulder. “Jack, I’d like you to say hi to Charlie Manson, the first artist on my new label!”
Out of automatic politeness, Bailey offered his hand to Manson. Out of automatic music business protocol, both Marv and Jack turned their heads to the camera.
Flash!
“Great to see you Marv, but – listen! I gotta run. I gotta talk to my secretary over there about a contract before Howie Brown gets here. Dig ya later, man!” Bailey turned and almost sprinted to the bar.
“Great!” said Marv.
“What do you mean, ‘great’?” Charlie asked, rubbing his eyes. “Who was that fucker, man? You didn’t even talk to him!”
“I might rap with him more later, but right now, it’s all about the pictures,” Marv explained. “Just try to smile, will ya?”
As more people came into the club, the party atmosphere took hold. Drinks were poured, joints were lit in stairwells, bathrooms, and dressing rooms. Cigarette smoke in the packed club caused the subdued lighting to become even more diffused and romantic.
Marv worked the room intensely. He didn’t have a drink or take a hit. In an hour, he had created photographs of Charlie shaking hands with ten big music biz players. Henry, the photographer working the event, had actually been hired by Command Records to take publicity shots, but Marv’s extra incentive for him had guaranteed that Marv and Charlie would be seen with the Big Guys in the pages of next week’s Billboard, Cash Box, and Radio and Records magazines. He would also get his own prints of these shots for MaxTone’s publicity. Marv congratulated himself. A very productive use of twenty hits of speed.
The party accelerated until Midnight Train and Bob Helios were introduced to the crowd. The emcee and host for the night was Peyton Emerson, the new West Coast head of Command Records. He also happened to be the son of Walter Emerson, the chairman of the CBS Television network - a fact that was not missed by any of the players in the music business. After thanking the crowd and praising the band, he signaled for the start of the playback of the new album. This would be the first time anyone outside the company heard it.
Once again, the club filled with loud music and everyone applauded and whooped. Marv and Charlie stood listening, heads moving to the beat, watching Sandy as she danced with the singer from The Movers. Then Marv noticed Phil Crane, editor of the music magazine Crib Notes standing in the crowd. Crib Notes was one of the top music magazines of the day, up there with Rolling Stone, but it took a slightly more political and social commentary view of the scene. Too terribly serious, sometimes, Marv thought. Marv knew Phil from their early days in the South Bay when Surf Guitar, then Beach Music, and then California Rock had been born.
“Hey, Phil!” Marv shouted over the music. “Phil! Over here!”
Phil finally heard Marv’s voice and located his face in the smoky club. He smiled, mouthed “Hi,” and came over with another guy in tow.
“Hey, Marv!” Phil shouted as he punched Marv in the shoulder playfully. “What a scene, man! I guess 20 … 30,000 dollars shoveled out tonight? Not like when we were kids! How’s it hangin?’’
“It’s a big time business now,” Marv nodded. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Hey! I dig what your mag is doin’ these days. You guys are steppin’ on some sensitive toes, my man!” Marv laughed.
“Just callin’ ‘em like we see ‘em, I guess!” Phil said. “Not so great for the ad income, but screw ‘em if they can’t take a joke, right? So what’s happening with you these days?”
Marv spoke even more loudly and clearly over the music. “Just started a new record company. Gonna make ‘em rather than flog ‘em! And here,” Marv pulled Charlie closer, “- here is my first artist, Charlie Manson. Charlie: Phil Crane of Crib Notes Magazine.” The two shook hands as Phil said, “Good luck, man.” Remembering his guest, Phil said, “Oh! This is Alex Swain, a really great young writer who’s doing a lot of stories for us.”
Alex was in his late twenties, dressed young but fairly conservatively. He had longish brown hair and a well-trimmed moustache. Alex was good looking, brown eyes framed by black rimmed glasses. College guy, thought Marv.
“He’s here finishing an article about that Esalen bag up
in Big Sur,” Phil added.
Charlie perked up. “Esalen, man? I was there last year. They’re on some weird trip up there, ya know?” He giggled. “It’s all peace and love and shit, but if you really want to get down with the love, they freak out, man!”
Alex laughed and nodded. “Yeah, a lot of it is just crap, man. The story is not going to go down to well with them, I think.”
“Yeah! If they really want to know how to spread the love around, they should come see us, man!” Charlie laughed. “We’ll get ‘em all the love they can fuckin’ handle!”
Marv jumped in - another promotion idea had been born. “Charlie’s got this great thing going - a group of people that hang out, do everything together out on a ranch near Chatsworth. It’s a wild scene, kind of like the Pranksters - and Charlie is the guru.”
“Fuck, man! I ain’t no guru,” Charlie insisted. “I just give people a place to be free, dig?”
Marv continued. “You know, it would make a great story for Crib Notes. How the commune scene is evolving – that sort of angle. Plus, there’s Charlie’s music, and his struggle to get heard by the record audience. I’m telling you, Phil, it’s really unique.”
Charlie said, “Yeah, guys! Come on out to the ranch! Come at night and hang out – its cooler and the horse riders are gone. But ya gotta bring your own booze, if you want it. We don’t keep it around.”
“How about next Tuesday night? I can drive us out there,” Marv suggested. “And, uh, no girlfriends or wives, gentlemen. It’s a very unique scene, as I said.”
Phil thought for a moment. “I can’t make it Tuesday, but,” he said, turning to Alex, “I think you ought to check it out, man. If it turns out to be a drag, I’ll pay you scale for the night,” he said, laughing.
In The Midnight Hour
Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band Page 8