Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  John Diedrich was an in-demand drummer right now. He had not been able to break into the studio musician mafia, but had instead become a respected “live” drummer. He made a name and a living playing club dates, tours, and TV shows with pop singers who needed backup, or for those “groups” that didn’t exist outside of a studio recording but had to appear out in the world as if they did. He was a great drummer and a fun guy, but always seemed to eventually develop trouble with the managers and agents – the bosses that actually run the music world. Consequently, he often worked only a tour, or even just a leg of a tour before being fired.

  “What’s up, Manson?” he asked. He slid into the booth and kissed Kat on the cheek. “Hey, beautiful!”

  “Hey, John. Heard my new single?” Charlie asked. He had never liked Diedrich – too much self-promotion, all the time. And Diedrich had always been dismissive about Charlie’s music.

  “Yeah, man! Just today! Congratulations! How’s it doing?”

  “Well,” Manson said, “just getting started – you know. Need to put a band together for some club dates and shit. Kat says you’re not working right now.”

  Diedrich bristled and shot her a glance. “I’ve got things cookin’, man. Phone’s ringin’ all the time. But, like, right now? Yeah, pretty slow. I’m open, especially if it’s a short run. I’m lined up to audition for a Raiders’ Australian tour coming up.”

  “Paul Revere and the Raiders? That’s cool, man,” Charlie snorted. “You know my ranch, out on the Santa Susana Pass Road?”

  “Um … yeah. I’ve been there. Don’t remember too good!” He laughed and winked at Kat, who also laughed as she touched his hand. “But I think I can find it again.”

  “Saturday, four pm. And bring stuff like congas and cowbells, man. Cool?”

  “Sounds good. So how much does it pay?” Diedrich asked, trying to be casual.

  Charlie and Kat looked at each other, startled. They hadn’t even thought about money for the musicians at this point.

  Charlie laughed. “Nothing, man! We don’t have any money yet. Got some other shit for ya, but no bread, man!”

  Diedrich looked puzzled. “But what about the advance, man? Isn’t there any money for rehearsals?”

  “Advance?” Kat asked, eyebrows furrowed.

  “You mean you didn’t get an advance, dude? What kind of record deal is this?” Now it was John’s turn to smirk.

  “No, there was no advance, man!” Charlie fumed. “What the hell is it, anyway?”

  John shook his head in disbelief. “In most artist contracts, you get advance money against what you will make in the future. A guy’s gotta live while his career is taking off, right? I mean – it’s not free money. It has to be paid back from the record sales. But! If the record doesn’t sell, the artist doesn’t have to pay it back.”

  Kat looked sad again. “Well, we’re not hooked up with a big record company, John. We just got one guy who believes in us.”

  ‘Um – hm,” Diedrich said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll bet he’s also the manager, the producer, the publisher, the record company, and controls all the money, right?”

  Charlie and Kat said nothing, just looking at each other.

  “Well, good luck, kids – maybe you got a good guy and it will work out all right.” Diedrich stood up. “I don’t think your band thing is right for me, Charlie. I gotta make a livin’, man – I’m a pro now. Got the wife, the house, the whole nine yards. But,” he stopped. “You know, if there was some marching powder in the deal, I might be interested.” He smiled broadly at Charlie and Kat.

  Charlie shrugged. “You know I don’t play with that shit, man. I got enough trouble without the goombahs and the Mexicans on my ass, too.”

  Diedrich began to walk away. “Well, call me if there’s any snow in the forecast.”

  Kat looked from Diedrich back to Manson, and saw a familiar look: the slack face, slightly arched eyebrows, and deep, cold black eyes. His mood had changed from mellow to rage in less than 15 minutes. It started, she thought, when Dave Silva mentioned Gary Hinman.

  “I hate that fuck!” Manson hissed.

  Kat realized that he was talking about John Diedrich. “We don’t need him, Charlie! We can get another drummer.”

  “Fuck this shit!” Manson got up abruptly, and the coffee creamer spilled across the table. “You got any weed?” he asked Kat under his breath.

  “No, Charlie – sorry! I never bring anything when I come to Hollywood.”

  “Perfect!” Manson snorted.

  Money (That’s What I Want)

  1959 Berry Gordy, Jane Bradford

  September 22, 1969

  2 pm.

  “Look At Your Game, Girl” got a solid start during its first week on the L.A. radio charts: number 29. Marv’s strategems were working. As local orders increased, Mickey Schnur, his cousin’s son, raced around in his VW bug delivering records to stores all over Southern California.

  At KOWL the single had become a popular bridge song played between the big hits of the day, and now it was getting bona fide attention and fans. As Marv had said: the people choose their hits, and he had created the opportunity for the people to hear his record.

  The second week the single reached 21 on the KJH chart and was well established on other Southern California pop radio stations. Maxie was fielding calls at the MaxTone’s home office, taking orders and sending out promo material. Radio stations across the country were adding “Game” to their playlists and the initial pressing of 500 records was almost sold out.

  “Hon, we need more records!” she told Marv, excited. “We’re down to our last 32!”

  Marv calculated his next step. He was tapped out, and some previous problems made it impossible for him to get a loan from a traditional bank. He needed to order a minimum of 5,000 records – a little over $1,000. Marv considered tapping friends in the business, but it slowly dawned on him that he had become one of their competitors. Then he thought about his cousin Jamie.

  It’s clearly working Marv thought. Jamie would see that, and I’ve got his kid delivering records all over the place, so he can verify that the records are selling. He decided to press him for $5,000. Even if Jamie agreed to less, it would be tremendous.

  Marv picked up the phone to call Jamie, but then he stopped. Marv realized that he had been so focused on the record that he hadn’t spoken to Jamie since their lunch. No thanks for the contracts, no updates – nothing. He put the phone back in the cradle. After brainstorming a moment, he called a friend in the ticket scalping business and swapped some of Charlie’s weed for two tickets to a Boston Pops performance at the Hollywood Bowl in October. Just his speed, Marv smirked. He had the tickets messengered to Jamie’s office.

  Two hours later, Maxie called out that his cousin Jamie was on the line. In twenty minutes, Marv received thanks, congratulations, and a loan for $4,000 at 11% per year. He wasn’t sure how much interest money that would be and he didn’t care. Marv had the warm glow he loved, the glow that came from the times he could call the shots and make things happen.

  “Honey!” Marv said, as he came into the kitchen and put his arms around Maxie. “Pack our stuff – we’re getting a real office!”

  Stormy Monday

  1947 T Bone Walker

  September 25, 1969

  9:00 pm.

  Manson, Steve, and Spence walked up the stairs to Marv’s third floor apartment in Studio City. It was 9:00 pm, and Manson figured it would be a good time to find Marv at home.

  Charlie knocked on the apartment door solidly. No answer. There was no sound at all from inside the apartment. He knocked again.

  This time, he heard Marv’s girlfriend answer from far inside. “Who is it?”

  He knocked once more. Now, from just behind the other side of the door, they heard “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Charlie Manson. I need to talk to Marv.”

  Maxie opened the door a crack, and the three tried to push it open - but Maxie had le
ft the chain on. It pulled tight with a thwack sound.

  “Oh! Hi, Charlie. Sorry – I was in bed.” She cloaked her robe tight around her throat. Maxie saw the two other men and felt her anxiety increasing. “Marv’s not here – he’s at the office.”

  “Office? What office?” Manson demanded. “Since when?’

  “We – we just got it two days ago. He’s there now, still getting it together. It’s on Santa Monica – I’ll go get the address.”

  “That’s OK, girl, we’ll just wait for him here. It’s late. I’m sure he’ll be coming back soon.” He reached his hand in the crack of the open door and tried to unhook the chain from the jamb. If a chain was too long, sometimes it could be unlatched from outside.

  “No! No – Charlie! – I’m not dressed or anything! It’s not a good time.” She was way scared now, and pushed on the door until Manson pulled his hand back. “Last night, he didn’t even get back until 1 am. Please! Go down to the office if you need to see him.”

  She heard the men whispering on the other side of the door, Manson’s voice the most insistent.

  “All right, what’s the address?” he demanded. She scurried over to the table, brought back a piece of paper, and shoved it into his hand.

  “OK, sweetie, we’re gonna go over there right now. Call him and tell him to wait for us.”

  “I can’t, Charlie. The phones aren’t even hooked up yet.”

  “Shit!” He thought for a second. “OK – if we miss him, we’re coming back. Tell him I want my advance.”

  “Advance?” she asked. “OK. ‘You want your advance’ - got it!”

  The three men turned to leave, and Maxie shut the door. She checked the locks again, trembling, and began to cry. She didn’t want any part of this business anymore. Marv had become like a different person since he started this whole trip, and she sensed that Charlie and his people were capable of awful things. She sat on the couch and laid her head on her arm, crying. Marv was so focused on this thing – but he said that’s the way it had to be in the beginning. Part of her knew that was right, but Marv was behaving like a mad scientist whose lab was only a car and a phone. He had already forgotten her birthday, and embarrassed her another time when he didn’t show for a family dinner.

  Maxie was starting to foresee a hopeless situation if Marv wouldn’t pull back from this scheme of his. She began to think about a backup plan – a strategy to get away and leave him. Just in case, she sniffed.

  • • •

  Manson and his guys parked in front of a two story stucco building on Little Santa Monica Blvd. in West Hollywood. It was fresh in the forties, when it was built, but now was sagging around the edges – brown rust streaks trailing down from eaves and window sills. The wind was slamming in hot gusts. They could tell when each blast was coming from the sound the distant palm fronds made. These first strong Santa Ana winds of the season, howling in from the desert, kept the nighttime temperatures well into the 80’s. The palm trees and ground plants thrashed against the building.

  Manson and crew found the office around a corner, off a little courtyard of other offices – insurance, chiropractor, talent agency. Marv’s was the only one with a light on inside. The door was unlatched, blown ajar, and Manson slowly pushed it open further. There was a small reception room, a bathroom off to the left, and a fancier door that opened to an office. On the walls were quite a few 8 by 10 photos in frames. Manson recognized himself in some that were taken at the Whiskey, others from the ranch photo shoot.

  From inside the office they heard a small stereo played an old rockabilly song – “Twenty Flight Rock.” The three men moved into the office and saw Marv’s ass in the air, waving in time to the beat. He was picking up something from a box on the floor. Marv stood up, turned around, and jumped a foot when he saw Charlie, Steve, and Spence. The papers he held went flying as he involuntarily threw his arms up.

  “Jesus! Charlie! You fuckin’ freaked me out, man! Knock next time, why don’t ya!” Marv stooped to gather up the scattered paperwork, then abruptly stood up. “How did you find this place?” he asked, his brow wrinkling.

  “We’ve been to see your girlfriend, Marv. She told us.”

  Marv panicked a little. “Maxie? You mean tonight? Man, it’s kind of late for her. Didn’t you call first?”

  “No. No, I didn’t call. But eventually, she told us you’d be here,” Manson said. “Nice office, Marv. When were you going to tell me about it?” he asked in his ominous monotone.

  “Yeah!” Marv said nervously. He couldn’t grasp why Charlie would need to see him this late at night. “Movin’ up, my man! Just signed the lease on Tuesday. The phones aren’t even working yet.” Marv could tell that Charlie was upset – upset in a way that was like their first meeting at the ranch. No jokes! he reminded himself as he sat down at his desk.

  Manson sat down in the visitor’s chair across from Marv, and Steve and Spence leaned against the walls on either side of the doorway, arms crossed.

  Manson spoke quietly. “I thought you said there was no money, Marv. You got me out there runnin’ all over like a damn clown, and I come here and find you in the big leather chair.”

  “Charlie – man! There is no money yet. No cash flow. Everything we got has been put back into pressing more records, more promotion! This –” Marv gestured around the office, “only exists because my cousin lent me – us – some money.”

  “Your cousin?” Manson asked. “How much?”

  “Two grand. One grand of that I just paid to the pressing plant.” Marv was nervous. He worried about how Charlie was becoming obsessed with money.

  “Well,” Manson said, lighting a cigarette, “I came to get my advance.” He looked at Marv.

  “An advance?” Marv snorted. “Charlie! What do you think this is, RCA Records? There’s no money for advances,” he said. “I’m not making a salary either, my friend.”

  “Look, Marv!” Manson said, leaning forward. “I’ve been around. It’s the standard thing! I got expenses, people to pay. You want us to play gigs? We need a PA, amps – shit like that. I need that advance, man!”

  “Charlie,” Marv said plaintively. “I under –”

  Manson suddenly jumped up, flicked his cigarette away, and pulled a kind of pirate sword out of his buckskin pants. At first look, Marv thought it was a toy - until it crashed down on the stereo, sending parts and shards clattering across the room.

  “I’m just about at the end of the trail, here, Marvie. And if you want me to stay on it, you’ve gotta get me five hundred, man. Now!”

  Marv slowly sat down again. “OK! OK! Calm down, Charlie!” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small metal cashbox. He opened the lid, slowly and deliberately turned the box upside down, and everyone watched while bills and coins fell onto the desktop. Marv collected the money and counted it out angrily. He couldn’t believe Charlie was doing this. “Three hundred twenty and change. That’s all there is, asshole. Take it.”

  Manson scooped up the bills and pushed them into his shirt pocket. “And?”

  “And what?” Marv asked.

  “The wallet, Marv,” Manson said.

  “Charlie!” Marv barked. “Enough kidding, all right?”

  Charlie started to spin into a little dance in the office, swinging the sword in wide, swooshing arcs. Spence and Steve moved away toward the corners of the room. The sword came down squarely in the middle of the desk with a whack and dull clang, pointed at Marv.

  “Do I ever kid around, man? Can you ever remember a time?” Manson growled.

  Marv stood up and reached around for his wallet. His hands were shaking as he pulled the four twenties from his wallet and gave them to Manson.

  “OK. Now we’re coming to an understanding,” Manson said with a satisfied grin.

  “Manson,” Marv said as he sat at the desk again, “you know, it’s getting very hard for me to believe that this deal is working. I - I’m not sure you appreciate anything about me, what I do, or how t
he business works.” Crazy fucking singers! he grimaced.

  “No! No!” Manson said, apparently sincere. “I think you’re doing fantastic, Marv! No one else has ever done anything like this for me.” He took one of the twenties and threw it back in front of Marv. “Here. I’m not unreasonable, man! I just gotta keep remindin’ you about who works for who, is all.”

  Marv scowled as his chair swiveled back and forth. “I had a happening interview lined up for you, man. But now, it’s a no-go. He wanted $100, which I don’t seem to have anymore. You don’t realize that everybody in this business has got their hand out, man!” Marv fumed.

  “Really. Who is it?” Manson asked, curious.

  “Freddie John at KOWL. They have really been carrying the ball for us, Charlie.”

  Manson looked at the sword in his hand with an expression that seemed to say he couldn’t figure out how it got there. He slid it back into some kind of scabbard inside his pants, then reached down into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded paper triangle. He tossed it on the desk in front of Marv. “Try this.”

  Marv picked it up. “Coke? I thought you didn’t deal in coke.”

  “It’s a new day, man. Gotta roll with the times,” Charlie said. “Hell, it’s almost the Seventies. Everywhere I go, this is like the new money, man. Better than money. Strong drugs for tough times, brother! Trust me – ol’ Freddie the Fuck will take it!” Manson turned and split with Spence and Steve, leaving Marv wondering what the hell had just happened.

  Those Kicks Just Keep Getting Harder to Find

  1966 Cynthia Weill, Barry Mann

  September 27, 1969

  10:00 pm.

  Hot desert wind howled against the walls of the cabin, trying desperately to force its way in through the cracks in the dried up wood siding. Sherrie feared the old shack would blow apart any minute. What was left of the shingles and slats pounded against the frame of the roof like they were being hammered and split apart by demons.

  That would be funny, Sherrie thought. The whole building is going to blow away, and leave me sitting in the only chair, like in a cartoon.