Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  “Hey! Guys! Make sure you come and see Charlie at Devonshire Downs next Sunday! See you there!” he yelled, waving goodbye. But he wasn’t sure if any of them had heard him.

  Marv ran into the café and rushed up to Charlie, who was standing at the bar tossing down a glass of water. “Charlie!” Marv gushed. “Man, that was brilliant! You really have a power …”

  “Shut up, asshole!” Manson screamed, turning on Marv. “I had to come out and rescue your ass! I love the way you handled the situation, Marv.” Manson spit on the floor. “Jesus. A bunch of kids! You got nothin’, man! All you know is how to buy shit.”

  Marv crumpled inside. This time, Manson had hit him in his vulnerable spot. Marv had always wanted desperately to be a charismatic star, but had to settle on propping up the other, luckier, more talented ones. He sat down at the nearest table. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but I ain’t no security guard, man.” He lit a cigarette, his hands shaking, hoping the moment would pass away soon. Then - “But you should see the charts, man! Nothing but up all over the country!” Marv reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of folded paper, offering it to Manson.

  Manson said nothing, and turned back to the bar. He took another drink of water, and Kat came out of the kitchen with a lit joint. He took a hit and blew the smoke out slowly.

  “Got any money for me, Marv?” he asked flatly, watching Marv in the bar mirror.

  Marv sighed heavily. “No, Charlie. Like I’ve told you a hundred times, there’s no money yet.” Marv perked up. He had forgotten. “But I got us an outasight gig, man – if you want it, I mean,” he said, his voice full of hope.

  Manson looked over his shoulder. “A gig?” He laughed. “Another radio talk show, or maybe that Ed Sullivan dude?”

  Marv rolled his eyes, absorbing another shot of sarcasm. “No. Didn’t you hear me telling the kids just now?”

  Manson looked at Marv in the mirror. “What? I didn’t hear anything but screaming babies, man.”

  “Just a little rock festival at Devonshire Downs.” Now it was Marv’s turn for sarcasm. “Maybe you’ve heard of it – next weekend?”

  Manson spun around. “Are you shitting me, man? Coz, don’t do that! I’m on my fuckin’ last nerve with you!”

  “For real, Charlie. The first act on Saturday. Twenty minutes. You’d be opening for Cat Stevens.”

  Manson smiled. “Can’t be!”

  “Truth. Get your people together, Charlie.”

  “How much is the gig, man?” Charlie asked, brightening.

  Marv turned cold inside. “Um, four hundred,” he lied. “But we also get national exposure, play to thousands of people, hang out with the best of the best backstage, and free radio. Most groups would kill for that opportunity. But,” Marv said, shrugging, “it’s up to you, man. As of right now, we’re in.”

  Charlie nodded his head, thinking. “Not bad, I guess. I gotta get my guys to play for less, though.”

  “Tell them it’s a promo gig, man. The exposure, opportunity – all that shit.”

  Manson nodded, silently agreeing. “Devonshire Downs, man! Fuck me! I’ll be looking down on the seats where I used to be!”

  Marv remembered. “Oh – and, uh, one other thing. I need another gram for that KOWL guy.”

  My Generation

  1965 Pete Townsend

  October 11, 1969

  Noon

  Check one! Check one! One Two One Two!

  A long-haired guy, shirtless in the direct sun, chanted into one of the five microphones lined up at the lip of the stage. It was a stupid job, and the first kids let in to the festival grounds were heckling him.

  “OK – number five,” a voice echoed from the giant stack of speakers.

  The stage guy, very stoned, shuffled over to the next mic.

  Check five! Check! One Two One Two!

  His amplified voice went from too soft to louder and then became a howling screech of feedback erupting from the sound system. He instantly covered his ears and fell back, just as if he had been hit by a physical punch.

  “Sorry,” the disembodied voice said. “I think I got it covered now.”

  Ears still plugged by his fingers, the stage hand cautiously approached the mic.

  Check five! Check! One -

  SKREEEE!!

  • • •

  Behind the stage a small city of tents, buses, and picnic tables had sprung up. This was the backstage command center for the concert, and it was overrun with people arriving and delivering equipment and supplies.

  Marv, Charlie, the girls and band approached a tiny woman at the entrance to the cool little world. She carried a clipboard, a giant walkie-talkie, and had a large Hell’s Angel biker in tow.

  “Hi!” Marv said, to no response. He tried again. “Hi – we’re the Charlie Manson Band, on at 2?” She finally looked up at him, then checked various lists. “Yeah,” she finally said. “The KOWL act. OK, C’mon – whoa!” she commanded, seeing the platoon. “Wait! You can’t bring all those people in here – just the band!”

  Marv laughed. “This is the band – all of them!! The girls are singers, like a chorus. Haven’t you heard our single?”

  The woman rolled her eyes and bit down on her pencil, surveying the band. “Fine. But we better see all those chicks on stage, or Manny’s gonna hunt you down!” Manny, the biker, chuckled. “Your dressing room is tent 6 – pick up your badges behind me. You got an hour ‘til we start the show with you guys.”

  The band ambled into the backstage refuge. Like an old cowboys and Indians movie, trucks had circled the encampment, backing in, and out of them flowed streams of music gear. Amps, drum kits, guitar cases, pianos – all were swirling toward the stage, pushed and carried by a small army of rock and roll’s everlasting heroes – the roadies.

  Marv’s group had no amps or drums with them – just guitars, tambourines, and shakers. All the equipment they would use today was provided by a music store in Westminster and was already set up on the stage, under the music store’s big banner. On the stage the new amps and equipment glistened, each cabinet and amp covered in colorful stuffed and pleated vinyl. Bright blue and red, the vinyl also had metallic sparkles embedded in it. The gear looked great to the parents with the checkbooks, but experienced musicians knew that it sounded like crap – tinny, and unreliable as well.

  The group had rehearsed three songs: “Look At Your Game, Girl,” “Eyes of a Dreamer,” and “Cease to Exist.” Dave Silva, persuaded to do the gig on spec, was there on bass. John Diedrich had agreed to play the gig, after he found out where it would be, for his gram and a bag of weed. Diedrich knew that being backstage with that many groups was a fantastic opportunity to promote himself for other gigs. Having the gram in his pocket, being able to approach Stills, Fogarty, or whoever and offer a friendly toot: golden! Being honorable men, surely they would all appreciate and remember his generosity.

  • • •

  Behind the racetrack at the artist/crew gate, Alex Swain presented his festival press pass to the guardians. He had discovered Charlie and the band’s appearance at the festival from an ad on KOWL, and got a press pass under the auspices of Crib Notes.

  But reporting was not the real motivator for Alex as he picked up his stage access badge. He asked where he could find Manson and crew – but no one knew. Just as in planning for war, the elaborate scheduling for the festival was falling apart by the minute. Alex wandered backstage, searching the tents and staging areas set up in the stable stalls of the old horse track. He stopped to rap with a few musicians and journalists he knew but the opening act’s time slot was approaching fast. He needed to find Manson and his boys before their set started and ask a few questions. Some very pointed questions.

  He saw Sandy standing across the compound yard in front of a tent, smoking. He tried to hurry toward her, but the supply lines of roadies and vendors slowed him down. Alex could only watch as Marv and the whole troupe came out of the tent and headed for the stage, instruments in
hand. The girls had done a lot of work costuming themselves in knee-length, filmy white smocks, draped with garlands made of feathers, wild plant flowers, and ribbons. Charlie wore his usual buckskin outfit and new beaded Indian moccasins. Alex caught up with them just before they entered the stage building.

  “Manson!” Alex barked, and they all quickly turned around as one to look at him. “You wanna talk to me about Phil Crane and his office? Or would you rather meet at Hollywood LAPD later?”

  Manson just glared, and Marv Feld stepped in. “Get lost, Swain! We told Phil, we told you: no story! We’re done with that!”

  Alex held up his press pass. “Sorry, but I’m not done with it, Marv. I’m here to work. If you all are part of the festival, well, lucky for me.” He looked back at Manson. “Did you trash the office, or not? It sure sounds like it was those two goons you got running your games for you!”

  “Fuck off, man!” Manson yelled. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! I got a show to do!” Manson turned away. Sandy looked at Alex, forlorn, and just shook her head. Then she, too, went inside the stage building.

  “I’m going to keep digging at this story, Manson!” Alex shouted as the group filed in. “Somebody will talk, I promise you!”

  Marv shoved him with his shoulder as he passed. “Leave it alone, asshole. Forget it. Go back to wherever, interview some candy-ass bubble gum band!”

  • • •

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Opening Rock Fest ‘69,

  KOWL Presents: the Charlie Manson Band!”

  The small audience produced a thin clapping, most of the crowd still streaming into the Downs. There were a few shouts from individual fans scattered through the crowd. Diedrich climbed behind the drum kit and bassist Silva plugged in. A tech walked over and adjusted a microphone to cover Charlie’s acoustic guitar.

  “Beautiful day, children!” Manson said tentatively into his vocal mic. He was surprised to hear it bellow from the speakers and echo back to him. The crowd applauded, and Charlie got his first rush of being the focus of a big audience. He strummed his guitar a few times and shrugged. “I can’t hear it!” he said to no one in particular, and a sound tech situated him in front of the mic, whispering, “Stay right here!”

  The guitar suddenly had a voice, and the other band members and Charlie’s chorus of girls smiled and clapped. Charlie spoke to the crowd again, still a little stiff.

  “This first song we’re gonna do, I wrote for the Beach Boys - or Bitch Boys, as I like to call them!” Charlie told them, turning to giggle at the girls behind him. Some of the crew and quite a few of the audience got the joke and responded.

  It was a rough beginning, and the sound guys struggled to adjust the system so that the musicians could hear each other better. Slowly, the band’s playing and sound improved.

  “Pretty girl, pretty pretty girl

  Cease to exist

  Submission is a gift, go on give it to your brother

  Love and understandin’, is for one another

  I’m your kind, I’m your kind, I’m your brother

  Never learn not to love you

  Never learn not to love you”

  When Charlie was not singing a line the girls would try and create an ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ background to the music, while Charlie improvised on the guitar. Dave Silva struggled to keep pace with Charlie’s improvised chords and rambling. John Diedrich had the easier job, just keeping straight, simple time on the drums.

  The audience was restless. Most had come to see the big names and were desperate to rock. This was not rock – more of a crooning folk style. When the song ended, there were some catcalls and polite applause. An audience member tried to climb up to the stage on the left and was set upon by some security guards and bikers. Charlie watched for a moment, then came up to the mic.

  “Hey, man! Leave that guy alone! He’s not hurting nobody!” Manson demanded. A roar went up from the crowd. Any sign of authority was completely against the ethic of the music of the day, and the general philosophy of the audience. They had come to the festival to get away from their parents, teachers, and bosses telling them what to do.

  The security guys looked up for a second, then continued to try and subdue the man, who was obviously drunk or stoned.

  “No! I’m serious, you guys! We’re not gonna play ‘til you leave that dude alone! He can come up here – it’s cool! What’s the fucking problem, man?” Manson demanded. Again the crowd yelled their support, but this time, they stood up and were moving like the tide toward the stage.

  Manson spoke again. “I don’t –” and suddenly his mic was dead.

  A man ran onto the stage from the side, gesturing wildly to Manson. They engaged in an argument, unheard, and then Manson returned to the mic. The other man signaled to the crew to turn it back on.

  “OK!” Manson said. “Listen people! Everybody be cool out and sit down. We’ll let this guy up on stage, but that’s it, man! We can’t have everybody up here!” The audience booed, but it was halfhearted, and most sat down again. “We don’t have enough mic’s, man!” Charlie laughed. Sandy went over to their new member and gave him a tambourine. He just dropped it and wandered off the right stage wing.

  “I know how you all feel, man. More stupid rules, right?” Charlie said. The crowd swelled with a “Yeah!”

  “I hate that shit too, man. Can you imagine, people, what it would be like without the pigs, without the government, all that shit? It would be beautiful, right?” The loudest surge yet came back from the crowd.

  “We try and get to that place through our music, people, and the way we live. So, check it out!’

  Charlie turned to the band and counted the rhythm to the next song, “Eyes of a Dreamer.”

  “It’s all in the eyes of a dreamer, it’s all in the eyes of a man

  All the songs, have been sung, and all the saints, have been hung

  The wars and cries have been wailed, and all the people have been jailed”

  This time, the crowd was with them. People were clapping, whistling, a few dancing.

  “The world, it’s yours my friend, it’s yours to begin or to end

  Oh, the eyes of a dreamer, in the eyes of the man

  Take nothing from nothing brother, and it’s all just the same

  For the loser is the winner, and there ain’t no blame

  ‘Cept the end of the game”

  Diedrich finished the song with a long drum flourish – almost a solo – and Manson glared at him. But the audience was on their feet again, cheering. Manson returned to his mic.

  “All right! We got one more song!” The crowd booed. “It’s cool, people – we’ll be back!” Charlie strummed his guitar and looked around at the band, nodding. “Let’s see if you know this one, children! It’s about a really fucked up girl! One, two, three …”

  “There’s a time for livin,’ the time keeps on flyin’

  Think you’re lovin’ baby, and all ya do is cryin’

  Can ya feel - are those feelin’s real?

  Look at your game girl

  Look at your game girl!”

  Quite a few people in the audience recognized the song from the radio and screamed their approval. The rest slowly caught the fever. The Family girls left their mics and began dancing around the stage, unhindered breasts rolling under their flowing shift dresses. The audience took the cue and began dancing themselves.

  “Just to say you love’s not enough, if’n you can’t be true

  You can tell those lies baby, but you’re only foolin’ you

  That’s the game -

  Sad, sad game

  Mad game, sad game”

  Charlie also took his cue, and began a line dance with the girls, just as if they were at the ranch on a hot night. The crowd roared its approval and eventually the snake line just danced off the stage. Dave Silva and John Diedrich kept the beat, then finally crashed the song to an end. As they stood up and waved to the crowd, Marv Feld rushed out t
o the center mic.

  “Charlie Manson, people!” he screamed as his voice broke. “The Charlie Manson Band!”

  The audience, now fans, screamed for more. But Marv’s mic went dead, and the PA started to play some other music, loud. Rock Fest had a schedule and had to try and keep it. The Charlie Manson Band’s first show was over.

  The group trooped back to their dressing tent only to find it occupied by Jimi Hendrix and his group, Band of Gypsies. John Diedrich smiled broadly, and charged in. “Hey, Jimi! Wow! It’s great to meet you, man!” Charlie went cold, wrinkled his nose, and left. The girls grabbed everything that had been left behind, and they all met outside the tent.

  Manson rushed up to Marv. “Where’s our fucking dressing room, man?”

  “It’s a tight schedule, Charlie. We’re done and out of here. But what a great show!” Marv crowed.

  “Yeah, I did a good show, like a good little doggie. Now, no dressing room! What next? How about the money, man?” Manson demanded, up in Marv’s face.

  Marv wilted. “Uh, well, they kind of changed the deal on me at the last minute.” Marv produced a check from his coat pocket. “They said, considering the free publicity and everything, the most they could pay was $100.”

  Manson was apoplectic. “A check? Don’t you know anything, asshole?” He grabbed the check and used his teeth to tear it in half. “Get out of my sight, you fucking idiot! The next time I see you, you better have fistfuls of money, Marv! Barrels full of it!”

  As Marv, speechless with anger, stormed away across the compound backstage Manson shouted after him. “If there is a next time, asshole!”

  That’s The Stuff You Gotta Watch

  1951 Muddy Waters

  October 14, 1969

  1:00 pm.

  What the fuck now? Marv wondered. He didn’t have any time for these trips Charlie was running. I need every minute at the office. Things were really taking off, but still completely hairy at the same time. If he’s going to demand money again, Marv decided, I’ve had enough.

  Charlie had called that morning, insisting that Marv meet him at 1:00 pm at the ranch. Without answering any questions, Manson had simply hung up. When Marv called back to the ranch the line was constantly busy.