Janis is crushed to hear that the surprise may be blown, but Julie, who is more sober today, says the rumor about Janis’s presence is just that, a rumor. No one is sure it’s true. Janis takes hope that we can salvage some element of surprise. We discuss our options and come up with a plan. If we arrive at the Party Barn after dark, we can sneak Janis to the stage. So far so good, but it won’t be dark for another few hours. What do we do in the meantime? This being the cocktail hour, we hit on the obvious solution and repair to the Holiday Inn’s cocktail lounge, which is located on the top floor of the tower, with a sweeping view of Austin and the lake.
On a small stage in one corner of the lounge, a diminutive young man with an electric guitar and a rhythm machine is providing background music. As the waitress delivers our first round of drinks, the singer launches into Kris Kristofferson’s “Me and Bobby McGee.” Well, “launches” gives the wrong impression. The little guy more like strolls into the song.
At this point in time there is no connection in the public mind between Janis and “Bobby McGee.” Even if the little guy recognized Janis, there’s no reason he would think to play this song for her. Bob Neuwirth learned the song last fall and taught it to Janis. She performed it in Nashville in December with Kozmic Blues. The song wasn’t on the set list but Janis decided to do it on the spur of the moment, a spontaneous decision that had the best possible outcome: The band found the groove and Janis’s first public performance of “Bobby McGee” got a rousing reception in the capital of country music. She played it again at Madison Square Garden in December. Apart from the audiences at these two concerts, and at Janis’s shows this summer, the “Bobby McGee” that the public knows is Roger Miller’s recording. Kristofferson’s first solo album is only now in stores and making few waves. So why does the little guy pick this song to sing in this Holiday Inn on the day when Janis will sing it for Ken Threadgill at his birthday party? Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world . . . The cosmic disc jockey is on the job.
When the low-powered rendition comes to an end, Janis leans into the table and confides to us, “That guy can’t do that song worth a damn. Wait until you hear me. I can do that song.”
We time our departure from the Holiday Inn to approach the Party Barn as dusk is deepening. Oak Hill is just beyond the edge of Austin, in the countryside, the rising glow of the capital city behind us.
The mob of Janis-rumor-fans is alert. They peer into every car that approaches the site, and there’s no way to keep them from peering into ours. Janis is riding shotgun, her preferred seat. It’s too late to get her into the backseat where she could scrunch down to hide.
The car is mobbed, but so long as we keep rolling, we can still make progress. We want to get as close to the stage as possible. It’s set up outside the barn, and the pasture is fence-to-fence full of people.
Our only ally is the darkness. Beyond the crush of people around the car—on the car, some of them—no one knows what’s happening. When the crowd gets too dense to go any farther, we abandon the car and try to form a protective ring around Janis. Forming a protective ring with four people and trying to keep the mob from grabbing hold of the person in the middle, while simultaneously moving through a crowd as densely packed as rush-hour commuters on the New York subway, is challenging. But I am a New Yorker. I know how to deal with rush-hour crowds. I lead the way, weaving through the crush with Janis holding on to my belt, the others clustered around her.
There is no protected area around the stage, no “backstage,” no semblance of a green room. Behind the stage, the crowd is thinner—you can’t see the performers from here. We find a small area of sanctuary, a patch of grass, stomped by many feet, where we catch our breath. Chuck has brought a guitar for Janis. Janis is shaken by the intensity of our passage through the throng. Still, she has observed one aspect of the gathering that piques her interest: Look at all the pretty boys, she says, surveying the young men within range.
During our cocktail holding pattern in the Holiday Inn lounge, I had time to observe Julie’s friend Margaret and learn a little about her. She’s smart and she’s funny, and she’s good-looking. And smart. For me, smart triples the appeal of good-looking. Margaret graduated from UT Austin in the spring and she’s headed for law school in the fall, which impresses me no end. I took a course at Harvard called “The Role of Law in Anglo-American History” that held my interest as few others managed to do. I thought about going to law school. I fantasized becoming a latter-day Clarence Darrow or Oliver Wendell Holmes, but the folk revival seduced me from the halls of academe.
Chuck and Julie huddle with Janis as she tunes up the guitar, which frees me to pay more attention to Margaret. We can’t see much from here, so when Margaret says she’s going to try to get to the back of the crowd, I tag along.
We circle around to a good vantage point. The PA system, intended for a smaller gathering, is marginal but adequate.
Bands have been playing all day, a lively mix of country-flavored folk and folk-flavored country and just plain good old country music, but Threadgill himself is the main event. When he is introduced, the crowd roars. He sings “T for Texas,” Jimmie Rodgers’s biggest hit, and his yodel soars above the crowd. I find most performers of Rodgers’s songs wanting, but Threadgill does the Blue Yodeler proud.
Between songs in the middle of Threadgill’s set, Janis steps out on the stage, provoking an even louder outburst from the crowd. She appears to take Threadgill completely unaware, and he is clearly delighted, grinning from ear to ear.
“Kenneth was as big a ham as Janis, and the fact that five thousand people showed up instead of five hundred just tickled him to death and it didn’t matter why. You know what I mean? It was just a big rock-roaring success. I mean it was everything he had ever hoped for.”
Margaret Moore
When the applause dies down, Janis places around Threadgill’s neck a flowered lei she has brought from Hawaii. “I brought you a nice Hawaiian lei,” she says into the mike. Threadgill is tickled by this gesture and embarrassed by the play on words. His affection for Janis is manifest, even from our vantage point at the back of the crowd.
I’ve got a couple of songs to sing for you, Janis says. She tells the crowd that the songs are by a songwriter named Kris Kristofferson. If you haven’t heard of him, you will, she says. She sings “Bobby McGee,” and the great crowd gathered in front of the barn in the hot Texas night falls as close to silent as that many people can get.
Janis told the truth when she said she knew how to sing “Bobby McGee.” A great singer draws you in and connects you with the emotional content of the song. This ability, this gift, is at the heart of Janis’s popularity. She bares her emotions and makes the song her own. With “Bobby McGee,” she turns the story around, telling it from a woman’s point of view without changing a word, making it even more poignant than Kristofferson’s original recording.
Janis follows up with Kris’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” During the song, Margaret and I make our way back to the stage, to be there when Janis comes off.
“I just remember that she was just awesome. Her version of those two songs was just real impressive. I can remember sitting there thinking, Oh, my God, this is really memorable.”
Margaret Moore
When Janis leaves the stage, her manner is noticeably different than at the end of her own shows. Here, she isn’t basking in the ovation as a personal reward. She came here to honor a man she loves and respects, and she is satisfied that she has achieved what she came to do.
Somehow, while Margaret and I were out in the crowd, Janis has managed to pluck a semi-long-haired pretty boy from the mob. She is ready to get out of the crush and take the pretty boy with her. With Chuck and Julie we gather in a bunch and make our way to the car, Janis noticed by all and greeted by some, but our progress is easier now.
Performing at the Jubilee has Janis r
eady for some late-night rambles in Austin. It’s past closing time for public establishments, but we have our own bottle of tequila and it fuels the search for a suitable living room. Our first stop is a house that belongs to a husband-and-wife couple of liberal lawyers who own a music club called the Split Rail, where Threadgill’s band has been a fixture and where Margaret first heard him play. The lawyers offer drinks, which we accept, and Janis gets Chuck to let me play his guitar. Janis is in listening mode here, content to let me pick and sing, and she seems pleased by the Texans’ appreciative reaction to finding that Janis has a road manager who can hold his own with Ken Threadgill when it comes to singing a Jimmie Rodgers song, as well as a couple by Merle Haggard.
One guitar isn’t enough, so we move along to Chuck and Julie’s, where we can trade songs back and forth. Janis has more than music on her mind, though, and before long she lets it be known she’d like to head for the Holiday Inn. We bid the Joyces good-bye and navigate to the tower by the lake, where we discharge Janis and her catch of the day. When Margaret and I are alone in the car I take my fate in my hands and ask her to come up to my room. For a drink, I say, holding up the bottle of tequila, which has an inch or so left. This blatant euphemism for what I’ve really got in mind tickles Margaret’s Texas sense of humor. She says yes, and if we catch a few winks sometime before the hazy Texas dawn, they number fewer than forty.
I learn from Margaret that Janis told Julie she had to promise me a chance to play music in order to get me to come with her to Austin. Which wasn’t true, but the message Julie got was that this guy’s a VIP: If he’s not happy, Janis won’t be happy. Behind the stage at Threadgill’s Jubilee, when I was availing myself of the barbecue and beans and beer laid out for the performers and partygoers, Janis extolled my musical talents to Chuck and Julie and Margaret. As Margaret interpreted the state of things, “I thought it was pretty obvious that she was smitten with you, so I was not looking for attention from you.” By now Margaret has figured out that Janis’s concern for my welfare stems from friendship, not romance—always a fine line for Janis, but one she has chosen to draw a little more clearly this year.
I would gladly extend my reservation in this particular Holiday Inn indefinitely, trusting room service to keep us fed, but I’m a road manager and Janis has a gig later today in San Diego. When I leave Austin, I’m in love.
After our smooching on the red-eye, and what Margaret told me, I wonder if Janis is maybe a little jealous, but she hasn’t forgotten her resolution not to get involved with anyone on her payroll. On our flight to San Diego, she makes a point of letting me know she approves of Margaret. After all, I’ve had the good sense to fall for a Texas girl.
A week later, Janis receives in the mail a photograph of Kenneth Threadgill leaning against the bar at Threadgill’s. On the back, he has written “Threadgill’s, 7/15/70, to Janis from Kenneth Threadgill.” In the photo, he’s wearing a plain white apron and around his neck is the lei that Janis gave him at the Jubilee.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
That Old Gang of Mine
JULY 11, 1970: Sports Arena, San Diego
JULY 12: Exposition Hall, Santa Clara County Fairgrounds, San Jose
JULY 17: Albuquerque, N.M.
AUG. 1: Forest Hills Tennis Stadium, Queens, N.Y.—RAINED OUT
AUG. 2: Forest Hills Tennis Stadium—played rain date
AUG. 3: The Dick Cavett Show, NYC
AUG. 5: Ravinia Park, Highland Park, Ill.
AUG. 6: Peace Festival, Shea Stadium, Queens, N.Y.
AUG. 8: Capitol Theater, Port Chester, N.Y.
AUG. 11: Garden State Arts Center, Holmdel, N.J.
AUG. 12: Harvard Stadium, Cambridge, Mass.
BEFORE JANIS AND I left the Full Tilt boys to bake on the sands of Waikiki, I put George Ostrow and Vince Mitchell in charge of getting everyone on the plane to San Diego. We were in touch once by phone while I was in Austin, but it’s a relief to arrive at the San Diego Sports Arena and find everything in place. The Full Tilt band is here, the equipment is set up, everybody’s ready to boogie.
The promoter, Jim Pagni, has been running rock concerts in San Diego since Janis and Big Brother played here. He has his act together, so I can devote some of my attention to a task that Albert has given me: The time to record Janis with the Full Tilt Boogie Band is drawing near, and Albert and Janis have chosen Paul Rothchild to produce the record. If—it’s a big if—if Paul and Janis agree that they can work together. Janis’s failure to form comfortable working relationships with her previous record producers has vexed both Janis and Albert. This time around they want to assure true compatibility—insofar as that’s possible—before they set foot in the studio.
When Albert tells me that Paul is in line to produce Janis, I wonder why he didn’t think of Paul sooner. I wonder why I didn’t think of Paul sooner. Paul is an independent producer now. He can work for any label. Albert says Janis thought of it. She remembers Paul from his effort to create a blues band around her and Taj Mahal and Al Wilson back in 1966. She remembers that Paul liked her singing.
Albert is aware of my friendship with Paul. He is asking me to act as an intermediary, to use that friendship to connect, or reconnect, Paul and Janis. He knows I can’t determine the outcome, but he hopes I can smooth the way. I told him I’ll do whatever I can.
In San Diego, that’s not much. The other band on the program is Big Brother and the Holding Company, with Nick Gravenites on lead vocals, so it’s a reunion with old friends. Paul gets to hear Janis live with Full Tilt. He likes what he hears, but backstage, before and after, there are too many distractions and not enough time for him to do more than exchange a few words with Janis.
The next day we fly up to San Francisco, and we go straight from the airport to San Jose for an evening concert there with the Joy of Cooking. We’ve been on the road for more than six weeks. Janis and I are fresh from Austin, where neither of us got enough sleep. Janis wants to get home to her house in Larkspur and sleep the clock around, if that’s what it takes to revive her, but even in this condition, powered by Full Tilt Boogie, she musters the energy to put on a first-class show at the Santa Clara County Fairgrounds. “I haven’t had so much fun since the first year with Big Brother!” she shouts as she takes the stage.
It’s late when we all get home. Paul stays with me in my Powell Street pad. In the morning, we’re groggy and Paul is concerned. He’s been around Janis for two days and he has no idea if they can communicate on the level that will be necessary if they’re going to make a record together.
Paul is convinced that Janis is an even better singer than either the world or she herself knows. His goal is to introduce her to the truly great singer inside her and to get that singer on tape for the first time. To do that, they will have to bond like soulmates. He reveals these concerns over a late breakfast, and the need to help him connect with Janis takes on new meaning for me. This isn’t just another job for Paul. He wants to take Janis to the next level.
I’m apprehensive about calling Janis this morning. We had a passing spat about something or other before we left the concert last night, but the minute Janis answers the phone, my worries go out the window. Everything is sunshine and roses. Janis is happy to be home and all is right with the world. Come up to the house anytime, she says. And bring a bottle of rum.
By the time we get ourselves across the Golden Gate to Larkspur, it’s afternoon. Janis gives Paul the nickel tour of the house and we go out to the long, narrow deck, where we sit in the filtered light of sunshine peeking through the redwoods. There is a short period of halting conversation as Janis and Paul size each other up. Both prefer to approach the matter at hand obliquely. Nobody’s saying, Well, do you think we can work together? but everybody knows why we’re here.
Janis, ever the gracious hostess, remembers the bottle of rum we delivered into Lyndall’s hands upon arrival. While in Hawaii, Janis
learned how to make piña coladas from the bartender at the Hilton on Waikiki, and she is eager to demonstrate this new skill. She disappears into the kitchen and comes back a few minutes later with a pitcher and four glasses. The drinks go down easily. They’re like tropical milk shakes. Nothing to it, Janis says. Pineapple juice and coconut cream and rum whipped up in the blender with ice. She brings out her Gibson Hummingbird and sings “Bobby McGee” for Paul. Before long, it’s time for another pitcher of piña coladas.
The conversation is rolling nonstop. Nothing about making records, nothing about business. The doorbell rings and Lyndall conducts Shel Silverstein out to the deck. Just dropping by to say howdy. If we needed another catalyst, beyond the jolly milk shakes, to move the gathering toward unrestrained merriment, Shel fills the bill. He writes and draws cartoons for Playboy, he’s a poet, a composer, a songwriter—hell, he’s got more talents than our favorite jack-of-all-hipness, Bob Neuwirth. Shel wrote “A Boy Named Sue” for Johnny Cash, and “The Unicorn,” which gave the Irish Rovers their biggest hit. He’s currently working on the music for a film about the Australian outlaw Ned Kelly, which will star Kris Kristofferson and Waylon Jennings. (Shel’s songs, sung by Waylon, will survive the Hollywood process, but Kris is replaced by Mick Jagger.)
Shel gets right in the spirit of the piña coladas. He picks up Janis’s guitar and plays a couple of raucous tunes of his own creation, and we laugh until we ache.
When we run out of rum, we adjourn to Sausalito to drink dinner at the No Name Bar, where we find ourselves seated next to an exceptionally tall fellow who looks as if he may dwell somewhere deep in the redwoods, emerging only to have a meal and a drink in town on special occasions. He is clad in leather garments, apparently of his own making, and he has a few leather hats on his table. Paul asks him, “Do you make those hats, man?” He says, “Yeah, I make ’em.” “Well, can we see some?” He stands up, which takes a while—he’s got to be seven feet tall—and he goes outside to his car and comes back with a knapsack full of headgear.
On the Road with Janis Joplin Page 34