Manson in His Own Words

by Nuel Emmons

  Previous writings have portrayed me as the dominant force behind all of the wrongs that went on while we were living at Spahn Ranch. Although I don’t deny responsibility for the majority of the things that did result from our life and beliefs at Spahn, I’d like to make it clear that when twenty people are living together in a sharing situation, one individual’s thoughts and games wear out and other members contribute. Not all the thoughts and games played at Spahn and in our travels were mine.

  Eighteen of us and a newborn baby moved onto the Spahn Ranch property. The only perfect person among us was the infant Pooh Bear. The rest of us had our quirks, good sides and bad sides, individual thoughts, dreams and imaginations. Living in movieland’s make-believe, we began to play-act at making those thoughts, dreams and imaginings become real, if only for the hour or two we spent pretending the cameras were focused on us. If Sandy, Mary or any of the other girls wanted to play at being the Queen of Sheba, Holy Mary, or Tempest Storm, we all played characters to fit their whim. If one of the guys, including myself, had a desire to come on as King Richard, Pancho Villa, Lucifer, Elvis the Pelvis, or Jesus Christ (which may have been my favorite role), everyone joined the cast. Pretending occupied our time and our minds and, aided by some dope, the play-acting became so real that sometimes long after the scenes were over, the feeling of really having been that person lingered so strong it became real life.

  The main ranch house we wanted eventually became ours as did the dwellings that made up the movie set. With so much space at our convenience, and without the police in our face every time we farted, some way-out things began happening there. The place became a mecca, a natural oasis for people who wanted to let their hair down and chuck their inhibitions. There were so many people and so many experiences that it would be impossible, or at least a life-long effort, to write them all down.

  Not all of our activities were that pleasing to old George. There were a lot of ups and downs, but we managed to live on the ranch from the spring of 1968 until the roof fell in on us in late 1969. The length of our stay there can be attributed more to George’s fondness for the young girls than from my conning. He was especially attached to Lyn, dubbing her “Squeaky.” It has been said I planted Lyn in George’s house for my own ulterior motives, but that isn’t so. Lyn thought George would be more comfortable with a younger and more capable person, so she became a steady cook, housekeeper and companion to him. In assigning herself to that role she was perhaps selecting one of the more comfortable living conditions around the ranch. She could also keep me posted on what went on between George and others who might have resented some of our activities and our living at the ranch. If, as some have said, she slept with George to further enhance our position there at Spahn, that was her desire and her business. Not mine! Still, because Lyn had initiated it, and because having someone around George was to our benefit, I saw to it that one of the other girls filled in when Lyn wanted a break or had the urge to travel.

  In addition to the work the girls did around the house for George, the rest of us did anything we could in the way of keeping the place repaired. We shoveled a lot of horse shit, groomed some of the horses and on George’s busier days we helped all we could with his customers. For the most part, those labors paid George for allowing us to live on his property. There was no fixed rent, but when we had money, we gave some of it to George.

  For all the space and pleasures at the ranch, I would still have the urge to travel. Something inside me was always gnawing at me to look over the next hill, check around the next corner, look into the other guy’s game or just spread myself out so that I didn’t miss anything. Sometimes, in getting away, I would be just like those people who came through the Staircase and made their changes. I’d put on another face and hang around the city for a while. Or, with yet a different face, I’d head over to Las Vegas or back up to northern California. I’d go alone, or with just one or two of the girls, or maybe with just one of the guys. Often, even if I left the ranch with someone, I might send them back alone, or I might just get out of the vehicle we were in with a “see you later.” and go searching for the unexpected. On these excursions, it was like going with the wind. I didn’t know, or wasn’t concerned about where I would end up. Sometimes I’d get involved with a bunch of bikers, sometimes with some religious nuts, surfers, hobos, actors or musicians. And if I liked any of them, I’d tell them to look me up later at Spahn Ranch. Some I’d see again, some I never laid eyes on since.

  It was on one of those impromptu trips that I first met Dennis Wilson, the drummer for the Beach Boys. I had stopped by a friend’s house in San Francisco to replenish my supply of grass. When I started out of the place, another guy was on his way in. My friend kept me from leaving, saying, “Hey, Charlie, you two ought to meet. You’re both into music. Dennis, this is Charlie Manson, he sings and plays the guitar. Charlie, say hello to Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys.”

  It goes without saying I was glad to meet someone who was on top of it in the recording world, so instead of leaving, the three of us sat down and did a joint together. When I left I had Dennis’ address and an invitation to stop by when I was in L.A.. I left a similar invitation with him.

  Shortly after that particular trip I stopped by the address on Sunset Boulevard that Dennis had given me. Christ, the place was a mansion. On about three acres of land with a swimming pool, servants’ quarters and the whole works, it was the ultimate display of money and success. Prior to visiting Dennis’ house, I was well aware of the Beach Boys’ popularity and achievements, so of course I respected their capabilities. But now I was standing in the middle of all the riches and power that can result from just being able to write and play music. I envied the son-of-a-gun. Not for the material things that surrounded me, but for the recognition and status that allowed a person to live in such surroundings.

  When Dennis asked me in, I simply gave the interior of the house a casual glance. As impressed as I might have been, I wasn’t about to seem ga-ga over his possessions. However, when he took me on a tour of the place and we reached the room where his equipment—drums, mikes and speakers—was set up, I was so impressed I couldn’t help but compliment him on the room and all the goodies it held. The room was almost a complete studio and anyone into music and a place for good sounds had to be appreciative.

  Dennis was a hell of a guy. For all his success and wealth, he still enjoyed the simpler things in life. Sure, he put on airs and played the role of a Hollywood success story. He’d make appearances and play whatever part the occasion demanded, but inside he was a rebel and had long ago tired of catering to the whims of a public who wanted him to be the “All-American Boy.” He still loved his music, but he tried to escape from the demands of his agents, the travel and the appearances, every chance he got. He wasn’t looking for a way out, just time and space to let his hair down and be out of the public eye. He was the dream of ninety-nine percent of American youth, but he was just as lost, just as wanting, just as in search of something as those kids with me. So it was kind of natural Dennis and the rest of us hooked up.

  Dennis opened the doors of his house to us, and as much as his business agents would let him, he opened his pockets. Others have painted pictures of us moving in on Dennis like a bunch of vultures. We never did move in. Some of us stayed there for days at a time, but always with an invitation. He also spent some time out at the ranch with us. He liked his booze, grass and cocaine. Acid was a sometime thing with him, but girls were a constant desire. As a celebrity in the music and movie industry, he could have girls of all ages, shapes and sizes just for the asking. But in the circles he traveled in, most wanted possession and marriage. The girls with me wanted neither from Dennis. So for all the good he gave and shared with us, we gave and shared with him. He was no fool and was his own person when accepting or giving. He gave what he wanted and took what he wanted.

  The good times with Dennis lasted for well over a year. In that time he and I worked on several songs toge
ther, two of which made it onto an album the Beach Boys recorded. He even gave me some gold records that had been presented to him. Along with the music, there were always parties and gatherings that saw two different worlds coming together: the rich Hollywood set from one part of Dennis’ life, and us, with no material values, from the non-conforming side of his life. Through Dennis and some of those gatherings, I met a lot of people with solid connections, including Terry Melcher, Gregg Jakobson and several others who liked my music enough to want to record and market me and my material.

  Dennis himself thought I was some kind of wizard when it came to playing and writing music. Next to him, the guy who was most impressed was Jakobson. Jakobson was a little bit of everything around the music scene: talent scout, agent, sometime producer and promoter. He was almost as interested in my talent as Dennis, but he was also attracted to our way of living. In addition to wanting to do my songs for tapes and records, he had plans of filming us. He was fascinated by the spontaneous episodes of our life, the love, the togetherness and the ingenuity we had for survival with or without the dollars most people depended on. He wanted to do a documentary film on us in our natural surroundings with music as the main focal point.

  Terry Melcher is the son of Doris Day and head of a recording studio. More than anyone else, he had it in his hand to pick us up and put us in the music world. He did give us a little attention, a lot more than was brought out during the trials and in other books that have been written. He and Jakobson arranged for a couple of recording sessions and, in looking back, I guess the girls and I blew it. Melcher and the people who were doing the session had their ideas of how they wanted the recording done, the girls and I had our idea. We clashed, and nothing was accomplished, but that relationship lasted right up until August of 1969.

  As long as I was still trying to get into a music career, Melcher and Dennis and Jakobson were people I liked being around. When things were really desperate out at the ranch and some money was needed, Melcher was a touch. For the prosecuting attorney to say I sent those kids after Melcher is total bullshit. Why would I? He gave me money, lent us his car and credit card. Melcher was all right and I had no bad feelings for him.

  Among the people who were not celebrities I met while visiting Dennis was Charles (Tex) Watson. Originally from Texas, he’d been in California for a couple of years and hadn’t made much out of his venture to the Golden State. Most reports on Watson overlook his activities in California before he became associated with me. The two years he spent using drugs and pushing dope, burning everyone he came into contact with is forgotten. What has mostly been established is that, prior to meeting me, he was the pride of Copeville, Texas: an exceptional student, ace athlete and perfect picture of the All-American Boy. But for the moment, that’s neither here nor there. How we met is more to the point.

  Considering Dennis Wilson had a mansion on Sunset Boulevard, owned a Rolls Royce and a Jaguar and was one of the better known celebrities in the area, it seems a little absurd that he would be hitchhiking. But, as I said earlier, Dennis was kind of a rebel. So, as it happened, both his cars were laid up, and instead of taking a cab or calling someone for a ride, he was thumbing it home from wherever he had been. Watson, driving an ancient 1935 Dodge pickup, stopped for the hitchhiker and got the reward of his life when he found out it was Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys. When they got to the house, Wilson, always gracious, asked Watson to come in for a while. Several of us from the ranch were in the front room playing music. (Dean Moorehouse, who had shown up several weeks earlier and had been given a job around Dennis’ home also happened to be there.) There was some grass and hash around so naturally Watson was welcome to join us in singing and smoking. Hours later he left with Dennis’ invitation to visit anytime he wanted. After that, we saw a lot of Watson. Before meeting us, his popularity among his old friends was on a downhill slide because of drug burns and a habit of never paying his bills. A few weeks later he couldn’t pay his rent and was facing eviction, and Dennis allowed him to move into the mansion. The guy was such a freeloader that pretty soon even the big-hearted Dennis sent him packing. Not too long after Dennis cut him loose, he showed up at the ranch, broke and hungry, with nowhere else to turn.

  By mid-1968 almost all the cast of characters with the exception of Kitty Lutesinger, Linda Kasabian, Leslie Van Houten and Stephanie Schram, were living at Spahn Ranch. And by now, because of some marijuana busts and other minor charges, the police had visited us a time or two. Some reporter covering the scene elected to refer to us as the “Manson Family,” so that is how we were known to the world.

  At the ranch were Paul Watkins, T.J. Walleman, Brooks Poston, Bruce Davis, Tex Watson, Bobby Beausoleil (sometimes), Mary Brunner, Lynette Fromme, Pat Krenwinkel, Nancy Pitman (Brenda), Sandra Good, Cathy Gillies, Ruth Ann Moorehouse, Dianne Lake, Steven Grogan, Susan Atkins (Sadie), Juan Flynn and maybe ten or twelve others who didn’t share in the publicity. We were thirty or more people, kids mostly, really without reason or purpose. I had dreams and expectations of making it in the music world, which I felt confident would begin materializing in just a few more weeks. But my individual goals didn’t give purpose to the whole group. So what we had was a bunch of kids loaded with energy and a lot of spirit, but totally without goals for the future.

  My rap had always been, “Yesterday is dead, there is no tomorrow, only now!” Now is the most important time in anyone’s life. But I was discovering that to be content with now, you have to have a vision, a plan, or at least a hint of what tomorrow might bring. For myself, and maybe one or two of the others, the anticipation of a future in music gave me direction. But I realized that some goals for the future had to be established to keep the kids happy. For the moment I didn’t have the answer. But, even if I had to fabricate a meaningful tomorrow, I felt I would come up with an agreeable direction for all their energies.

  In the meantime we continued the make-believe games, music, drugs and making love. Our eating habits were pretty well controlled by what some of the nearby markets discarded from their shelves and produce bins. We didn’t eat meat, so that eliminated the most expensive part of the grocery bill. If we had someone near a garbage bin in the early morning hours when markets receive their shipments, we could get slightly bruised fresh vegetables and other produce only slightly older than what a customer buys over the counter. And if two or three bra-less, short-skirted girls are going through a garbage bin, a male produce clerk can put some surprising things in the bin for them. Bakeries also have a problem with merchandise going stale, and the girls fast became the best non-paying customers for day-old goods. Beverages, rice, noodles, potatoes and seasonings are about all we ever had to purchase, and we ate as well as most people did.

  In the mornings and throughout the day, each individual was pretty much on his or her own as far as eating was concerned, but for the main evening meal, it was get-together time. We had discussions, with input from everyone. Suggestions, plans, and desires would be openly expressed. If it was at all feasible, the rest of us would try to see to it that every suggestion was acknowledged and every desire fulfilled. It was during these rap sessions that the true feelings and character surfaced the plainest, since seldom, at this time of day, was anyone under the influence of drugs. All thoughts and words were presented and considered with a clear mind. From these conversations came things like: “Charlie, I think we should spread our love all over the world.” “I liked living in Mendocino better than here.” “I’d like to check some things out in England.” “When are we going on another long trip in the bus?” “Tell us about the time you lived with the Indians in Mexico.” “Squeaky, can old George still get a hard-on?” “You know, if my mom and dad didn’t fight so much, I’d still be living at home.” “Hey, you know what would be a gas? If we could put enough LSD in the city’s drinking water to turn the whole city on. Wouldn’t it be fun to see the whole town freaked out?” “Sadie thinks she’s got the clap. If she does, that means the rest of us
are going to be coming down with it. And if that happens, I’m going to kick her face in.”

  Sometimes the kids were so honest arguments would ensue. Sadie did in fact have the clap and she did get shoved around by some of the girls, but she claimed she’d gotten it from Clem (Steven Grogan). Clem said, “No way,” but by the time word was spread, almost every one of us had to have treatments. Hell, with our lives, who was to know who got what first. For that matter, if one of the girls came up pregnant, it was a guess as to who the father might have been. But over all those evening meal conversations gave me clues about what would best satisfy the majority. So hell, if someone wanted to check out England, we’d send him on his way. Bruce did go to England for a few months. The little girl who said she’d still be home if it weren’t for the fighting her parents did was really saying she missed her home and wasn’t all that happy being away from it. I had a private talk with her and assured her I’d take her home if she wanted and maybe talk some sense into her parents. She elected to stay with us. The idea about spreading our love all over the world was appealing to me and started some thought churning in my head. The preference of Mendocino over Spahn Ranch wasn’t out of the question either. I put the girl who expressed that desire in the bus with whoever else wanted to go along and sent them north. In sending them, I had the thought of groups of us being located in a lot of different areas as a means of meeting more people and spreading our love. Also, I thought in spreading the group out, some of them might discover what it was they wanted in life and develop some direction.

  Pat, Susan, Mary and the baby Pooh Bear, and two other girls took the bus and ended up at a little town, Philo, in Mendocino County. Letting them go up there without one or two guys along was a mistake. Five girls alone in a small town was trouble. The house they rented was immediately dubbed “the witches’ house” by the school kids. A short time later they were arrested for turning some of the local kids onto acid—that’s the neighborhood and police version. The girls say that a gang of high school guys forced their way into the house, threatened them and forced them into having sex. To keep from getting beaten the girls gave the boys some acid, at Susan’s suggestion. The guys went wild and started tearing up the house and totally destroyed the bus. The cops showed up, arrested the girls and cut the guys loose. Mary’s baby, Pooh Bear, was temporarily put in the care of some foster parents. And instead of spreading love, we got ourselves on the shit-list of the Mendocino County authorities.