Manson in His Own Words

by Nuel Emmons

  Then a clearer part of my mind registered that I was trying to relay my thoughts to a rock. Here I was talking to something without ears, feeling or life—was I crazy? Hell no! I wasn’t crazy, and as much as the condition of my mouth and throat would allow me to, I started laughing out loud. For minutes I lay there laughing and chuckling at my stupidity. And in that laughter, I felt the moisture of tears on my face. I wiped the moisture from my cheeks and eyes away with my hand and then placed the dampness against my hard, swollen tongue. “Geez,” I thought, “no near-dead person laughs and sheds tears, so get up, struggle a little bit, life ain’t over yet.” I lay there for some time, and with each breath I felt some strength returning to my body. I didn’t rush things, but shortly I knew I was strong enough to make it back to the ranch. When I got up the earth turned around on me a few times, but when I started walking it was in the right direction. By the time I got back to the rock where my canteen lay, the sun was long gone. I sipped the coffee slowly, having presence of mind not to overdo it. The ranch was still a couple hours of uphill hiking, so like the snakes, I huddled between two large warm boulders and spent the night at the edge of the basin where I had begun my crazy journey.

  Waking up the next morning was no picnic. I was so stiff and sore it was a struggle to get to my feet, and once on my feet, things didn’t get any better. My muscles and bones ached so bad, walking was pure torture. Even my face was screwed. The swelling of my tongue had gone down but my damn lips were so puffy and split it hurt to wrinkle my nose or open my mouth. But hey, everything was all right; I was alive and I appreciated the aches and pains that let me know it.

  When I finally got back to the yard of the house, one of the kids saw me and shouted to the rest of the group, “Hey, here he is, Charlie’s here you guys!” With that, the kids came charging from all directions and a thousand questions came flying at me. When they saw the condition of my face and realized I wasn’t moving too well, all the girls started playing Florence Nightingale. I appreciated the attention I was getting even though, just the day before, I had left the house to be away from it.

  We spent hours each day practicing, arranging and writing songs, and the music was often so good it gave me goosebumps, especially at night when all of us lounged around a big bonfire in the yard. The acoustics out in the open didn’t compare with a studio set-up, but the quiet, open desert added its own magic to our music. Without microphones or amplifiers there was a pure, earthy quality to our instruments and voices. We were a bunch of kids sitting around an open bonfire in one of the most primitive areas in the nation, but our arrangements and lyrics were as modern and free as our philosophy. God, there was so much talent there. One of my strongest regrets is that the world didn’t get to hear our music. In the two months we had been in the desert, we had reached a level of accomplishment that was amazing. Since it was all original material, I became more intent than ever about getting us recorded.

  Wilson, Jakobson and Melcher were the best ones to open the door for us. So me and a couple of the kids got in the bus and headed for L.A.

  PART THREE

  WITHOUT CONSCIENCE

  CHAPTER 7

  ACCORDING TO SOME, this is when the devil started sprouting horns. Two or three of those who lived within our circle have written books contending that when they first met me I waved a magic wand of love and music. With a single wave, they came under my spell and had to be with me. While they don’t say the magic wore off, they do say that around the beginning of 1969 I began undergoing personality changes that eventually caused love and togetherness to turn to evil and discontent. They say I became bitter and frustrated because I was never able to record successfully. They say I became convinced the Beatles’ White Album with its songs of “Piggies,” “Revolution #9,” and “Helter Skelter” held special messages for me and my circle, that I interpreted them as signals to create an uprising between the races, and began programming everyone to prepare themselves for the shit that was going to come down.

  I don’t deny disappointment at not reaching my goals as a musician. Nor do I deny being impressed with the White Album. But I gotta say, those kids were expressing their own ideas more than what was going through my mind. Hell, those were kids of the Beatles’ generation—I had at least ten years on most of them. I envied any successful musician and appreciated any best-selling album, but like most people, the music I felt close to was music I had heard when I was young. Sinatra, Crosby, Como and people of that era meant more to me than the Beatles, Beach Boys or any of the prominent groups in the 60s. The lyrics I wrote and the music I put to those lyrics identify me as not being all that wrapped up in the Beatles. Shit, it was Sadie and Little Paul who started deciphering messages from the Beatles’ White Album. In the desert, the music I was most interested in was my own, since I knew that would interest the studio people most. After two months in the desert, the drive into L.A. was enjoyable. My head was full of things to lay on Dennis, or anyone else, to convince him that we were ready to record. I had written several new songs, a couple of which I considered near masterpieces, and I was eager to have a professional listen to them.

  My first disappointment came when Dennis wasn’t in town. But Jakobson lifted my spirits some by saying, “Damn, Charlie, it’s good to hear from you. I’ve been intending to get out to the desert to talk to you. Dennis and I been talking you up to some of the studios and there are a couple that are interested in hearing you play. Trouble is, you living out of town the way you do makes it hard to get in touch. Why not stay close for a while, and when Dennis gets back, we’ll get something going.”

  It sounded great. Now that it was December, when the high desert where we were living gets cold, a temporary move back into town would be good for all of us. Of course, we still had people at Spahn, mostly girls who spelled each other looking after George. But things at Spahn were too disorganized for us to do any serious rehearsing. Finding a place that would accommodate fifteen or twenty kids wasn’t an easy task. I finally found a house on Gresham Street in Canoga Park. It sat on about an acre of ground, had four bedrooms, two baths, a big kitchen and a large front room that made a great studio for our music sessions. It was only about a thirty-minute drive from Hollywood, and only a few miles from Spahn’s, which was a convenience in itself. Because of its bright yellow paint, we called the place the “Yellow Submarine.” For all the ups and downs we had there, we should have named it “Rollercoaster.”

  The ups began with Dennis’ return. He and Jakobson immediately came over and paid us a visit. After hearing us play, they were enthused about the new music and how far we had progressed.

  One of the songs they liked best was, “Look At Your Game, Girl.” The lyrics were:

  There’s a time for livin’, time keeps flyin.’

  You think you’re lovin, baby, when all you’re doin’ is cryin’.

  Can you feel? Ask yourself, are your feelin’s real?

  Look at your game, girl.

  Just to say you love me is not enough if’n you can’t be true.

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

  Can you feel? Ask yourself, are those feelin’s real?

  Look at your game, girl.

  Go on, look at your game, girl.

  If’n you can’t feel and the feelin’s not real,

  then ya better stop tryin’ or you’re gonna play cryin’.

  That’s the game.

  That’s the game, the sad, sad game.

  Look at your game, girl.

  Dennis, Jakobson and Melcher scheduled two recording sessions, the first at a studio in Westwood Village. About fifteen of us invaded the place. Right away the guy who ran the studio started telling us what we could and couldn’t do, where to sit, where to stand and which way to face, even how to hold the microphone. We started out doing as he said, but the girls wanted to be looking at me while doing their background vocals. When they started moving away from where he had placed them, he came unglu
ed. We made two or three more starts, each ending up worse than the first as far as the guy was concerned. In the end, the whole scene was a repeat of my first session with Universal. They didn’t want us to perform as I felt we should. Between the studio manager telling us to get out and us telling him to get fucked, that session was a bust.

  Later, Dennis tried to pull my coat, saying, “Look, Charlie, those guys who handle a studio know what they’re doing. They know the best effect for sound separation, how to run everything together. So when you’re doing a session, do it their way. Hell, man, even our group follows their advice.” I said next time I’d do it their way.

  The next time was at Dennis’ brother’s home studio, which was larger than a lot of the commercial studios. This time we did a pretty fair session, putting down about ten songs. But getting some money out of it and getting us on the market was still going to take some time.

  In the meantime, there was the rent and the utilities, plus food and all our other needs that had to be taken care of. All of which cost money. There were still those out at the Barker place to care for, and the few out at Spahn’s needed looking after, too. To use the words of the media, I had a “Family” to take care of. A family in which, it seemed, no one would do a damn thing as far as working or bringing in some money was concerned unless they were told what to do and how to do it. So, though I was happy about finally getting our songs on tape and was confident the music would eventually take care of all our needs, we needed expense money now.

  The situation at the Barker Ranch was especially pressing. Way out there, those kids no longer had a nearby market for purchasing or helping themselves to the discarded produce. Food had to be bought in large quantities, and we needed generators for electricity, propane appliances and plenty of reserve supplies. Because I looked at the desert as a place where I wanted us to spend a lot of time, I wanted to start making things as comfortable as possible, including having a lot of vehicles to cover the mountain and desert terrain.

  With no one geared to hold down a steady job, myself included, we looked for other ways to get the needed dollars. One possibility was my prison background and all the ex-convicts I knew. In what I thought was our hour of need, I wasn’t above forgetting my vows not to challenge the svstem anvmore.

  In the past, I hadn’t sought the company of my old convict friends except for a select few who I liked putting on the dog for. Now I became less selective about who visited and stayed with us a while. I even made a few phone calls to some of the money-making thieves I knew. With fifteen or twenty young lovelies in my household, getting a few thieves to lend a helping hand wasn’t a problem at all. The best part was, with all the willing and skilled help I came up with, I didn’t have to be at the scene of the crime. Nor did I have to set up scores or give orders. An occasional suggestion usually resulted in the goods being delivered.

  Within three or four weeks of moving into the Yellow Submarine, it had become a concert hall for musicians, a porno studio for kinky producers, a dope pad, a thieves’ lair, a place to dismantle stolen cars and just about everything but a whorehouse. Not a body was sold! Shared for favors returned maybe, but not sold for dollars. And during it all, we still kept our faces straight for Dennis, Jakobson, Melcher and anyone who could do us some good in the music world.

  It wasn’t long before the acre at the Yellow Submarine became too small. We were growing in numbers, and car parts were starting to pile up and attract the attention of neighbors and police. So I went to see old George. A couple of his horse wranglers weren’t happy at seeing me drive up, but George and I got along just fine.

  I left with George’s, “Sure, son, there’s always room for another critter or two. You’ll have to do with where you started before, though, ’cause some new people are in the other house.” “That’s all right, George, it’s spring. We don’t have the bus anymore; it gave up on us in the desert. We’ll put up a tent or two and make it just fine. Thanks.” To put in the clincher, I added, “The girls been taking good care of you, George?” “Sure have, I love having them around.” His wink and pleased grin said more than his words.

  Giving up the house on Gresham Street wasn’t easy, since it gave us living quarters, a studio and a two-car garage for dismantling stolen vehicles. Some of the girls weren’t thrilled at the thought of moving from a comfortable home to the open air, or at best, a tent. Their words irritated me and I shouted at them, “What’s your fucking story? Ever since we been together, we been living on the road, in buses, on beaches, in the desert in tents, everywhere. What’s happening to you? Can’t you see this move is for our future? Christ, four months ago you’d have moved anyplace without all this static. What’s different now?”

  Later when I realized how strong I’d got down on them, I also realized I should have been asking myself what was happening. Every one of us was going through some pretty heavy changes, because of the struggle for dollars. Dishonest dollars. Though most of the group weren’t against petty thievery for survival, they were seeing a side of me that they’d never seen before. Now I was the con, a conniver, a thief out to make money no matter how. The simplicity of our previous life, the love and thoughtfulness for each other, was being replaced by the greed for possessions. I consoled myself and condoned my actions by telling myself that all this bad shit would end just as soon as our records got on the market. In the meantime, it had to be this way until we were totally set up in the desert.

  A month later, most of us were entrenched back at Spahn, though we didn’t have the main ranch house. We did have the full use of the movie set, but even with all of the six structures that represented the mock-up western town, we didn’t have room for our numbers and activities. Including those still in the desert, we had over thirty-five people wandering around. So over the hill and along the creek we made several parachutes into large canopies to serve for sleeping and living arrangements and to shade a small assembly line where we modified vehicles for desert use. There were two or three stolen vehicles for every legal one we converted. We mostly concentrated on converting Volkswagens into dune buggies, but jeeps, motorcycles and four-wheel drive trucks were also in our plans. For power to operate the assembly line, one of the more talented thieves in our midst had stolen a truck with a large gas generator and arc welder. The generator also provided light for night work.

  Of the thirty-five, about twenty were of our circle. The rest were a combination of ex-convicts, bikers and one or two young kids who were just drifting. For their contributions in stolen goods and labor, they had space to live, food to eat, dope to smoke and, if they lucked out, sometimes a girl to sleep with.

  For added attraction, and to keep the crew content, we enlarged and remodeled the old saloon. It looked the same on the outside, but inside it was a spacious, updated go-go entertainment center. For everyone not working on the desert vehicles, it was a fun place to hang out and soon became a place for full-fledged performances. Even without outsiders, there were enough people around the ranch so that we were never playing to an empty house. With strobe lights, dancers and an avid audience, it felt very professional on the bandstand.

  Word of good music, nude dancers and a variety of other pleasures quickly spread throughout the valley, and before too many nights passed, we were getting people from Hollywood, San Fernando, Malibu and elsewhere. The place got popular, and we sold no booze, so we weren’t out of line in charging a cover. Special customers could buy an assortment of pills, grass or hashish.

  The ranchhands at Spahn’s were no dummies, and some of them were disturbed that we got away with the things we did. Especially Shorty Shea. Shea was all right when we first showed up; he smoked some grass with us and got his kicks eyeballing the girls. But when vehicle parts, obviously stolen, started showing up, he threatened to call the cops. By flashing a couple of legal pink slips in his face and saying I could prove nothing was stolen—at the same time threatening that some evil might come his way if any of us got busted—he kind of backed of
f. Johnny Swartz, whose old Ford we often used, was into sharing some of our party time. Juan Flynn got so hung up on being around the girls, he helped us out with just about anything we asked of him. And Steve Grogan became one of us the day after we first drove into Spahn’s.

  For a while there, everything was really coming together for me. There was promise of a soon-to-be released album, I had a small nightclub in operation for which I wrote the songs and led the band, I had able bodies putting together vehicles for the desert, and it was general knowledge that twenty or so of the girls did only what would be pleasing to me. Things were good. I felt proud and moved around with my head up and chest out. But that kind of good thing never seemed to last for me, and when things stopped working out, it all seemed to fall right back in my lap. Then the head starts reeling, pressure mounts, tension increases, frustration starts and there ain’t no rhyme or reason to a fucking thing.

  The go-go club was the first to go. Under-age kids were showing up and their parents notified the police. The police came storming in one night, rousted everyone and threw a bunch of charges: contributing to the delinquency of a minor, possession of illegal substances and operating a nightclub without a license. Old George had to bear the brunt of the police action because he owned the property. They slapped him with a healthy fine and told him it would be in his best interests to get us off his property. To keep peace with George and hold on to our place to stay, at least until we had everything together for the desert, I paid the fine and told George we’d be moving on soon, but we still needed a few weeks there at the ranch. He grumbled a taste, but didn’t pressure us to move on.