by Greg Kihn
Renee came out of nowhere and slid close to Brian. He looked up, surprised to see her. Her hand snaked its way around his waist and caressed his butt.
“You’re here?”
“I’m here for you, Brian.”
Brian spoke softly. “Well, I hate to disappoint you. But, I’m with Nico for the weekend.”
Renee spat. “Nico? She’s just another one of your playthings. I came all the way here to be with you. I’m the one you really want; you just don’t realize it yet.”
“I don’t think so, darling.”
Renee walked away, clearly upset. Brian and Nico found it all amusing, another muse for their common schadenfreude.
Clovis and Bobby found the crowd that followed Brian.
“Dust Bin Bob! Clovis! You must meet Nico.”
He introduced them, and she promptly ignored them.
“Have you seen Jimi?”
“He’s backstage looking for you.”
“Oh, I’d better go.”
Brian and Nico walked away like royalty. The backstage scene was lively. All the San Francisco bands hung out together. The Grateful Dead and Big Brother hung out with their Berkeley counterparts Country Joe and the Fish smoking joints. The Southern California groups stuck to themselves: The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, the Association, the Mamas and the Papas. They didn’t fraternize much with their NorCal cousins. The San Francisco bands loved smoking dope and dropping acid. There developed a subtle rift between the two camps. Then there were the English bands that had nothing to say to the Californians.
Organized by John Philips of the Mamas and the Papas and producer Lou Adler, the event looked incredible on paper. Rumors about who might perform continued to swirl right up until show time—which no doubt fueled the ticket sales. In truth, the lineup kept changing as more groups dropped in and out.
The Beatles were coming! The Stones were on their way! The Doors! Cream! No-shows included Donovan and the Kinks, who had been refused visas, and the Beach Boys, who were battling the government trying to keep Carl Wilson out of the army. Everybody was talking about Jimi Hendrix and the Who. Excitement was in the air.
Monterey was the first major rock event of its kind, and it generated tons of interest all over the country. Modeled on the Newport Folk Festival, it featured three days of concerts, a virtual who’s who of rock and pop. In addition to the rock acts, several interesting additions piqued the crowd’s curiosity, like Indian sitar master Ravi Shankar, folk duo Simon and Garfunkel, funk masters Booker T. and the MG’s, African jazz trumpeter Hugh Masekela, and R&B legend Otis Redding.
Indeed the three-day concert featured everyone Bobby and Clovis had ever wanted to see in one place: Lou Rawls, Eric Burdon and the Animals, Big Brother, Canned Heat, Quicksilver, the Electric Flag, Moby Grape, Steve Miller, Butterfield, Booker T., The Big “O”, the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, and of course, the Who and Hendrix.
“Brian, can we talk to you privately for a minute?” Bobby asked.
Brian looked surprised.
“What is it?”
They led Brian away to a quiet part of the hospitality tent and gave him a Budweiser.
“Drink this.”
He did.
“We just saw Bruce Spangler.”
Brian drank the beer too fast, and it foamed up and wet his front. He coughed. “Spangler? He’s here? In the fairgrounds?”
Dust Bin Bob whispered. “Shhh! Keep it down. It was Spangler all right. He got out of a white van with Silverman and Renee. Somehow, those three are connected. I think there’s a conspiracy going on.”
Brian’s face went white. “I saw Renee just a little while ago. She said she came all this way to be with me. When I told her I was with Nico for the weekend, she got pissed off and walked away.”
“And what about Spangler? How could they possibly know each other?”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” said Clovis. “I think Spangler hired Silverman and Renee to infiltrate the rock world to set people up and bust them … or worse.”
“What do you mean ‘or worse’?” Brian asked.
“You know what I mean,” Clovis snarled. “Or worse. They don’t want people like Brian Jones becoming heroes to their kids.”
Bobby said, “They obviously don’t want these dope-smokin’ hippies ruining the youth of the world. The government is against it. They’d love to put all the rock stars in jail and throw away the key.”
“So, it’s a conspiracy, then?”
Clovis nodded.
“Sure looks that way. I tell you one thing. We better keep an eye on Brian at all times. Spangler obviously knows he’s here and he’s looking to bust him.”
“Not necessarily. Brian’s not listed on the official program. He won’t know for sure until just before Hendrix plays. Until then, it’s just a rumor.”
“Except Renee knows. Shit! She’s liable to tell Spangler that Brian’s here. And I was looking for a mellow time sunny California.”
“As long as Spangler, Silverman, and Renee are around, we have to be on our toes. Better change hotel rooms too.”
Just then a black man dressed in a Sergeant Pepper–inspired faux military jacket with a rainbow of colored scarves with a wildly teased afro hairdo ambled up. He reached out for Brian.
“Hey, man! It’s good to see you!”
Brian Jones hugged Jimi Hendrix. The two men circled each other for a moment like two dogs.
“I’m introducing you on Sunday night.”
“Yeah, man. Oh, wow. I’m gonna do some STP for the show. I got some special stuff from Owsley.”
“STP?”
“It’s a new form of LSD with a little speed mixed it. It’s powerful stuff, man. I’m tripping for the show. You want to join me on the other side?”
“The other side of what?’
“The other side of reality.”
“You’re going to trip onstage in front of all those people?”
Jimi grinned. “Yeah, why not?”
“I never knew anybody who could play a concert while tripping their brains out. You might forget how to play.”
“I never forget how to play, man. Besides, the San Francisco bands do it all the time. It’s no big deal.”
“We’ll either catch lightning in a bottle or melt down like a short candle.”
“Hey, that’s a great lyric, man. Can I use that?”
Brian shrugged. “Be my guest.”
“You know, I’m in the ‘Lightning in a Bottle’ business,” said Hendrix. “Just keep the jar screwed tight so it won’t get away.”
Noel Redding, bass player for the Jimi Hendrix Experience, passed by. He saw Clovis and shouted a greeting.
“Clovis!”
Clovis hugged him like a long-lost brother.
“Good to see you, man.”
“We’re gonna tear this place down.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Jimi said Brian’s supposed to introduce us. Is that true?”
“Yeah, we’re here with Brian, as a matter of fact.”
“Are you staying at the same hotel? We have to party together tonight.”
He handed Clovis a slip of paper with Leon Gnidder written on it.
“Who’s Leon Gnidder?”
“I am. Look, see? It’s Noel Redding spelled backward. That’s the name I’m registered under. Call Leon Gnidder on the house phone.”
Clovis laughed.
“What a great name, Leon Gnidder!”
“Just call me Lucky Gnid. Come on over to my room around midnight. We got some incredible chicks dropping in. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“Hey, I’m a married man. If it involves chicks, I gotta beg off.”
“Jimi draws chicks like you wouldn’t believe.”
A gaggle o
f wild West Coast peacock-plumed groupies walked by slowly enough for Noel to notice them. Noel watched them pass.
“I gotta go. See ya tonight.”
Brian drew a crowd wherever he went. He visited Big Brother and the Holding Company’s tent to meet Janis Joplin. He was welcomed like a hero. Even his drug bust and bad boy persona gave him additional celebrity status among this crowd.
He met Steve Miller, Paul Butterfield, and two guys from Booker T. and the MG’s that he had always admired, Steve Cropper and Donald “Duck” Dunn, who along with drummer Al Jackson on drums, comprised one of the greatest rhythm sections of all time.
Brian remained chipper and carefree all afternoon. He stayed for parts of the evening concert. He caught Steve Miller, High Masekela, Booker T., and the grand finale—the great Otis Redding—the “Big O” closing out the night.
Brian watched Otis Redding closely while Otis gave the show of his life at Monterey. His performance caught the hippie audience (“The Love Crowd,” he called them) by surprise. They had never seen a seasoned R&B legend like the Big O before. Otis had been doing this on the chitlin’ circuit for years. These young white kids were a lot easier to impress than the drunken two a.m. crowd at a sweaty Georgia roadhouse.
Otis was absolutely brilliant. He paced his set like a pro, from ballads to shouters to rockin’ sing-alongs and timeless riffs. He opened with “I Can’t Turn You Loose” and it brought the house down.
Brian, zonked out of his brain on a cocktail of recreational drugs, watched every moment through the lens of his American experience.
He saw Reverend Julius Cheeks. In fact, he saw Julius Cheeks in everything Otis did. He wanted to kiss Preston Washington for that connection. Julius Cheeks was soul music. And nobody outside of the Gospel world knew who he was. It blew Brian’s mind that absolutely nobody knew about Julius Cheeks in London. His friends would freak out. His blues purist buddies would flip out. This man was the source, and he was unknown.
Once people had seen Julius, they could understand his place in rock and roll history. They could see how he influenced Otis and every other great R&B shouter from James Brown to Wilson Picket. Otis proved it all at Monterey. Brian was astonished.
The Rolling Stones were great, and they knew how to rock a crowd, but Otis Redding was in orbit. As Hendrix said, he was in the “Lightning in a Bottle” business, too. They all were.
Brian Jones walked into the Jimi Hendrix’s Monterey hotel room just past midnight. Renee was in bed with Jimi, naked and smoking a joint. Her breasts were fully exposed, drawing his attention. Brian was surprised to see her. He didn’t know she knew Jimi. But whether she did or didn’t really was of no consequence since the talented Renee knew how to seduce men of any stripe. She curled around Jimi like a python, stretching her legs like a sleeping cat.
“Hello, Brian,” she cooed. “Imagine seeing you here.”
Hendrix laughed.
“Do you two know each other?”
“Yes, we do.”
“She’s got the sweetest little pussy in town.”
If Renee was faking it, she sure knew how to blush. Maybe she did have a shred of modesty left, who knew?
“You’re the one with her boobs hanging out,” Brian said.
Brian wanted to pull Jimi outside the room and talk to him privately. But he didn’t want to be an alarmist to one of his rock friends.
“Where’s Nico?” she said sweetly.
Brian looked at her with thinly veiled disgust.
“None of your business.”
“Hey, man, be nice,” Jimi said. “I just made love to this woman.”
“Yeah, Brian, be nice,” Renee repeated sarcastically. “Where do you think Anita is tonight? With Keith?”
Brian lost it. He lunged at the bed and at Renee’s throat.
“Fuck you, you bitch!”
Renee retreated behind Hendrix.
“Hey, man! Cool it!”
Hendrix held Brian back.
“She’s a narc!” Brian screamed. “She’s working with a federal drug guy named Spangler who just busted me!”
“I’m not working for anybody. You’re crazy.”
“How do you explain you, Spangler, and News of the World sleaze bucket Acid King Lee Silverman getting out of a white van together?”
“Those guys? I was hitchin’ a ride, and they picked me up. I never saw them before in my life.”
“The cops are here and they’re looking to set us up!”
Jimi looked at Brian. “Don’t be so paranoid. You’re creating bad vibes, man.”
Renee spent five minutes denying involvement in anything. She swore that she had no idea those guys were narcs when she got in the van. Jimi and Brian listened to her, but it was clear, Renee’s trust had expired.
Jimi was famous for his devil-may-care attitude about women, and he resented being held down or told what to do. He never got too involved. He loved sex, but Jimi was a free soul, incapable of being monogamous.
It was true. It was all true. Jimi was a gypsy. And if you didn’t like it, tough shit. He dealt with women like he dealt with men, roadies, and dogs.
“I can’t trust you anymore, Renee,” Jimi said.
“You don’t believe him, do you?” she whined. “He just doesn’t like me for some reason.”
Jimi paused and looked at Brian.
“Yes, yes, I do believe him,” Jimi said softly.
“But what about …” She waved at the bed. She was close to tears.
“There are plenty of other chicks around.”
“But …”
She stood up completely naked and slipped her panties on. She picked up the rest of her clothes and made a step toward the bathroom.
Jimi looked at Brian mischievously.
“Don’t get dressed in here. You might be wired for sound. Just leave the way you are.”
Chapter Thirteen
Spider and the Fly
Sunday’s concert was the apex of the festival. All the big acts came out. Brian got to the fairgrounds early to see Indian sitar master Ravi Shankar give an afternoon solo concert that opened his eyes to a whole new world. Brian had been playing sitar for almost a year, but he was a beginner compared to Ravi Shankar. Like the Master Musicians of Joujouka, Ravi’s music was thousands of years old, using scales and time signatures foreign to the Western ear. Brian sat transfixed in his front-row seat with Nico.
Dust Bin Bob and Clovis hadn’t been able to keep up with Brian. He didn’t like to stay in one place too long. Noel Redding, who had been with Brian off and on for the entire festival, swore he wasn’t taking acid. Although he was obviously stoned on copious amounts of weed and hash, he didn’t appear to be tripping. Bobby and Clovis took it as a good sign. Brian seemed happy with Nico, the sun was shining, and Renee nowhere to be found.
The music was incredible. After Ravi Shankar, Brian stopped for a snack at the hospitality tent. The problem was that once Brian had been recognized in a public place he got no peace at all. It was an unending stream of well-wishers and autograph seekers. They all idolized Brian. He was the baddest boy in the definitive bad boy band—stoned like they were, a rebel against society.
Clovis told Brian about Big Brother and the Holding Company and their amazing lead singer, Janis Joplin. They were coming up next with an encore show due to popular demand (and the fact that Janis wanted their performance to be filmed and included in the movie D. A. Pennebaker was making called Monterey Pop). They were making a triumphant return to the stage. It was just one of the little dramas that played out under the magnificent skies of Monterey. Many people had missed their first show when Janis absolutely electrified the audience with her performance. She was the talk of the festival at that point, and her second performance was even better than the first.
The great American musical adventure continue
d. Three pilgrims—Dust Bin Bob, Clovis, and Brian Jones—were on a musical odyssey across America to worship at the altar of rock and roll. And here they were, among the gods on Mount Olympus.
Brian would remember every note. Reverend Julius Cheeks, Ravi Shankar, Otis Redding, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix were all an unending train of inspiration.
His mantra never changed.
It was the same three chords of life. All music was the same. They were all branches of the same tree.
Brian and Nico sat just in front of Micky Dolenz and Peter Tork of the Monkees and Mama Cass and Michelle Phillips from the Mamas and the Papas. The other stars drew energy from Brian’s charisma. They seemed to shine brighter when next to him.
But Brian outshone them all. His outrageous clothes, his legend, his celebrity. He was true rock-and-roll royalty in a way none of these other acts, no matter high they rose, could ever be. Dust Bin Bob and Clovis got a good strong dose of Brian’s notoriety just hanging out with him at the festival and watching the way other musicians acted around him.
Bobby recalled the insane days of Beatlemania, but this wasn’t like that at all. Everybody here was a freak. They were all like one big family. The attitude was peace and love. No one screamed; no one charged the stage; there were no fights or riots. Even the cops seemed resigned to turn the other way when they smelled pot smoke.
It was incredibly therapeutic for Brian. He needed to see and be seen. His fragile ego got a huge boost. His quest to soak up as much music as possible couldn’t have gone better. Here he was among his peers being treated like a prince with Nico on his arm and a joint in every pocket. For the first time in months, he didn’t feel paranoid.
He wandered into Big Brother’s tent to meet Janis. He almost didn’t notice Renee, who was styling Janis’s hair. She whispered in her ear, and for a moment the two seemed as close as sisters. Renee leaned forward and kissed Janis on the lips. It was a playful kiss, but one packed with portent. Brian’s first reaction was to warn Janis, but the tension in the Big Brother dressing room was too thick. The band had just had a major confrontation with their manager about not appearing in the film. They wanted to be in it, Janis most of all, especially in light of their response the day before. They brought the house down, and it was not captured in film. Janis turned to Bob Dylan’s legendary manager, Albert Grossman, who just happened to be hanging around the festival with other bigwigs like Clive Davis, for advice. Of course he told her the film would make her a star. That’s all she needed to hear.