The following year we returned to Toronto to headline at a sold-out Maple Leaf Gardens. I invited my parents to that show and made sure they had VIP seats. The concert was a great one—we tore the place up. The crowd wouldn’t let us off the stage that night. We came back for encore after encore. The show was nearly three hours long and I was on fire. I couldn’t get enough. Backstage after the show Fred grudgingly mumbled something like “not bad”—high praise for him. He stood stiffly off in a corner of the dressing room, surrounded by throngs of young people clamouring for a few seconds with the star of the show. He looked uncomfortable and out of place among all these young rock & rollers that he had always referred to as “goddamn long-haired freaks.”
My mother was the hit of the evening in the dressing room. Chatting with the guys in the band, press people, fans, she charmed everyone. She had always been a much more social person than Fred and tonight she was in her glory. I’ll never forget my mum’s face that night. She was literally glowing with pride. Later she pulled me aside and we had a private moment. She was a small, pretty lady barely five feet tall. She stood on her tiptoes and took my face in both her hands and, her eyes welling with tears, said, “You showed them, darling, you showed them. I’m so happy for you.” Moments like this are worth all the standing ovations and encores in the world.
Lucretia MacEvil
Lucretia MacEvil, little girl what’s your game
Hard luck and trouble, bound to be your claim to fame
Tail shakin’ home breakin’ truckin’ through town
Each and every country mother’s son hangin’ round
Drive a young man insane, Evil that’s your name
Lucretia MacEvil, I bet you think you’re doin’ fine
Back seat Delilah, with your six-bit jug of wine
I hear your mother was the talk of the sticks
Nothin’ that your daddy wouldn’t do for kicks
Never done a thing worthwhile, you’re just an evil woman child
Devil got you, Lucy, under lock and key, ain’t about to set you free
Signed, sealed and witnessed on the day you were born
No use tryin’ to fake him out, no use tryin’ to make him out
Soon he’ll be takin’ out his due, what you gonna do
Lucretia MacEvil, honey, where you been all night
Your hair’s all messed up, girl, and your clothes don’t fit you right
Daddy Joe’s payin’ your monthly rent
Tells his wife he can’t imagine where the money went
Dressin’ you up in style, evil woman child
Words and music by David Clayton-Thomas. © 1970 (renewed 1998) EMI Blackwood Music Inc. and Bay Music Ltd.
12
GRAMMYS AND GROUPIES
Blood Sweat & Tears was on a roll. In 1970 we attended the Grammy Awards at Lincoln Center. We were nominated that year for an unprecedented ten Grammys and won five. I was elected by the band to accept all five Grammys on their behalf, and the big one, Album of the Year, was presented by none other than Louis Armstrong, “Satchmo,” himself. The entire evening was like a dream. Remember, it was 1970 and there was no shortage of booze and weed and coke backstage at the Grammys. Record-company execs kept a vial of coke on their desks in those days. It was one hell of a party and I indulged in everything. Girls were still crashing at my Chelsea townhouse a week after the event. I was young and horny, and after years of being locked up I really let it all hang out. A few years earlier I had been on my hands and knees with a scrub bucket in Millbrook, and now here I was onstage at Lincoln Center, with Louis Armstrong and an armful of Grammy Awards … Man, this life is crazy.
Nineteen seventy was a year of incredible concerts. With three hit singles in a row and the number-one album in the world the promoters were all over us. We played gigantic stadium and arena shows and every one of them was sold out. Five Grammys, DownBeat and Playboy jazz-poll winners, the George M. Cohan Award (Entertainer of the Year), gold records … The awards and accolades were flowing, and for a brief moment I really believed that my past was behind me. But one TV show showed me how wrong I was.
We were invited to appear on the Dick Cavett Show, supposedly to talk about the Grammy Awards. I was all prepared to talk about how honoured and proud we were when Cavett absolutely blindsided me. His first question was, “So David, I understand you have a prison record?” I froze like a deer in the headlights. I hadn’t come here to talk about this. I mumbled “Yeah” and Cavett went in for the kill. “So what were you in for?” I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to say. The prospect of dragging out my troubled past on national television was terrifying. He sensed blood and went for the jugular. “C’mon, tell us, David. What did you do?” I just sat there and glared at him. Inside I was seething with anger. Why did the bastard have to bring this up? Now, in this moment of triumph, just when I thought those years were behind me? I was here to talk about our Grammy appearance and the great band I was so proud of, not the hellholes where I had spent my teenage years. I had pushed those places into the furthest recesses of my mind. I never talked about those years, even with my closest friends. If you have lived through this kind of horrific experience, the last thing you want to do is relive it. Now this muckraker was dredging everything up in front of the whole country. Cavett realized I wasn’t going to answer. There was an awkward silence and he cut to commercial. I walked off the show. He’s lucky I didn’t break his jaw. Today, of course, I would handle it differently. I’d make a joke, snap off a cute line and deflect the interrogation. But then the wounds were still too fresh and I was too green to understand how the media operates. For years afterwards I refused to do talk shows or live interviews. I avoided any situation where I could be ambushed like that again.
The Hollywood Bowl, Royal Albert Hall, Carnegie Hall, the most prestigious venues in the world were clamouring for BS&T. We were the hottest concert ticket in the world and it seemed like it would last forever. But politics raised its ugly head.
When the shocking news of the massacre of the students at Kent State on May 4, 1970, hit the papers, it galvanized the youth of America and the frustration turned to anger. Within days of the shootings, Blood Sweat & Tears was on the campus at Kent State playing a free concert to raise money for the families of the fallen students. Now we were more than just a rock band—we were part of a political movement, and that put us squarely on the government radar. The Nixon administration was extremely unpopular with the youth of Vietnam-era America, and “God Bless the Child” had become somewhat of an anthem for the anti-war movement. Every popular figure who was involved in the movement, from Jane Fonda to John Lennon, was considered a “dissident” by the administration and came under government scrutiny, but Blood Sweat & Tears had a weak spot. I was still in the US on a work visa, and that visa had to be constantly renewed. Furthermore, I was a convicted felon with a prison record in Canada and had previously been deported from the US.
So the State Department offered us a deal. If BS&T, the darlings of the underground and one of the most popular groups in the world, would do a UNESCO tour of Eastern Europe and ostensibly generate some goodwill for the Nixon administration, then I would be given permanent residency in the US. If not, my visa would not be renewed and I would be deported. They play hardball in Washington, and either we played ball or we were finished. It was a stupid idea. No rock band was going to restore the credibility of the Nixon administration with the youth of America. But they were so removed from reality in Washington that they really believed this would work. The problem was that they had us in a box: agree to their bullshit plan or find a new lead singer. We had no choice. Without me there was no Blood Sweat & Tears, and everyone in the business knew it. The State Department rationalized their idea by pointing out that American jazz musicians had done these cultural exchange tours for decades. Louis Armstrong would tour Russia, and the Bolshoi Ballet would come to America. Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, everyone had done it. We wo
uld be considered cultural ambassadors and would be honoured in a high-profile send-off ceremony in Washington, DC. To their credit, the entire band except for Steve Katz stood firm behind me. Steve, the band’s resident radical, felt that this open cooperation with the US government would cost us our following with the underground press. He had a point. The activist wing of the anti-war movement regarded any collusion with the government as a sellout, and we knew they wouldn’t be pleased, but the way we were selling records, our image as an underground band wasn’t going to last long anyway. With our hit singles all over the radio and with the visibility of the group in the mainstream press, it was hard to argue that we were still an “underground” band.
We had been used by the anti-war movement to promote their agenda. Now we were being used by the government to promote theirs. Steve may have envisioned himself as a spokesman for the radical movement, but most of us were baffled that a rock band could be the catalyst for such controversy. We’d been involved in protesting the Vietnam War and we were outraged by the shootings at Kent State, but we didn’t consider ourselves to be political figures. We were just musicians. The guys in the band may have been solidly opposed to the war, but they were still loyal Americans and they were honoured to be named as cultural ambassadors. The jazz musicians in the band said, “Hell, all the jazz cats have done these tours. What’s the big deal?” They didn’t realize that rock bands in the sixties were held to a different standard. They put the issue to a vote. The band could have fired me and the problem would have gone away, but they elected to stand behind me and face the derision of the underground press. I attended the ceremony in Washington wearing a T-shirt with a large peace sign on it. The State Department people were pissed. They told me to get rid of the shirt and I refused, but the damage was already done. The counterculture screamed “sellout.” The anti-war movement was furious at us, but we were trapped. Do this controversial tour or the beautiful music-making machine we had created would be finished.
Steve was right: we were a huge target, and the underground press turned on us mercilessly. We were accused by Rolling Stone magazine of collusion with the government and selling out to the establishment. The irony was that Rolling Stone was paying millions of dollars a year in corporate taxes. They couldn’t exist without doing business with the government either. Now that’s collusion … Rolling Stone was the establishment. What hypocrisy.
Rolling Stone was just the beginning of a barrage of bad press that seemed to come at us in waves over the next two years. Suddenly my political opinions were of interest to the press. I couldn’t believe anyone cared about what I thought, and as a Canadian I had to very careful about criticizing America. I was, after all, a guest in their country and my status was tenuous at best. Until now interviews had been mostly about music. Now they were laced with loaded questions about the war and politics. Even my sex life was speculated about. As the most visible member of the band, I had attracted the attention of the media, and with my juicy past there was plenty for them to talk about. The media are ruthless. There’s not a corner of one’s life they won’t dig into. In New York I became accustomed to the sight of tabloid reporters poking through my trash cans every morning. It seemed like everybody had an agenda, and overnight I had to be very careful about what I said and who I associated with. One such association was about to blow up in my face.
Like most rock bands we were surrounded by groupies. Young, good-looking girls were everywhere and we enjoyed them as one of the perks of stardom. In a way it was compensation for the high-pressure life we were living, and we regarded them as a reward for all the pieces of ourselves that we were giving to the world. Patty was one such groupie. I had met her in the Village when we were still playing at the Cafe Au Go Go. A curvy young blonde, she had already been involved with many of the rock musicians in the Village and in fact had dated Steve Katz before I met her. Bobby tried to warn me about her, telling me to beware, she was “bad news,” but she was hot and sexy and I foolishly ignored his warnings.
Then the band exploded into the big time. Money was rolling in and I rented a nice three-storey brownstone in Chelsea. In spite of the warnings from Bobby, Patty moved in with me. I was seldom there in those tumultuous early days and Patty was spending money like water. It didn’t take me long to realize that she was now the head groupie in New York. She was living with the hottest rock star in town, showering money and gifts on all her friends and still chasing after any celebrity that passed through town. She really was bad news. I broke up with her. She packed up whatever she thought was hers and moved out. I changed the locks on the Chelsea townhouse and thought I had seen the last of Patty, but no such luck. She had lost her meal ticket, and with nobody to pay for her party lifestyle she became incredibly vindictive, the groupie from hell. She would show up at all hours screaming obscenities in the street outside my townhouse and demanding to be let in. I kept the doors locked and refused to see her. Thank God I was out of town most of the time. I just hoped she would move on, find another rock star on his way up and leave me the hell alone.
On the day we were to leave on the highly publicized Eastern European tour, I met the band at Kennedy Airport. Surrounded by the press, State Department officials and fans, I was arrested by detectives from the NYPD as the band was boarding the plane. The timing was no coincidence: someone had orchestrated this. I was taken downtown in handcuffs and soon found out what it was all about. Patty had filed assault charges against me, claiming I had threatened her with a gun. The police had checked me out and again my teenage prison record had come back to haunt me. In their eyes I was no longer a celebrity. I was just an ex-con with a gun. I’ll never know for sure how much politics were involved in my arrest. The Village radicals were outraged that we were cooperating in any way with the US government, and Patty certainly ran with this crowd. I’m sure she had plenty of encouragement in filing this totally bogus charge.
The police obtained a warrant to search my house in Chelsea, and of course they didn’t find a gun. I had never owned a gun and that became evident also. Neighbours testified to Patty’s screaming episodes in the street outside my house and the band rallied to my defence, swearing to the fact that I wasn’t even home when this alleged assault happened. The police realized they had been duped and immediately released me with apologies. That, of course, was barely mentioned in the press. The next day I flew to join the band in London to begin the State Department tour, but the public damage had already been done. I hoped I had seen the last of Patty. Unfortunately, that was not to be.
Hell or High Water
Oh it’s lonely late at night
When the rain is fallin’
Wonder where my baby is
I wonder if she’s missin’ me
It’s a little too late I know
But you can’t blame a guy for callin’
All I need is one more chance
One more chance
Oh baby come home
Oh … I promise, girl
Hell or high water
Push comes to shove
Next time I’ll be there
When you’re reachin’ out for love
I just want to say I’m sorry
Baby come home …
Oh … and here’s what she told me now
She said …
Can’t put the ring back in the bell
Don’t even try
Can’t get no water from the well
Once it’s run dry
And you can’t take back the heartache
No matter how hard you try
Lyrics by David Clayton-Thomas. Copyright © Clayton-Thomas Music Publishing Inc., 2007.
13
EASTERN EUROPE
The Eastern European tour was at once sublime and ridiculous, uplifting and terrifying. In Yugoslavia the fans greeted us with peace signs and with tears in their eyes. They were so grateful that we were there. Our music had already penetrated the Iron Curtain through Radio Free Europe and bl
ack-market record sales. People would accost us on the street and clasp our hands with tears streaming down their faces, saying, “Thank you, thank you for coming, we never thought we’d live to see this, God bless you.” The audiences in Yugoslavia were wonderful, standing and cheering and waving the universal peace sign, chanting, “Peace USA, peace USA.”
The first three concerts, in Belgrade, Zagreb and Sarajevo, went without a hitch. The people were starved for Western music and showered us with flowers, encores and standing ovations. We were followed wherever we went by throngs of adoring fans and surrounded constantly by beautiful girls. We had a great time in Yugoslavia and we thought, “So this is communism? This ain’t so bad. The people seem happy, the chicks are gorgeous, this is great. I’d like to come back here someday.” Yugoslavia was the most progressive and democratic of the Eastern European countries. There were jazz clubs and a bustling nightlife, and the young people wore jeans and colourful shirts just like back home.
Then we entered Romania and we could hear the Iron Curtain slam shut behind us. It was a scary place. Armed soldiers were everywhere and we were tailed constantly by KGB types. We were told by the promoters to be careful: our hotel rooms were bugged and we would be under constant surveillance. In Bucharest I took a picture of a beautiful old bridge over the river. Out of nowhere came a couple of Party officials, who stripped the film from my camera. That was a “military” bridge and pictures were forbidden. The entire country seemed painted in shades of grey, stripped of colour. Even the lighting in the hotel seemed to be on half wattage. The people were grey, the buildings were grey, the food was grey. It was a dark and unhappy country. The fans may have been happy to see us, but the Ceauşescu regime certainly wasn’t. The promoters had sold the idea to the government by telling them that we were a “jazz band.” They were thinking maybe Dave Brubeck? Now they were pissed that the “jazz” concerts were turning into rock events. There would be no Woodstock in Ceauşescu’s Romania.
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