Yesterday’s Music
Opened my eyes, early this mornin’
And I found myself all alone
Sweet tastin’ midnight, still on my tongue
And a touch of tomorrow in my bones
Opened my eyes early this mornin’
And whole round world was turnin’ cold
Sweet tastin’ midnight still on my tongue
Was it borrowed, was it bought or was it sold
I can still hear yesterday’s music, it’s the same old, same old melody
Someone belongs to everyone and no one belongs to me
I can still hear yesterday’s music, it’s the same old, same old melody
Someone belongs to everyone and no one belongs to me
Lyrics by David Clayton-Thomas. Copyright © Lady Casey Music, 1972.
17
THE SPLIT
Portland Mason was completely at ease in Beverly Hills while I was way out of my element. She played the celebrity game with the best in her own carefully controlled environment. The phonies never got past the gates of her Beverly Hills mansion. People like Portland and Sammy were born to celebrity. It’s all they’d ever known and they handled it well. I was still a relative newcomer to the game and I had a lot to learn. Hollywood is all about “the Business.” It’s the only thing that matters in that town—everybody has an agenda. It becomes impossible to know who’s for real and who is just playing you. After a while I just didn’t trust anyone anymore, and that’s no way to live. Not only was Portland at home in Hollywood, but she was uncomfortable anywhere else. In LA she was protected by her family’s money and status. She could never be happy in Toronto or New York and I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life in Los Angeles. I was really beginning to miss the east coast. In New York I could always drive up to Bill’s house for a few days, hang out with Doc or visit my mum, but on the west coast I was lost. I was a long way from home.
At the same time a difficult situation was developing in the band. With Freddie and Jim still in San Francisco and the New York guys all living in the affluent suburbs with their wives and families, the band was coming apart. It wasn’t the same as when we all lived in Manhattan and hung out together every day. Furthermore, I’d been fronting the band for three years and had contributed greatly to their success and yet I was still basically an employee. The ownership of the name was still in the hands of Katz and Colomby. I had approached them many times about being included as a full partner but could never seem to pin them down to a firm answer. Steve Katz, in fact, wanted me gone. He felt that the Eastern European tour had cost us our counterculture following and that I had brought too much bad press to the band. He wasn’t wrong on either count. The State Department tour had cost us our underground status, but then so had selling twenty million records. The band had taken on a world of problems when they elected to go with an ex-con Canadian with a checkered past, but it was my songs and my performance onstage every night that helped vault them into international stardom. There were some who believed that I was the band’s downfall and others who thought that without me they’d still be playing on Bleecker Street. I guess there was validity to both points of view.
I wish I had a “Brady Bunch” upbringing and that my immigration status and my criminal record hadn’t forced the band into so many difficult situations, but on the other hand you didn’t find the passion and soul I brought to the band on The Brady Bunch. That was tempered in the fire of a brutal childhood, the despair of prison life and the years of singing in tough bars on Yonge Street.
There was no love lost between me and Steve Katz. He never wanted me in the band in the first place and I thought the band deserved a much better guitar player than he was, but we both brought something special to the band, and who knows—without my voice and Steve’s business connections, maybe it all would never have happened. There are so many variables in this business, including just being in the right place at the right time. My animosity toward Steve has softened over the years and I have come to realize that I probably owe as much to him as he does to me, but at the time, in the heightened emotion of our largerthan-life existence, we really got on each other’s nerves. Bobby tried to ease the friction between me and Katz but that was impossible. We just didn’t like each other.
Things were complicated further by our own out-of-control egos. With the band riding high on the charts, everyone seemed to be knee-deep in ass-kissers who were telling them whatever they wanted to hear. “It’s your guitar playing that made the band what it is, Steve,” or “Clayton-Thomas was nothing until he met you, Bobby.” I was surrounded by people in LA who were telling me, “You’re the star, David, you don’t need those guys.” And we all began to believe the bullshit.
I was the most visible member of the band, and for anyone who wanted to take a shot at the big target that was BS&T, I was the bull’s-eye. The other guys could retire to the anonymity of their country estates between gigs and nobody knew who they were, but I was the voice and the face of Blood Sweat & Tears, and I was out there in the public eye all the time. As the royalty cheques began to roll in from the millions of record sales and the airplay we were getting around the world, it became apparent that as the principal songwriter I was making more money than the rest of the guys. That fuelled the resentment in some quarters even more. Technically, Steve Katz was still my boss, but I was making a lot more money than he was and Katz hated that.
Larry Goldblatt openly sided with me when it came to the issue of a partnership, which didn’t endear him to Steve Katz. Larry believed that if they didn’t cut me in, it was only a matter of time before I walked, and that would be the end of the band. Katz maintained that replacing me would cause no more problems than replacing a horn player. But Larry dealt directly with the promoters every day and he knew who was carrying the show night after night—and it wasn’t Steve Katz. Goldblatt was also advising the band to slow down and be more selective in our bookings. He felt that we were in danger of overexposing ourselves and that the band would have more longevity if we just backed off on the touring for a while and focused more on recording. He pointed out that after our first blockbuster album, it took nearly three years to complete the next one due to touring commitments. During that time Chicago had pumped out three albums and had eclipsed us in record sales. Goldblatt advised taking fewer gigs and getting back into the studio.
Steve Katz played this political card for all it was worth. He knew the majority of the band would never agree to less touring. They were making their money on the road and they had bills to pay. He also knew that the relentless touring was wearing me down. My voice was taking a terrible pounding. We didn’t have the sophisticated monitor systems that we have today. BS&T was a big belting band and we were playing arenas and stadiums. Some days I couldn’t talk until late afternoon and then I would croak my way through the show that night, my voice hoarse and ragged. I lived with the constant fear that I would step out onstage one night in front of thousands of people and my voice would be gone. Finally I gave Colomby and Katz an ultimatum. I was tired of being an employee: I wanted in. I needed to have a voice in the decision making. The band had to slow down or I was leaving. This, of course, was exactly what Steve Katz wanted.
The band split into two distinct factions. One side, led by Katz, wanted to tour even more aggressively. If I couldn’t handle it, they’d find someone who could. The other faction was led by Bobby Colomby and Larry Goldblatt. They knew you don’t replace a lead singer like you would a horn player. Colomby told Katz, in no uncertain terms, “If David leaves, we’re in trouble. In the public mind he is Blood Sweat & Tears.” Goldblatt told him flatly, “The act just isn’t bookable without David.” The majority of the band sided with Colomby and Goldblatt, but Katz was relentless. He was politicking constantly to replace me, and I began drinking heavily. At the time it seemed to be the only way I could numb the tensions swirling around me and pump myself up for the shows. The bad habits I had picked up in the b
ars on Yonge Street were now threatening to destroy me. Of all the drugs I’ve used in my life, liquor is the most destructive. I felt like I was losing my grip on everything that mattered to me. Blood Sweat & Tears, the crowning achievement of my life, was tearing itself apart. The love of my life, Portland Mason, was slipping away from me and I felt powerless to stop either. I had money in the bank, a hefty royalty income and a million-dollar home in Brentwood that I never lived in. I was burning out but there was no stopping the money-making machine that was Blood Sweat & Tears.
We were on the road constantly. It was out of control. Nobody cared about the future of the band anymore. It was every man for himself. I had my songwriting royalties and Bobby and Steve owned the name, but everybody else earned 100 per cent of their money on the road. I think the rest of the guys sensed the end coming and wanted to get as much money out of the band as they could before it collapsed, so they opted for even more touring. We went through the concerts on cruise control, but the tensions in the band crept into the music and the gigs weren’t fun anymore.
Finally, late in 1972, I gave my notice. I had a talk with Bobby after a gig in New Orleans and met with Clive Davis a few days later in San Francisco. I told them that I couldn’t go on. Katz and his cronies were getting to me, and the brutal tour schedule was killing me. I was burned out and I needed a break. If Lew’s lip gave out or one of the guys had a family obligation, they just sent in a sub for a few days and the show went on, but I had to be there for every concert and, like I said, the shows weren’t fun anymore. As for ownership in the band’s name? Well, that just wasn’t going to happen. Bobby might have elected to cut me in, but Steve Katz … never. He had considerable influence, given his ownership in the name, and he was happy to see me go. He got rid of Al Kooper and now was getting rid of me.
Even though I had officially quit the band, there were still months of gigs that had to be played out, contracts that had to be honoured. I wish I could have just walked away clean but it wasn’t that simple. My split with the band tore it right down the middle. Larry Goldblatt told Katz and his friends that they were committing career suicide. If I left he couldn’t book the band anymore. The promoters simply wouldn’t buy a BS&T without David Clayton-Thomas. Goldblatt tried to convince them to give me a break from the road for a while and maybe this disaster could be averted. Steve Katz began a campaign to get rid of Larry too, accusing him of embezzling money and manipulating me. I saw no evidence of Goldblatt mishandling money and, if anything, Larry was trying to hold the band together. He knew we would both pay a huge price if I left. DCT without BS&T was just as hard to book as BS&T without DCT. But Goldblatt also knew that there was no way he could change my mind. I was exhausted and things had already gone too far. He made a last-ditch effort to save the band from itself, called a meeting without me and advised Colomby and Katz to cut me in as a full partner. Of course if they did that, then everybody would want a piece, and that just wasn’t going to happen. He also advised the band one more time to cut back on their touring. He was fired.
After I left, Colomby and Katz continued their war for control of the BS&T name and eventually Colomby won. I presume he paid Katz off. Now he was the sole owner of a million-dollar trademark that was practically worthless without the voice that sang all those hits. Before he left, Katz complained to DownBeat magazine, “No matter how interesting we tried to make the music the audience still wanted to hear David Clayton-Thomas.” Larry Goldblatt had tried to tell him this would happen and he was fired for his trouble. My closest friends in the band, Jim Fielder, Lew Soloff and Freddie Lipsius, told Bobby that there was no BS&T without me, and they quit also. That began an exodus that eventually included Dick Halligan and Chuck Winfield. In a few short months all that was left of Blood Sweat & Tears was Bobby Colomby, a trombone player and a name.
Bobby and I had begun production earlier that year on a solo album for Columbia. I think they felt if they gave me a solo project it would stop me from leaving BS&T. But a solo career wasn’t the problem. I would have been happy to play with the band forever if I had some share in its future. It was Steve Katz and the brutal tour schedule that drove me to quit. When I gave my notice, Bobby turned the half-finished project over to LA producer Joel Sill and turned his attention to trying to salvage what was left of Blood Sweat & Tears. My solo album was released on Columbia but it received little attention. Clive had decided to back the new BS&T. Bobby recruited a new band and recorded an album entitled New Blood. He brought in heavyweight jazz players like Joe Henderson, Don Alias and Larry Willis. The musicianship in Colomby’s new band was superb. He could afford to hire the best players in the business, but they never managed to find a singer with a really distinctive sound and the record tanked.
I returned to LA and tried to get my life back together. I had broken up with Portland, split with BS&T and was alone and isolated with my beautiful Irish setters and my million-dollar home in Brentwood. I wanted to leave LA, but I was too exhausted by the drama of the past few months to even think about selling the house and starting all over again. I just wanted to stay in one place for a while.
Larry Goldblatt moved to LA and became my manager. We put together a small band made up of some of the top session players in town, and I brought in a couple of old friends from Toronto, guitarist Kenny Marco and keyboard player William “Smitty” Smith from the Canadian band Motherlode. Smitty and I wrote a bunch of new tunes at the house in Brentwood and recorded a very funky album for Columbia called Tequila Sunrise. Goldblatt hooked me up with producer Mike Post, later of Hill Street Blues fame. They felt I needed to establish a different sound, since BS&T was still out there touring and recording, so they decided not to use the trademark BS&T horn section on this album—in retrospect, probably not a wise decision. The public was used to the sound of my voice with that big brassy sound, and Columbia wasn’t ready for a new direction. They wanted another Blood Sweat & Tears and had already decided to put their money behind Bobby and that million-dollar name. Columbia dropped my contract.
Larry negotiated a new deal with RCA and we recorded an album called Harmony Junction. It was a fine album, but it was overshadowed by the knowledge that I was losing my friend and manager. Larry Goldblatt had never been in the best of health. He suffered from diabetes and a multitude of other health problems and he never truly recovered from being fired by BS&T. As the manager of one of the biggest acts in show business he had been a power player. Now people weren’t returning his phone calls. Rumours of him being fired for embezzling money were swirling around the business. They were completely untrue but people love to talk. The fight to clear his name and establish a solo career for me was just too much for him. His health was deteriorating rapidly. One of the last deals Larry cut for me was for an unforgettable week in Brazil, where we won first prize at the 1972 Rio Song Festival. We took the festival by storm with a funky salsa tune Smitty and I wrote, called “Nobody Calls Me Prophet.” It was the first American song ever to win at the Rio Festival. There was a sizeable cash prize and Larry negotiated international publishing deals that would pay dividends for years to come. We had a great week together in Brazil but it was bittersweet. Over dinner on the last night in Rio, in our moment of triumph, Larry told me that his health problems were more serious than he had let on. He feared he didn’t have much time left and he had to take care of his family. He wouldn’t be able to continue as my manager. I was devastated. I thought the world of Larry Goldblatt, and I’ll never forget the loyalty he showed by standing up for me against Katz and his cronies, even putting his job on the line for what he believed in. In this business of backbiters and opportunists, the integrity of a Larry Goldblatt is a rare thing.
We returned to LA and within a year Larry was hospitalized. He died a few months later. I tried to carry on but I wasn’t doing well in Los Angeles. There simply wasn’t enough work out there for me. The agents and promoters wanted the marquee value of the BS&T name. Once more I was up against the power of that n
ame. Without Larry to represent me I was really on my own in LA. I was lost out there. I spent a lot of time in the bars on the Sunset Strip, drank too much, dated a few B-list movie starlets and in general was going to hell in a handbasket. I learned another hard lesson in Los Angeles. When you’re in town for a big concert, LA loves you, but familiarity breeds contempt, and when you’re just another lonely rock star hanging out at the Rainbow Bar and Grill night after night, that town will eat you alive. Luckily my time in Hollywood was just about over.
You’re the One
I’ve been racing with the risin’ sun
Always goin’ where I’m comin’ from
I’m still waitin’ for my ship to come
And I’ve been hopin’, Darlin’, you’re the one
You’re the one, found me on this rocky shore
Gave me everything and more
You’re the one, all I do I do for you
Cause one and one ain’t always two, you’re the one
Never knew what I’d been lookin’ for
And why they left me always needin’ more
Never asked where love was comin’ from
But I’ve been hopin’, Darlin’, you’re the one
You’re the one, stopped me on the brink of time
Gave me reason, gave me rhyme
You’re the one reason for this song I sing
The reason I do everything, you’re the one
Words may fail me, but I swear it’s true
No one moved me till I came to you
No one touched me and I touched no one
Blood, Sweat and Tears Page 15