Blood, Sweat and Tears

by David Clayton-Thomas

  Bill is a tough, hard-nosed businessman, but beneath his gruff exterior lies a keen and inquisitive mind. Even in our teens our conversations were not the usual teenage banter of our friends. They talked about hockey, cars and girls. Bill and I read sci-fi novels and grappled with abstract concepts in comparative religion and with the meaning of life … and of course we talked about hockey, cars and girls. We got into some heavy topics for a couple of working-class kids from the suburbs of Toronto, but it was the foundation of our friendship. We were reading sciencefiction writers like Asimov and Bradbury when the other kids were reading the sports pages. To this day, Sunday dinners with the Puglieses are a regular part of my life. Bill’s wife, Linda, is a wonderful cook and the dinners are usually attended by several members of the family. The food is delicious and the talk around the table is always lively. Conversation at dinner is usually about the latest movies and TV shows, the Leafs, the kids and the grandkids. But when the dishes are cleared away, Bill and I find a quiet corner, and over a glass of fine cognac we turn our imaginations loose. Our talks are always interesting. The topics range from new technology and the latest scientific breakthroughs to world financial trends, the origins of the universe, the big bang and quantum theory. We are very different people and we live in very different worlds. Bill’s world is one of acquisitions and stock trades and boardrooms. Mine is a world of art and music and theatre. But in those Sunday get-togethers, the old Willowdale friendship kicks in and we know why we’ve been friends for so many years. Each of us in our own way is driven by creativity and an insatiable curiosity, and we understand each other.

  Bill offered to help me move my financial and business affairs from New York to Toronto. It was 2005 and the US was still enjoying the fruits of the Clinton surplus. The dollar was strong, real estate was at an all-time high and the stock market was booming. The financial wizards were euphoric. They thought the US dollar was bulletproof. Bill strongly felt that the US economy was about to hit the wall. He’d been telling me for years that the US was printing too much money, they’d been living on credit and their banking system was about to collapse. He advised me to get out of the stock market, sell the house in Pomona and dump all my real estate holdings while the market was on the bubble. Sell everything and bring those high-value US dollars into Canada and buy gold—gold bullion, gold certificates, stock in Bill’s gold-mining company. I followed his advice and, sure enough, three years after I moved to Canada the US dollar tanked. In 2008 the real-estate bubble burst, banks failed, the sub-prime crisis hit the country like a sledgehammer and gold went through the roof. I took the profits and diversified into a broad-based investment portfolio, again with Bill’s guidance. Thanks to his shrewd advice I was no longer dependent on the music industry for my livelihood. I was financially secure for the first time in my life.

  Ashleigh had worked hard at SUNY Purchase. She was passionate about her studies and made the dean’s list every semester. I was so proud of her. Once she graduated from SUNY, she wanted to go on to postgraduate studies, and Toronto has some of the finest colleges in the world for what she is interested in—writing for film and television. There was nothing holding me in New York anymore and I began driving back and forth to Toronto several times a month, looking for a place to live, checking out schools for Ashleigh and moving Antoinette Music Productions to Canada.

  Back in 2004 I played out my last concerts with BS&T. Larry and the boys weren’t happy about me leaving, but they knew I’d had enough. My life would never again consist of 250 days a year on the road, and that’s really all they wanted from me. Larry Dorr had made his choice and I was no longer of any use to him. My days of touring year-round were over and I had nothing to offer to a guy like Larry who made his living by booking road acts. In all fairness to Larry, he had a family to support and bills to pay and people who depended on him to generate dates. He was a capable businessman, but there wasn’t an artistic bone in his body. He’d listen to one of my new tunes and tell me, “People aren’t buying that kind of music anymore, David, it’s all about rap today. Why don’t you write some hip-hop tunes?” He just didn’t get it. It wasn’t about cashing in on trends. My songs were my life, and I didn’t give a damn if they were in fashion or not.

  Larry wasn’t long on imagination, but he had his good points. I’ve trusted him to walk around backstage with twenty grand in cash in his jeans and never gave it a second thought. He was always straight up with the money—a rare thing in this business.

  Larry Dorr was an interesting paradox. This was a guy who made his living selling music, but the truth was he didn’t listen to music and he didn’t like musicians and he was the first to admit it. Music was an easy way to make money and musicians were just annoying problems that had to be dealt with. In a strange way this made him very good at what he did. He was detached and dispassionate about the band and their problems, and the guys lived in fear of him. He’d help a guy out if he was a good soldier, but cross him and you were gone. Ironically, this made my job easier. Dorr was the hatchet man, and nobody crossed me for fear of bringing down the wrath of Larry Dorr. Musicians are bright, clever people, but they can be spoiled and manipulative. With Larry Dorr in charge, this band wasn’t going to tear itself apart the way some earlier editions did. When you have a nine-piece band with new guys coming and going all the time, this kind of discipline helps to keep things running smoothly. Larry Dorr ran a tight ship, and I have to admire him for that.

  The production guys were fine people and good friends. They had been with me for nearly twenty years and I cared about them. I knew their families and their kids and I was sorry that I had to be the one to end it, but I couldn’t trust Larry Dorr anymore, and without trust the artist–manager relationship is meaningless. But that’s not the only reason I had to call it quits. I was now in my sixties, with arthritic knees and all the aches and pains that come with forty years of rock & roll, and I simply couldn’t keep up that pace. Even if Dorr had continued as my manager, he would have had to change his focus from the road to more creative endeavours, and “creative” wasn’t in his vocabulary. He was a booker and that’s all he knew.

  I love performing and I have no intention of ever quitting, but it’s the relentless year-round travel that kills you. The only thing that makes it worthwhile is that brief time onstage every night. When that’s not fun anymore it’s time to quit. I hated most of the gigs we were playing. The quality of the bookings had been spiralling downward as, more and more, the demands of the payroll dictated the quality of the gigs. Life on Larry Dorr’s tour schedule was exhausting for guys half my age, and I wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of my life on this endless treadmill of airports and oldies shows.

  Even without me the name Blood Sweat & Tears was still worth money on the nostalgia circuit and Larry Dorr went with the cash flow. After I left, Bobby Colomby once again rented the name to Larry, who hired some new guys and called them Blood Sweat & Tears. Now they’re out there playing the oldies shows. That’s fine with me. They’re taking gigs that I don’t want anyway. The use of that name locks them forever in 1969 and I’m finally free to move on. At first I was angry that Larry was going to continue to book the name with no original members, but what the hell—except for me there hadn’t been an original Blood Sweat & Tears member since the mid-seventies, and I had certainly profited from the use of the name. But then again I wrote most of those songs, it was my voice on those records and I had given half a lifetime to that name. I had earned the right to use it. I couldn’t help resenting the fact that they were calling these new guys Blood Sweat & Tears. That name once meant something. For God’s sake, let it die with dignity. But that’s not going to happen. As long as Dorr and Colomby can squeeze a few more bucks out of it, they’ll continue to flog it. I don’t blame the musicians. It’s not their fault, it’s just another gig to them. I know a couple of the guys in the new band. They’re nice guys and fine players. One of them called me in Toronto. He wanted to know if I’d be
upset if he took the BS&T gig. He said, “Hey, man, it’s really tough out there right now and I can’t afford to turn down the work.” I told him, “It’s all right, man, take the gig. I’d never ask a guy to turn down work. We’ve all had to play weddings and bar mitzvahs. At least in BS&T you’ll get to play some really good music.”

  Early in 2008 new legislation was passed that requires an original member in order to use a name. It was called the Mary Wilson Act, for the Supremes singer who lobbied for a law to prevent exploitation of a name without the founding members. Before the Mary Wilson Act there were a dozen “Supremes” and “Drifters” and “Platters” out there. Whoever owned the name could sell it, and they flogged these classic names shamelessly. There might be a “Drifters” playing in five different cities all on the same night. It was a rip-off. The folks buying tickets didn’t know it wasn’t the original Drifters and for the most part they didn’t care as long as they heard those great songs that took them back to their youth. Blood Sweat & Tears was perilously close to falling into that category. The Mary Wilson Act put an end to all that.

  Deering Howe called me from Florida and told me the law had gone into effect down there. He said, “Well, I guess that’s the end of BS&T.” I laughed. I’d been around the track too many times to believe that. Larry Dorr wasn’t going down that easy—not as long as there was still money to be made from that name. I told Deering, “Just watch, Dorr will find an original BS&T member who’s been out of the band for thirty-five years and needs the money. He’ll bring that guy out of retirement just to keep the name alive.” I was right. A few weeks later Steve Katz was back in the band after a thirty-five-year “hiatus.” Strange bedfellows, but Larry Dorr had his original member and BS&T was still in business.

  Oh well, so it goes ... I’ve been around long enough to know that as long as there is a buck to be made, someone will find a way to make it, and I can’t begrudge anyone the right to earn a living. I know how tough that can be. But if they are going to drain the last drop of blood from Blood Sweat & Tears, they’ll have to do it without me.

  I’ve always been driven by the need to write new music. It’s what took me from the bars of Yonge Street to the clubs of Yorkville. It’s the reason I starved in New York for two years when I had hit records in Canada. It’s what made Blood Sweat & Tears the creative force that rocked the music world in 1969. It’s that drive to create new music that gave them the hits they are selling on the nostalgia circuit today. If, God willing, I have another decade or so to spend in the music business, I choose to spend it writing new music and playing concerts that I enjoy, not grinding it out on the road somewhere, living in hotel rooms, playing tunes that I wrote thirty years ago. I choose to do business with promoters who present original artists, and to perform for audiences who know the difference. Call me crazy, but it’s the right choice for me.

  Wild Women and Po’ Boys

  Take me out dancin’, my sweet Marie

  Let me be the one you’re with tonight

  Take me out dancin’ my belle cherie

  You know I will always treat you right

  By golly I guarantee, come along with me, we’ll do it right

  Down in Bay St. Louis that’s the only place to be on a Saturday night

  Wild women and po’ boys just go hand in hand

  A shot of blackjack whisky, you’ll be dancing with the band

  Well the music is funky, the food is just fine

  And you can get crazy all night long

  Take me out dancin’, my Marie Claire

  Let me be the one right by your side

  Take me out dancin’, mon dieu, ma chère

  Sure do love my Loosiana bride

  Lyrics by David Clayton-Thomas. Copyright © Clayton-Thomas Music Publishing Inc., 2005.

  27

  JUSTIN TIME

  I had long dreamed of a lakefront penthouse in Toronto. Every time Doc and I went to a hockey game together I would point to the soaring luxury apartment buildings along the lakeshore and say, “Someday, Doc, someday.” In January 2005 I sold the house in Pomona and bought a rooftop penthouse in Toronto overlooking Lake Ontario. It’s a large two-bedroom condo with a rooftop terrace in a luxury building with all the amenities—a doorman, a concierge and a fully equipped health club. The open-concept apartment has a modern kitchen, a dining room, an entertainment area and my studio all in one large high-ceilinged room. I moved my furniture and my digital recording gear up from New York and settled in to enjoy life in Toronto. The waterfront condo is perfect for my lifestyle, right downtown, a few blocks from the theatre district and the jazz clubs of Queen Street, close by the Air Canada Centre for Leafs and Raptors games and a couple of blocks from the Rogers Centre and the Blue Jays. The CN Tower rises into the sky right behind me. In the summer the harbour is full of sailboats, cruise ships and water taxis. The boardwalk outside my front door is teeming with life … tourists, rollerbladers, young lovers walking hand in hand along the waterfront.

  Within a year after I moved back to Canada, Ashleigh enrolled at Humber College in Toronto to begin postgrad studies. One look at my new multipurpose crib and she joked, “Well, Dad, you got your wish, you’re finally living in a recording studio.” I began writing almost immediately. The large, airy condo with its spectacular views and magnificent sunrises was inspiring, and in Toronto I was surrounded by a vibrant creative community. I was among people who were encouraging me to write. This was a breath of fresh air after so many years of being manipulated by people whose very livelihood was threatened by my creativity.

  I signed a contract for three albums with a fine independent record company from Montreal called Justin Time Records, the top jazz label in Canada, a nice family-owned company whose president, Jim West, was well respected in the Canadian music industry. I took an immediate liking to Jim. He ran a company that really cared about its artists and seriously loved their music. My immediate rep at Justin Time was Jadro Subic, a bright and beautiful Croatian lady who spoke five languages and had a PhD in musicology. Jadro had seen BS&T in Yugoslavia when we toured Eastern Europe in 1970. It was this experience that inspired her to study music in Rome. Now, thirty-five years later, married with two kids, she was my project manager at Justin Time Records in Montreal. It’s amazing how music can shape the lives of people halfway around the world. Jadro and I spoke almost daily during my years at Justin Time. We became great friends and still are today.

  Doc Riley and I co-produced the first album, Aurora. Doc assembled an all-star quintet of musicians: legendary jazz drummer Terry Clarke; an absolute genius of a stand-up bass player, George Koller; Rob Piltch, my old friend and collaborator from the Nuclear Blues days; and a brilliant young guitarist named Jake Langley, the 2004 National Jazz Awards winner. I was eager to get some new product in the can to kick-start my relationship with Justin Time, so there wasn’t really time to write much new material. My life was in transition at the time. We chose a couple of jazz standards and some classic blues, and I managed to contribute a few new original tunes, some written for the abortive Bloodlines album and some literally written in the studio for the Aurora sessions. Doc handled most of the production, with me flying in and out of Toronto every few days (I was still closing down the house and business in New York and playing out the last few BS&T dates). The whole album took less than a month to complete. The sessions were a joy. BS&T in the last few months wasn’t much fun, given the tension between Larry Dorr and me and the uncertainty of the band’s future. The relief of being out of that BS&T pressure cooker came across in the studio. Doc, of course, was sensational, and the recording atmosphere was relaxed, just a bunch of old friends jamming live in the studio. Shortly after my furniture arrived in Toronto, I had a new CD out on a respected Canadian jazz label.

  I took a full year off the road and devoted myself entirely to writing new music and enjoying the company of my friends. I was finally able to do things that most people take for granted. For years I’d always been on the
road somewhere on weekends. Now I had time to enjoy life. During the week there were evenings at jazz clubs with Doc and our musician friends. Actually sitting in the audience and enjoying the music of other artists was something I hadn’t done for years.

  I spent nearly every weekend that summer with Bill and his family, cruising along the rocky Georgian Bay shoreline on their fifty-five-foot cabin cruiser, the engines thrumming softly under our feet, Bill and I playing backgammon and carrying on our never-ending conversation about the meaning of life. We’d anchor for the night in the shelter of one of the rugged little pine-covered islands scattered throughout the northern lakes. Out on the water, the boat gently rocking me to sleep, the silence of the cool Canadian evening broken only by the lonely cry of the loons. Fishing for bass and perch, pan-fried for breakfast on the boat, the morning mist slowly lifting on the mirror-smooth lake. Afternoons spent skimming across the choppy water on Sea-Doos, laughing like kids as we bounced across each other’s wake. Docking for dinner at little home-style country inns. Simple pleasures that had been missing from my life in the constant grind of touring. I found a deep well of inspiration in the beauty and solitude of the Muskoka lakes, and new songs began to take shape. The song “The Evergreens” speaks of the peace I found on those weekends in Muskoka.

  My body slowly recovered from the battering it had taken over the past three decades, and I was ready to begin performing again. Bruce Cassidy and Doc Riley assembled a big band, ten pieces, the crème de la crème of Canadian jazz, an all-star band with Doc on keyboards and a six-piece horn section. There was a different spirit in this band. I was tired of performing with people who had no commitment to the music and to each other. These guys were all old friends and had played together for years. Some of them were with me in the Nuclear Blues band. The hired-gun mentality was gone. These were the guys I used to jam with in Toronto just for fun. Bruce and Doc would attract the best musicians in the business. Doc kept the music rooted, and Cassidy brought a progressive edge to the sound of the band. These guys talked straight with me. Cassidy made his opinions known right away. He told me that he wasn’t interested in putting together a scaled-down low-budget version of the New York band to “play the hits.” This wouldn’t be “BS&T light.” This would be a high-octane big band with a sound and a personality all its own. He expanded the old BS&T charts, adding baritone sax and bass trombone, putting some bottom on those brassy BS&T arrangements. This new band immediately sounded bigger and more powerful than the traditional BS&T lineup. We began to collaborate almost immediately on new material for the band. The musicians Doc and Bruce assembled were exceptional. This new band not only sounded bigger and better than the New York band, but they also played with a fire and enthusiasm that had been missing for years. This was an elite group of musicians and each concert was an event. New songs were included in the repertoire right from the first rehearsal, and the first shows were explosive. There was a fresh new sound to the music of this band and I loved it.