by Paul, Alan
It was Jim’s brilliant idea to stick it at the end of “Layla” and I just did not think it belonged there. It was tainted goods, and it completely taints the integrity of this great song that Eric wrote himself from the heart.… I could hear how it would work, but I thought it was an ego trip on Jim’s part and I was like, “What am I going to do when we play it live—walk over and play drums?” Of course, it became a moot point, because we only did it live once, with Duane in Tampa [on December 1, 1970], and it ended on a suspended note—no coda.
DOWD: When we walked out of those sessions, I told the band, “This is the best damn album I have done since The Genius of Ray Charles.” And then the thing didn’t sell for a year! We all knew how great it was—including everyone at Atlantic—but we couldn’t get arrested with it. That was very hard to understand, and very disappointing.
The single and the album both failed to make much of an impression upon release, perhaps because Clapton’s name was not prominently displayed and few knew that Derek and the Dominos was his band. “Layla” was rereleased on the 1972 compilation The History of Eric Clapton and became a top 10 single in both the USA and the UK.
DOWD: Suddenly, “Layla” was like the national anthem. And that seemed appropriate.
CHAPTER
7
Living on the Open Road
WEEKS AFTER THE final Layla sessions, the Allman Brothers’ second album, Idlewild South, was released, less than a year after their debut. It was named after a cabin on a lake outside of Macon that the band rented for $165 a month and used as a rehearsal space and party pad. The name was a tribute to New York’s Idlewild Airport, which was the original name of JFK, and referred to the high volume of visitors coming and going from the cabin. It was here that the band and crew had pledged allegiance to one another.
PAYNE: Idlewild South is where the brotherhood came to pass. There was a pact made out there around a campfire—all for one and one for all. Gregg was playing acoustic guitar and singing “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” and the pact might as well have been made in blood. Everybody believed it 100 percent.
TRUCKS: Idlewild was just a really good place at the right time. There was enough room there to have a little privacy if you wanted it, or to just go out for a walk, or go fishing. It was a very old lake house that had been settling for years and I was sitting at my drums at about a 20-degree angle. Everything was crooked and it gave us a different perspective.
Idlewild South.
That’s where we worked up most of the material on the second album, as well as other songs. “Hot ’Lanta” was written there one night. We had taken something strong and Gregg was sitting at his organ playing the opening lick and Dickey walked by behind him, sang the guitar riff, and picked up his Gibson and started playing it. Then we were all on our instruments and in a half an hour we had the whole damn thing worked out. Things like that happened out there all the time.
On the back of the album, among the credits, Mama Louise Hudson was thanked for her food with two simple words: “Vittles: Louise.” Several members of the band proudly brought a copy in to H&H to show Hudson as soon as it was released.
MAMA LOUISE: I was real happy. I guess I did something good. I gave lots of people free plates when they was hungry. It was nice to get a thank-you like that.
I think it was around this time when Gregg and Red Dog came in and Red Dog said to Gregg, “Go ahead and ask her.” And Gregg said, “How do you feel if we call you Mama Louise?”
I said, “I’d feel good.” I knew that Gregg called his own mother “Mama A” and I always did feel like they was my sons.
Idlewild South sold only marginally better than its predecessor, though the band had a growing national reputation and the album included songs that would become staples of the band’s repertoire—and eventually of rock radio.
ALLMAN: When the first record came out at number 200 with an anchor and dropped off the face of the earth, my brother and I did not get discouraged. But I thought Idlewild South was a much better record; I wrote some of my best stuff on that one and when that died on the vine, I thought, “Damn, maybe we were wrong about this group.”
WALDEN: I doubted myself. It seemed like I had just been wrong and that they were never going to catch on. People just didn’t grasp what the Allmans were all about—musically or any other way. But they kept touring, going across the country, establishing themselves city by city as the best live band around and building a base.
RED DOG: Every time we played someplace, when we came back, there was a bigger crowd, just from word of mouth; the band sold itself. The band sold the band. It just kept mushrooming like that.
ALLMAN: I felt pretty bad and it started dawning on me that the more we got around and got seen, it was worth ten times anything else we could do. The key was not to worry about the record sales, and trust that shit will take of itself. What we had to do was keep getting out there and letting people know that we’re there.
Dickey Betts behind the lines, Tulane University, 1970.
DON LAW, Boston promoter: At the time, the most valuable piece of promotion available was word of mouth. That was true of everyone, but especially for a band as strong as the Allman Brothers. It was obvious to anyone who saw them that they were fantastic.
BETTS: Duane was bursting with energy; he was a force to be reckoned with. His drive and focus were incredible, as was his intense belief in himself and our band. He knew we were going to make it. We all knew we were a good band, but no one else had that supreme confidence. We were a progressive rock band and we used to sit and say, “This band is never going to make it because we’re too fucking good.”
TRUCKS: Our first few tours, it seemed like there’d be a few people really getting into it at every show and a bunch of others standing around going, “Huh?” We really didn’t think we were going to take off. We just knew how good it was.
BETTS: Duane’s confidence and enthusiasm were infectious. He helped us all believe in ourselves and that was an essential key to the [eventual] success of the Allman Brothers Band.
Duane was a natural leader, and if he got knocked down, you’d feel compelled to do everything you could to get him back up and going again. He and I talked a lot about that, and decided that would be the difference in our band as compared to every other band we’d ever been in: when someone falls, instead of talking about him or taking advantage of him, we’d pull him back up, but no one would be the leader. None of us would ever take that position in the Allman Brothers Band. Whenever we needed a leader, someone would step forward and lead. That’s a Duane Allman quote. Of course, he’d also often say, “I’m not the leader of this band but if and when we need one, I’m a damn good one!” And he was.
PAYNE: Duane had this monstrous personality that was overbearing in any crowd. If you put him in the room with the President of the United States, he would have taken over the conversation in five minutes.
JAIMOE: If Duane had an idea in his head to do something, he would try doing it until he fell on his face. It’s like the old saying, “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re the problem.” No one would stand in Duane’s way.
HAMPTON: Duane was the Douglas MacArthur of that band. He ran it like a general or an old-school football coach. It was his band and he let you know that you were in his band. Duane was never a dick. He was a wonderful, beautiful man, but it was Vince Lombardi stuff: his way or the highway. And he would flip anybody’s ear if they were out of line.
Jaimoe and Duane Allman at the Thunderbird Motel, Miami, 1970.
ODOM: Nothing was democratic with Phil Walden and Associates and nothing was democratic with the Allman Brothers Band. Duane was a natural-born leader. His philosophy was, “Get on my back. Follow me.” And nobody ever questioned that. Any band that’s going to be successful has got to have a leader: that was Duane.
RED DOG: There was no question that it was his band, even with Dickey, who was a pretty strong character in his own right. Everyon
e in that band would have followed Duane anywhere.
PAYNE: He was such a charismatic leader. If we ran into any kind of a roadblock, he would take it on head-on. He liked confrontation, not for confrontation’s sake, but to solve a problem. He would take on any challenge, and get by it every time. He would negotiate anything with anyone.
RICK HALL: He would stand up to me, not in a mean way, but he was very tenacious. If I started opposing him—and I thought a lot of his ideas were crazy at first—he would put his arm around my neck and pull me close and get his way on anything we did. He wouldn’t give in. My ankles bled all the time he was around, because he was always nibbling on them.
RED DOG: I would have followed Duane to the end of the earth. He instilled in you this confidence of his ability to lead. A situation would come up and Duane would make a decision and it would usually work out. And even when it didn’t, we never really questioned the intent.
ALLMAN: He was always up to something; my brother never got bored. He either had his head in a book, his arm around a woman, or his arm around that guitar and it was singing to him.
TRUCKS: Duane read all kinds of things. He loved Tolkien and Lord of the Rings, of course; he named his daughter Galadrielle [after a Rings character]. He also loved T. S. Eliot, and I remember him reading some Frank Herbert and some philosophy. I turned him on to Rousseau and he absolutely loved it. He immediately understood and was drawn to the philosophy that we’re all much happier in a natural state.
LINDA OAKLEY: Butch was the college boy and most of the other guys hadn’t graduated high school, having dropped out to go on the road with bands, and he was always bringing books around. Everyone shared and passed them around and I also recall a lot of R. Crumb and Marvel comic books being read, with everyone having their favorite characters.
While Idlewild South did not launch the band to glory, they continued their relentless touring schedule, winning new fans everywhere they performed.
ALLMAN: We played [continuously] in 1970, traveling most of the off days. We were in a Ford Econoline van and then a Winnebago [nicknamed the Wind Bag].
PAYNE: That Ford van was famous for having walls so thin that ice would form on the inside during the winter, with all of us huddled in the back with the gear.
ABB life on the road, early 1970.
DOUCETTE: The band came to pick me up at my place in New York one day, in that beat-up Ford with no windows except the backdoor and the windshield. It had little, thin, striped mattresses up the wall and one guy would sit with his legs out, another guy on the other side with his legs out, and on down the line, with amps and guitars in there. Duane said, “Hop in man.” … Later, I was like, “No offense, but if that’s the transport for the band, I’ll opt out.” Duane started thinking and he was on the phone with Phil that night trying to get some non-embarrassing transport.
MAMA LOUISE: I remember the first time they brought that camper home. They were so happy. Red Dog came over and said, “Mama, you gotta come see this.”
JONNY PODELL, ABB booking agent: I started booking the band in June 1969. Phil Walden said, “Get them dates. I don’t care if it’s Portland, Oregon, on Monday and Portland, Maine, on Tuesday.” I tried to do a little better but that’s what we did and they never complained.
Phil Walden (left) and Jonny Podell at a Capricorn picnic.
JON LANDAU: Jonny Podell was a fabulous booker. A crazy man, but a great, great agent.
PODELL: This was run like a machine, like a military unit. There were six in the band and management provided them with first five, then six crew, which was pretty unusual for the time and really quite extravagant.
ODOM: It got pretty hairy there for a while. We had a lot of money sunk into the band. When you’re in the management business, you’re in it to develop and that’s what we were doing. When you have a band making $1,000–$2,000 a night, you can’t reach out and take a 15 percent commission, but you can put it on the book and that’s what we did. A lot of the money invested was just keeping them alive and on the road. In the course of a year, $100 here and $300 there adds up with a band and crew.
PAYNE: Getting the Winnebago was a real big deal, like, “Oh, happy day!” But it turned out to be not so great. The damn thing was a 27-footer, designed for a guy and his wife and two little kids to go fishing for a weekend, not to have ten guys and all their stuff living in it for months of coast-to-coast traveling. Technically, it could sleep ten people, but being on the road for two months we were just constantly stepping over each other’s stuff and banging into one another.
ALLMAN: That kind of schedule puts a lot of wear and tear on your ass but we were sure getting better.
ODOM: That Winnebago kept them together. They needed it, and it was a big investment at the time.
RED DOG: I really think that kind of life led to a lot of the drug problems. It was tough. You had to have something to get you up and something to get you down. The coke would work: bingo, you’re up! And the heroin would work: bingo, you’re down! And there were always pills—blues, reds, yellows—to perk you up or calm you down.
PODELL: The business was just becoming somewhat professional and they were certainly one of the first to approach it from the management down as an investment, as a business. That was also reflected in the very nice Winnebago that Phil got them. It was a significant investment at the time for a band not yet making any money. For a bunch of six undisciplined hooligans road-crewed by six more undisciplined hooligans, they responded to the management and the booking in a very professional way. Obviously, in later years that began to unravel with the use and abuse of alcohol and drugs, but at the beginning, there was a true sense of brotherhood between those twelve guys and everyone working with and for them.
The touring helped the band slowly grow a fan base, but they were still struggling to make a living. Their 1970 tax returns show every band member with an income of $8,764.01, except for Gregg, who made over $5,000 more from royalty payments, and Duane, who made an additional $1,080, presumably from session work, including $300 he received for recording with Delaney and Bonnie in May 1970. Every band member was paid a per diem of $7.50 for every day on the road.
The grueling road trips and constant touring took a toll on the band and crew and may have played a part in what happened on April 30, 1970, at Aliotta’s Lounge in Buffalo, New York. Payne and Mike Callahan arrived at the club to pack up the gear and collect the money for the previous night’s performance. The band had been paid a $500 advance on a $1,000 guarantee but had left the club without receiving full and final payment, which the venue’s owner, Angelo Aliotta, refused to make. He wanted them to play another night and refused to let them load out their gear. The band was planning on driving to Cincinnati to play a benefit for Ludlow Garage, one of their favorite venues.
JOHN LYNDON: Twiggs was very proud that he’d never not gotten paid. They had played until three a.m. and ended up leaving without the money. The booking agent said, “Forget it. We’ll sue them and get it. Don’t worry about it.” Clearly, Twiggs was sleep deprived, eating speed to stay awake, and he didn’t have any emotional resources left to deal with things.
DOUCETTE: Twiggs had road managed for Little Richard, Percy Sledge, and other guys on the chitlin’ circuit—the toughest environments you can imagine—and he was very, very proud of the fact that he had always gotten paid. He treated that like Lou Gehrig’s consecutive-games-played streak.
It’s been widely believed that Aliotta’s rationale for not paying the group was that they had been fifteen minutes late after driving all day from the previous evening’s show in Stony Brook, Long Island, 450 miles away, but John Lyndon says this was not likely the case.
JOHN LYNDON: There’s nothing in any of the notes I’ve read that being late was a justification for not paying the band. When they arrived, someone at the club actually told them, “We’ve got another band that’s gonna open so y’all are not going on until ten or eleven. It’s no problem that you’re lat
e.”
The next day the band had a rare off day, but they were planning on playing the Ludlow Garage benefit, followed a day later by a show in Cleveland. In the morning, Aliotta again refused to pay the money owed when Payne and Callahan arrived to complete the load-out. They called Twiggs at the hotel.
RED DOG: It was a strange deal because the guy was messing with us from the start. It was, “I’ll pay you … I ain’t gonna pay you … I’ll pay you.” We left the club without being paid, which was not good, and the next morning the guy said on the phone, “Come over, Twiggs. I got the money.” Before he left, Twiggs said to me, “If this guy says he ain’t gonna pay us, I’m gonna off him.” I said, “Don’t talk like that,” but I didn’t take him seriously.
JOHN LYNDON: I never heard that Twiggs said that and it’s not consistent with the notes in the investigation.
Duane was sleeping and Twiggs took his fishing knife. Maybe he took the knife for protection because he thought it might get rough down there. Then he meets with Aliotta, who’s this fifty-five-year-old nice guy and he was trying to reconcile the difference. Then Twiggs gets in an argument and stabs this guy and he had no recollection of having done so.
PAYNE: Callahan and I were the only members of the troop there with Twiggs. We were on the stage and Twiggs went behind the bar and got in the man’s nose. They started tussling and we thought Twiggs was just beating the hell out of him. We kind of took our time getting over there because we didn’t know he had a fucking knife. Callahan jumped over the bar and I just went over to where it opened and as I got nearer I saw all the blood.