by Shawn Inmon
Cassandra and Billie watched raptly. The Black Velvets weren’t particularly original, but their musicianship was good, and their lead singer and guitarist was very attractive. Cassandra thought he looked like Rick Springfield, but she realized no one around her had any idea who that was.
At one point in their set, Jimmy Velvet was playing an old Buddy Holly song—True Love Ways—and he glanced over to the side of the stage. He saw Billie looking at him and blessed her with a grin and a wink.
“Whatever,” Curlee said. “Another garage band that will never go anywhere.”
“Jealous,” Billie said, and smiled and waved right back at Jimmy Velvet.
The Black Velvets finished their set with a cover of Cream’s Strange Brew. Jimmy Velvet raised his guitar over his head in triumph and ran off the stage with the rest of the Black Velvets trailing behind. A short man with bushy hair and the physique of a Keebler Elf hurried onstage after them and began tearing down the drum set.
“God, I’m glad we don’t have to haul all those drums around with us. What a pain,” Curlee said.
Both women found his transparent jealousy hilarious, although Cassandra made an effort not to laugh at him, which was more than Billie did.
The stage announcer appeared in front of them. “Got an intro?”
Curlee was not the greatest manager in the world, but he always seemed to be prepared for moments like these. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to the man.
The man jogged onstage and said, “The Black Velvets call themselves the loudest bar band in the world and after that set, I think I might have to agree. Time for a change of pace, now.” He consulted the paper, then said. “Rising from the protest movement at the University of California, Berkeley, a band with a conscience and a message. Please welcome to the Magic Mountain stage, New Generation.”
Cassandra, Billie and Curlee walked on, arranged the microphones to their liking, then began to sing Blowin’ in the Wind.
The Baked Grapes and The Black Velvets had been high-energy, but mellow folk music seemed to suit the people who had gathered around the second stage perfectly. People who had been ignoring the previous acts turned around and faced the stage.
Tim Buckley had just finished his set on the main stage and the next act hadn’t started there yet, so people wandered over from the amphitheater to the smaller stage to see what was happening there.
By that day, Cassandra had written two more originals and another that the three of them had worked on together. They mixed the originals in with covers of Bob Dylan and Pete Seeger. The longer they played, the bigger the crowd grew. By the time they got to their last song, there were nearly four hundred people gathered in front of the stage.
It wasn’t just the biggest audience they had ever played for. It was ten times the size of all their audiences put together, even if you count the people walking under their window while they practiced. It was their moment.
Curlee stepped forward. “This song was written by our beautiful songbird, Cass. The three of us met on the Plaza at UC Berkeley, protesting the war in Vietnam.”
Applause rippled through the audience. A number of people flashed the peace sign at them.
“Cass was moved to write this song that night. It’s our last number. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
Silence settled over the audience as Curlee and Billie strummed the opening chords of Not for Marching.
When Cassandra stepped up and sang the verses, people began to nod along in agreement. When the three of them sang the chorus for the second time, people had begun to join in.
Curlee whispered into both their ears, “Close with the chorus three times.” He wanted to give the crowd a chance to sing along with them.
By the time they brought the chorus around that third time, much of the crowd sang it along with them.
When they finished, Cassandra had to step back. She couldn’t sing any more. Her throat was thick, and tears were forming. She had never known anything like this would ever happen to her.
Chapter Forty-Two
All three members of New Generation felt like they were walking on a cloud when they stepped off the stage. Their appearance had gone beyond anything they had hoped for. For Cassandra, at least, she had mostly hoped not to freeze up or embarrass herself.
After they made way for the next band, they sat in the grass in front of the stage to recover their equilibrium a bit. The act that followed them was a bluegrass act, with a variety of interesting instrumentation, including a woman who played the spoons and a man who played a jug.
They had only been there for a few minutes when a small blonde girl shyly approached. She didn’t say anything, but held out a necklace made out of intertwined string, with beads tied in. She offered it to Cassandra.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Cassandra said. “Did you make this?”
The small girl nodded.
“And do you want me to have it?”
Another nod.
Cassandra accepted the gift and opened her arms to the girl, who leaped happily into her lap and seemed quite pleased to stay there. Cassandra snuggled with her while she, Billie and Curlee reveled in what had just happened on stage.
They could hear the distant sound of a keyboard, and Curlee said, “It’s the Doors. I think they’re headlining today, so that’s gonna be the last set of the day. Let’s go listen.”
Cassandra stood up and set the little girl down, who ran off without ever having said a word. Cassandra slipped the necklace over her hair as they walked toward the main stage.
Because they had not brought their guitar cases, Curlee and Billie had to sling their guitars around their necks as they walked. That identified them as musicians, but no one bothered or even noticed, really. As they walked, they saw David Crosby sitting on the tailgate of a truck, chatting up Grace Slick. No one paid them any mind.
Even a few weeks later, at Monterrey Pop, and certainly two years at Woodstock, the performers and fans were separated. Magic Mountain Festival was different. It was innocent and organic.
When they got to the amphitheater, it was overflowing with people. There was no room for anyone else, so they stood outside and let the sound wash over them. Light My Fire blasted out and from where they stood, Cassandra went up on her tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse.
Curlee noticed, unslung his guitar and handed it to Billie. He picked Cassandra up and lifted her onto his shoulders. She wrapped her legs around him and leaned forward, taking in the Lizard King in all his glory. Even from that distance, she thought he was drunk, but it didn’t affect his performance.
When I think of what we do, then I see what he does—how he holds the entire audience mesmerized—I know we live in two different worlds. Still, I’ll just be happy to have people hear my songs, like they did today.
She slid down Curlee’s back, then stood on tiptoe again to kiss him. “Thank you. For that, and for everything you did to make this happen. We would never have gotten here without you pushing us.”
“True enough,” he agreed, but he was smiling gently at her.
“Come on, love bugs, you’re making me sick,” Billie said. “Let’s head toward the buses before this crowd breaks up, or we’ll be here until tomorrow trying to get down the mountain.”
They joined the crowd streaming toward the pick-up area. It was an incredible mixture of people—couples, families with children, young teenagers hanging out with friends—and a mix of fashions. The hippies were the most prevalent, but there were more buttoned-down types from Berkeley, and college age boys who looked like they were from a fraternity row.
They were just passing the festival booths, which were closing for the day, when they heard an urgent voice behind them.
“New Generation! New Generation, is that you?”
People continued to stream around them as they stopped and turned toward the voice. They saw a small, curly-haired man bouncing up and down in the crowd behind them. When he fina
lly caught up to them, he said, “Are you New Generation?”
“Sure are,” Curlee answered, with a cockiness Cassandra knew she never could have mustered.
“I’m Bo Pickering. I work for Castle Moat records.”
“Sorry,” Curlee said. “Never heard of Castle Moat.”
The man was unphased. “That’s okay, I’d never heard of New Generation until an hour ago, and now I want to sign you to a contract.”
It was too easy, and Curlee was unimpressed. “Gonna make us rich and famous, I suppose? Be the next Peter, Paul, and Mary, or Mamas and the Papas.”
“It’s possible, I guess,” Bo said cheerfully. “Not likely, I know, but possible. What I’m authorized to offer you is a contract that will pay you $500 and give you a full day in our recording studio to record that last song you played today. I have good ears, and something tells me that’s a hit single.”
“And what if it is? That’s what we get? $500?”
“No, of course not. There’s language in the contract that says that we’ll split any royalties on the song with you over $500. If the song never earns out, then we can part friends. Even if it does become a hit and make a bunch of money, you can go sign with someone else. This is a one-off contract. It’s all I was authorized to offer today.”
“Hang on just a minute, will you?”
Curlee pulled Cassandra and Billie into a consultation a few steps away from the label rep. They put their heads together and whispered for a minute, then two.
They broke their huddle and walked back to Bo. Curlee stuck his hand out.
“Tentatively, you’ve got a deal. I’ll want to review the contract, of course.”
“Of course,” Bo said, shaking Curlee’s hand. Our offices are in San Francisco.” He reached in his hip pocket and pulled out a business card. He scribbled something on the back and handed it to Curlee.
“Why don’t you come see me about noon on Tuesday. I think Monday will probably be a recovery day for me after all this.”
“I’ll be there.”
Curlee slipped an arm around Cassandra and another around Billie. They walked the rest of the way to the buses six inches off the ground, or so it seemed.
They had timed their ride down much better than their ride up. There were no Hells Angels around, and as exciting as the ride up was, Cassandra was glad. Darkness was falling and she couldn’t imagine what it would be like reversing their morning ride in the dark.
Instead, they caught a ride on a bus full of still-stoned, happy festival-goers.
By the time they got dropped off and walked to where they had parked, it was full dark and there was another mini-traffic jam getting out of there. It was midnight by the time they arrived home.
The three friends were exhausted beyond words, but as they sat around the couch in a daze, Curlee held the business card he had gotten from Bo like a totem.
They had left that morning, barely even a band.
They had arrived home with an almost-contract in their hands.
They all got stoned to celebrate.
Chapter Forty-Three
While they were sitting around buzzed the night before, they had been so thrilled with how their day had gone that they had decided to wake up before sunup the next day and head back up for the day’s music and festivities. Maybe even be able to fill in if the second stage situation was as chaotic as it had been the day before.
They had tasted the elixir of performing in front of a friendly audience, and they wanted more. Both Cassandra and Billie agreed to set their alarms for 5:00 a.m. and haul the other out of bed if they weren’t up yet.
The first one out of bed the next morning was Billie. Saying it was morning was accurate, but slightly misleading. She wandered out of her room a little before noon.
The best laid plans, and all that.
Instead of going back up the mountain to see Jefferson Airplane and The Byrds play that day, they sat around the apartment, noodling on their guitars and trying to write new songs. They believed that Not for Marching would be their ticket to a full-fledged recording career, and they knew they would need more original music to record a full album.
They wasted the day doing that, then decided to simply get wasted again. Somehow, Curlee had obtained a packet of what he had been told was peyote. None of them had ever tried it before, but they had heard both good and bad things. Some people said it was the most amazing trip they’d ever been on. Others said it made them throw up.
Curlee volunteered to go first. If he didn’t have a negative reaction to it after an hour, Cassandra and Billie would join him.
Curlee did fine that first hour, aside from swearing, about forty-five minutes into the trip, that time had stopped and that he no longer had any need for such contrivances.
That was enough for the two women, who couldn’t swallow the peyote fast enough.
They stayed awake the rest of the night, mumbling about how intense and real the world was, and how they had never perceived things this way before.
They had intended to write music while they tripped on the peyote, but once their minds and horizons were expanded, they never thought about anything as mundane as writing a song. Their mind was the melody. The texture of the couch they sat on was all the words they needed.
Finally, an hour after they had witnessed the first rays of sunshine bless The Haight, they all crashed again.
They likely would have done the same thing again on Monday night, but they had used every bit of peyote Curlee had brought back from the festival.
Instead, they found the record label rep’s business card and refocused on the business at hand.
Cassandra loaned Curlee her Mustang for the trip to the label office. They all agreed it would make a more favorable impression.
In the end, the meeting was anticlimactic. Bo Pickering met Curlee in a small office, handed him the contract and told him to take as much time as he wanted to review it, but that it was their standard contract and their lawyers would not approve any changes.
Curlee squinted at the small print, the “party of the first part” and the “wherefores” and “party of the second part,” and realized he understood almost none of it. He also understood that he badly wanted to go into a recording studio and that the only way to do so was to sign the contract.
After staring uncomprehendingly for several minutes, he pushed it back to Bo and said, “Looks good.”
“Press hard, you’re making three copies,” Bo said as he handed Curlee a pen.
Once Curlee signed, Bo took him to lunch at the Korean barbecue joint right next door. It had all the romance of losing your virginity in the cab of a pickup truck.
Curlee was out the door and on his way home, an onion skin copy of the contract beside him on the seat of the Mustang, by 1:30 p.m.
THE NEW GENERATION recorded Not for Marching, backed with their cover of We Shall Not be Moved at Golden State Recorders a week later. It was a professional studio that had recorded a number of hit songs, including Laugh, Laugh, by the Beau Brummels. Right after New Generation recorded there, Sly Stone recorded his first songs there.
Neither Cassandra, Billie, nor Curlee had ever been in a recording studio before. They were smart enough to do what they were told by the engineers. They stood where they were told to stand and played the songs over and over, as directed.
After just a few hours, they were able to go into the studio and listen to a rough master of their songs. The studio had provided a session drummer and bass player and the addition of percussion and a bass player who was in the pocket made a world of difference. What had once been a nice song suddenly sounded like a song that could be played on the radio.
They were told that the final mix would happen over the next week, then copies would go out to record stores and radio stations the week after that. It would be a modest pressing at first, but when that went well, they would order a more aggressive run.
Bo Pickering and Castle Moat records were as good as
their word. They put together a fine mix, pressed a few hundred 45s, and spread them to radio stations all over California, Washington, and Oregon.
Scott Patrick, the Music Director for KMFR, even added it to a light rotation for a week. In a small way, Cassandra had returned home, although no one there was aware of it.
Like KMFR, a few dozen other stations tested the song by putting it in light airplay.
One of the happiest moments of Cassandra’s life was when she was in Jack’s Record Cellar in The Haight, flipping through boxes of records. Typically, Jack’s played one album after another, but on that day, they had an underground radio station on instead.
Cassandra found herself singing along to Not for Marching for almost thirty seconds before she realized she was singing to her own voice.
She jumped in shock and excitement, then ran from one corner of the store to the other, looking for Billie. She found her nosing through a stack of obscure folk records and said, “Listen!”
The two of them jumped and hugged, then settled down and blissfully sang along with the last ninety seconds of the song. They closed their eyes as they sang the last words of the chorus, then peeped out to see if anyone had recognized them as singing their own song.
No one had noticed them at all.
Chapter Forty-Four
That moment—standing in a used record store, listening to a 100-watt AM radio station play her song—was to be the highlight of Cassandra Collins’ music career.
The stations that added Not for Marching found that it didn’t get much of a response. Even after playing it for a week, no requests piled up. Station researched revealed that the song was not that memorable to the average listener. Perhaps the era of the folkie protest song was starting to wane. Perhaps it was just not in the cards for Cassandra, Billie, and Curlee to have a career in the music business.