Preface: This began as a foreword for a small collection of pictures and articles I am assembling for a book I plan to self-publish. As the memories piled on, the words accumulated into a short memoir and loose chronology of what happened in my life and on paper between 1967 and 1979. All of my No Depression offerings are referenced throughout this brief biography.
Stoney Burns, editor of Buddy Magazine (Dallas, Texas) was kind enough to let me use the magazine’s name to negotiate some in-person time with Leonard Cohen, John Prine, Boz Scaggs, and other notable musicians. The following collection of journals is, in part, the result of my brief association with that free-of-charge magazine in the mid-1970s. Regretfully, my time with Boz did not yield an article, but our lunch conversation and that evening’s showcase performance of Slow Dancer at the Roxy on Sunset Strip, did make for a memorable day.
The Boz article was interrupted by employment demands from my boss, Ken Mansfield. He was producing Waylon Jennings’ first West Coast recordings and I was his assistant/go-fer. How I got from Jacksonville, Fla., and graduation from high school with Gram Parsons, to Hollywood and Nashville, is briefly described in my NoDepression.com article on Gram. My jobs and the words for which I was sometimes paid, allowed me to write about a few famous musicians. Every handshake along the way was a small reward for my love of each artist’s music.
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My first memorable encounter occurred at Jacksonville’s Imeson Airport in 1967. I was there delivering my father to a flight to somewhere unimportant, when across the small lobby I spotted Otis Redding with a small entourage. Without a word, I left my father’s side and went over to offer my hand to the amazing Big O who rewarded me with a firm handshake and sincere thanks for being a fan. When I returned to my father who had no idea why I seemed to be acquainted with that handsome black man, he asked, “Who is that?”
I remember Otis was wearing what appeared to be a cashmere overcoat. It must have been cold weather. I believe it was early in the year. He died on December 10, that same year, in the crash of his personal Beechcraft plane, en route to a show in Madison, Wis.
On June 3rd of 1967, I promoted a dance at the Jacksonville Beach Auditorium. The event’s top billing was the Gentrys, starring Larry Raspberry. Their hit single was titled “Keep On Dancing.” Opening the show was The Illusions, a local band I was managing at the time. They were signed by CBS Records and their release “I Know” didn’t find enough charts to sustain the company’s interest. Illusions drummer, Tim Touchton, joined Plymouth Rock out of Tallahassee two years later and I was invited to book, promote, and otherwise manage that five-man band.
With the assistance of a rich cousin, I was able to see Plymouth Rock signed to a contract with Epic Records. Their first album didn’t impress the suits and the band never got a release. They did, however, land a tour with Bobbie “Ode to Billy Joe” Gentry. “Miss Bobbie,” as were allowed to address her, quickly claimed our nineteen-year-old lead singer as her lover and then fired the band whilst we were lounging poolside in Reno, Nevada..
The terminating of Plymouth Rock was a blessing in disguise for me. I was released from the limbo of the road and free to phone John Guess at Hollywood Sound Recorders. He had been with us in Atlanta as engineer for Plymouth Rock’s first and only album. That’s when he invited me to phone him if ever I wanted to work as an apprentice engineer. I had never aspired to become a sound man, but being unemployed in Reno could conjure up only so many career moves.
John was as good as his word and within forty-eight hours I was on Selma Avenue in Hollywood, California, meeting my new employer, Jesse Hodges, co-owner of Hollywood Sound. Next door to the more famous Wally Heider Studios, his little facility offered Studio B with its basic eight-track capability and a plusher Studio A with a more up-to-date sixteen-track setup. Hollywood Sound was the beginning of many memorable handshakes for me, and a direct link to almost nine years of work in the music business.
Many recording artists, yesterday’s stars and younger hopefuls, appreciated the rates, the atmosphere, and the audio quality at Hollywood Sound. Independent producers and labels, and there were many, lined up to cut deals with slick Jesse Hodges. The session players who frequented the place were going to become stars in their own right. Larry Muhoberac was the keyboard/arranger genius. Tom Scott was the chosen sax man and Larry Carlton provided licks on guitar that few could equal. Kim Carnes, years before “Bette Davis Eyes,” was always around to provide her unique “Rod Stewart” raspy backing vocals. Ronnie Tutt, when he wasn’t drumming for Elvis, was a frequent session man. They were mostly unassuming, fun-to-be-around folks, and were some of the best musicians in America. Some became pals. Others were just too famous and in demand to have much time for an apprentice engineer. All valued my developing skills, setting up microphones and other equipment which made them sound fantastic; and running to restaurants and markets for food and beverages. According to which producer and artist were recording, the sessions would be sober, drunk or stoned, or a mix of each condition. Top session players were paid big bucks for three-hour bookings. They rarely over-indulged in alcohol or other drugs.
There were sad exceptions. Drummer Dallas Taylor comes to mind. He was a great session player whose rhythm seemed to define the rock beat of the seventies. He worked with Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, Van Morrison, and Crosby Stills & Nash, but drug addiction gradually ended his brief and illustrious studio career.
The man who kept Hollywood Sound profitable was producer Jimmy Bowen, originally from Dumas, Texas. Even though his career was launched while playing bass for rockabilly star Buddy Knox, Bowen preferred the role of record producer and exec; and he mastered that role. (Read his autobiography, Rough Cut.) Before his retirement from the industry, he was president of half a dozen labels and produced hits for Glen Campbell, Reba McEntire, George Strait, Hank Williams, Jr. and others. When I first met Bowen, he arrived at Hollywood Sound in a motor home equipped with a well-stocked wet bar. At the time, he was president of Amos Records, his own label. He was loud and likable and often drunk. By 1971, he was already refining his own approach to recording. His marriage to singer Keely Smith, from 1965 to 1969, introduced him to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra who both liked his laid-back, Southern style of producing and allowed him to work on a few of their recordings. My closer association with Bowen was a few years away and it was his love of Jack Daniels that brought us together.
Before my brief employment with Bowen, there would be the amazing parade of stars who found their way to Hollywood Sound. Three Dog Night came to record some demos and Chuck Negron entertained me in the reception area with his stories of life on the road. The band once found themselves on a plane with Colonel Sanders. Chuck asked the fried chicken magnate, “Colonel, do you like hippies?” and the diplomatic response was, “They eat chicken, don’t they?”
Anne Murray booked some demo time and brought her road band, a scruffy group of Canadians who invited me to join them in Studio B for a “toot.” Mostly unfamiliar with cocaine, but ready for a “toot”torial, I watched one of the guys remove a small bag of white powder from one of his boots. After my initiation, I alertly inquired, “What do you guys call your band?” One of them matter-of-factly answered, “Dick.” Little miss squeaky clean Anne Murray’s band was Dick. I’m sure they did not receive billing on the marquees: “Now Appearing! Anne Murray and Dick.”
One of the most popular television shows of the fifties and sixties was The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriett, a tapioca bland sitcom we baby boomers loved. The show launched the singing career of their younger son, Ricky “Garden Party” Nelson, and to my surprise, even produced albums by Ozzie and Harriet. Somehow someone decided to record a song with O & H singing in 1971 and it came to pass at Hollywood Sound. I’m not sure if Ricky stopped by, but it was kind of funny how giddy everyone was with the TV legends in house and their contemplating a musical comeback.
I do remember Ricky Nelson’s matinee idol counterpart, Fabian, spending a day or two with us and wondering if he might reignite some of the magic that surrounded his 1959 release “Tiger,” which made it to #3 on the pop charts. Fabian Forte was a congenial guy, originally from Philly, and not at all hung up on the success of his eleven songs on the Billboard Hot 100 listing. He was twenty-eight years old when I met him and already a star from the past.
A wee Scottish superstar known by his first name, Donovan, was in to record some tracks that were associated with his ’71 release, H.M.S. Donovan – not one of his more memorable albums. For fans around the world, he was Dylan’s counterpart from across the pond. His Top 10 hits included “Sunshine Superman,” “Mellow Yellow,” and “The Hurdy Gurdy Man.” I was eager to share with him my memories of touring Scotland by motorcycle in ’68, and he was graciously indulgent.
My uncomfortable evening with America’s iconic crooner, Andy Williams, was most unexpected. His estranged wife, Claudine Longet, was in Studio A recording an album with producer Ken Mansfield who was also president of Andy’s label, Barnaby Records. She asked Andy to stay away from the sessions because his presence made her nervous. The twenty-nine-year old Parisian beauty had trouble carrying a tune. She didn’t want Mr. Perfect Pitch staring at her through the glass. So there I was in our cramped reception area, keeping Andy Williams company. He fretted for the longest time over what he might be able to do to make Claudine appreciate his support. “Should I send out for a steak?” he asked me.
During Claudine’s weeks at the studio, she received many visitors and even more impressive to me than husband was astronaut John Glenn. I’m sure he was introduced through one of Andy’s acquaintances. He was already fifty, but it had only been nine years since he became the first American to orbit the earth in a “tin can.” He didn’t stay longer than three orbits with us, but I noticed how interested he was in the rather expansive control board with its dozens of knobs and potentiometers (volume controllers.) Before he left, he pointed at the board and remarked, “That thing looks like it could launch something.” Everyone loved that from the space man, and bid him happy vapor trails.
Later, when we were coiling cords, putting away mikes, and smoking a final joint, engineer Eddie Abner got the giggles over Glenn’s observation about a relatively simple recording device. Eddie wondered aloud how much the astronaut actually knew about the machines that launched him into space for three orbits around the planet. “He’s just another monkey like the ones they launched before him,” Eddie howled. As much as we admired the guy, we lowly stoners laughed hysterically at his comment. And there I was, taking out the studio’s garbage to a dumpster behind the famous jazz club, Shelly’s Manne Hole, and the infamous drag bar, The Sewers of Paris. Stopping sometimes to listen to the fine jazz sounds through the open back door at Shelly’s, I would turn to hear the falsettos coming from the “girls” loitering outside the Sewers. One A.M. evening, from several queens on the curb, I was hailed, “Hey fella, come on over. We want you to choose one of us as the Queen of Hollywood.”
Ken Mansfield’s sessions were mellow and inspired inside a cloud of cannabis smoke−sharp contrast with Jimmy Bowen’s louder alcohol-laced events. I enjoyed being around both men and running to get session pizzas at Two Guys From Italy, around the corner, on Cahuenga. It was no wonder that six-foot-four “Big Bill,” was pushing 260 pounds.
One of my favorite Mansfield/Barnaby productions brought the Hager twins, Jim and John, of TV’s Hee Haw, to the studio. They were thirty years old and two of the nicest show business people I met along the way. In spite of the TV show’s squeaky-clean, approved-by-Nixon image, there was plenty of the illegal hemp smoked during their weeks working on the “Ain’t No Sunshine” LP. Late one evening, Lulu Roman, their friend and fellow cast member from the show, came roaring into the studio in all of her full-figured, overalls-filled glory. She sniffed the air and shouted, “Ok, pass the shit.” Prior to meeting the Hagers, I was no fan of Hee Haw, but the twins and Lulu got me watching occasionally and grinning about their lives off stage.
Actress Karen Black showed up one week, not long after she had won a Golden Globe and Academy nomination for Best Supporting Actress in Five Easy Pieces. I was a huge fan of that flik and had seen it several times. She was perfectly cast as Bobby’s, played by Jack Nicholson, girlfriend. Karen’s a capella singing lines in the movie and her pretty face caught the attention of a country music producer who stroked her ego enough to get her in a recording studio, and who knows where else. It was soon apparent to the producer that she was not going to be a singing star. While her producer tried to mix some magic into the tracks, she got bored and began chatting me up. She seemed high on something more than music and soon had me describing the upstairs echo chamber. There were electronics that could produce echo effects, but the purest echo was produced in a room/chamber with plaster walls, floor and ceiling. Microphones in the room captured the sound coming from the studio and sent it back with a brilliant echo added. Miss Black wanted me to show her the echo chamber and latched onto my arm for support. My knees got weak but I was able to slowly walk her up a steep flight of stairs, all the while wondering, “Is she coming on to me?” After looking into the plaster-covered room – nothing to see here, folks – the magic faded and I walked her back to Studio A. Karen and I: little more than a handshake.
Between sessions, and after, we studio crew would walk a block south on Cahuenga to Martoni’s, an Italian bar and restaurant frequented by all levels of music industry folk. The fare was too expensive for those of us who lived on diner food, but the drinks were affordable and bartender Sal was one of our favorite Hollywood characters. There was a brief period in ’72 when Phil Spector frequented Martoni’s. At thirty-two years of age, he was already a producing legend in the business and was recently credited as producer of the Beatles’ Let It Be album. From that point forward , he was John Lennon’s chosen producer. Like many who experienced riches, fame and power at an early age, Phil had developed a drinking and drugging problem. He would get sloshed and shout whatever was on his mind to anyone who would listen. Of course, I would listen to a drunken Phil Spector. One evening, in the middle of a harangue within inches of my right ear, he said to me, “Big guy, I need a bodyguard. Will you be my bodyguard?” I answered, “Sure Phil. When do I start?’ A few tiring moments later, one of the most important men in the music business, Clive Davis, entered through the front door. He stopped to look for whoever he was meeting and was quickly confronted by drunken Phil. I was so impressed with Davis in his coat and tie, seemingly unfazed by Spector spewing in his face “I’ve got John Lennon! I’ve got John Lennon!”
[In May of 2009, Phil Spector was convicted of second degree murder and sentenced to nineteen years in prison. Clive Davis is arguably today the most respected man in the music business.]
Even with raving drunks around many corners, Hollywood Boulevard in 1971 was peaceful and full of life, a perfect blend of street people and tourists, restaurants and movie theaters. The Hollywood Walk of Fame, with its hundreds of terrazzo and brass stars imbedded in the sidewalk on both sides of the street was a shrine to the greatest entertainers of roughly the past century. On the west end of the Walk was Grauman’s Chinese Theater where cinema royalty knelt to imprint hands and shoes in wet cement. Fifteen blocks to the east, at Hollywood and Vine, the Pantages Theater marked the other end of Tinseltown’s main drag. To the north, there were glimpses of the hills that separated us from the valley people; and high above us was the fabled sign, nine separate letters mounted into a hillside, reminding us we were in “HOLLYWOOD.”
It felt good and as much as I enjoyed my humble existence at Hollywood Sound, the thought of a career as a recording engineer was a jacket one size too small. Working with pressurized and often temperamental producers, audio engineers truly earned whatever they were paid. My first love was movies and I believed that many of the stories and characters rolling around in my head were screen worthy.
My cousin Jack, the same Conrad who helped me and Plymouth Rock escape Tallahassee, Florida, was a 1967 graduate with George Lucas from the University of Southern California’s film school. While George was trying to secure funding for American Graffiti, Jack was hoping to direct his own first feature with money from a fat cat in Virginia’s booming construction industry. The typically circuitous route that movie funding takes began with a commercial film producer back in Tallahassee who knew that Jack’s friend and fellow USC grad, Alan Gadney, already had a film of sorts in the can, needing some finishing and distribution cash.
Gadney’s film, Moonchild, was a bizarre combination of drama, horror and sci-fi with roles for three of cinema’s character greats: John Carradine, Victor Buono, and William Challee. All three were well past retirement age, but still happy to smile or grimace on cue for the “Kodak.” Where the writer-director managed to get funding for this ill-fated B-flick, I have no idea. The aforementioned Fat Cat from Virginia was easily convinced that another ten thousand or so would produce some footage that would enable the movie to make sense to viewers, and bring a handsome profit for its investors.
The salvage shoot was scheduled. I was hired to appear as a hooded monk who chases the hapless hero through dark underground passages−not exactly a break-through role. At the time, I was entertaining the possibility of becoming a famous character actor. Toward the end of my brief employment at Hollywood Sound, I had enrolled for part-time classes at the Lee Strasberg Theater Institute on Hollywood Boulevard. The instructors were Strasberg trained and a real kick to be around. Method acting in America was Strasberg’s distillation of the Stanislavski method created in Moscow during the turn of the 19th century. The amazing Mr. Strasberg actually appeared at the end of our term. In addition to his acting genius, he was an accomplished hypnotist and had us quite amused while he conjured silly responses from one of our hypnotized fellow students.
Back to Moonchild. The finished film was shipped in late spring of ‘72 to Norfolk for a grand premiere at the brand new Chrysler Hall with its 2500 seats. If ever the emperor needed clothing, it was at this event. Several hundred “special guests,” including character actor Slim Pickens who had no idea why he was there, were fed large amounts of food and drink before being herded into the venue where two thousand unfed guests were waiting. When the movie mercifully ended, there was a hint of polite applause drowned out by the groans of folks headed for the aisles. And that is how Jack Conrad, not Alan Gadney, was chosen to direct the fat cat’s first feature.
Back in Hollywood, we tried to erase the memory of Moonchild’s premiere, and witnessed the hatching of a low-budget plan to shoot a movie in Atlanta. Fat Cat was only grazed by the shot that cost him chump change on his first venture into movie producing. He was still willing to let a pal named John Mansfield keep watch over a production that would showcase several beauties from Mansfield’s model and talent agency. But first, we needed a story and a script. That’s where I fit in. Cousin Jack was set to direct and co-write. Atlanta was our set and we were promised full access to the city.
Story and script were also where Slim Pickens fit in. We decided to assemble a comedy mystery caper where someone has it in for the owner of a model and talent agency and is murdering his most beautiful girls, one by one−seemed easy enough. I set about writing scenes and developing zany characters. Slim was cast as agency owner, Harmon Tryon. “Some folks’ll tell you there’s no harm in trying. Well, I’m here to tell ya there is.” My favorite scene, toward the end of the story, staged a midget stampede in Underground Atlanta. Cousin Jack and I actually met with midget representatives from Little People of America, and yes, they prefer to be called little people.
All the pieces seemed to be falling into place. The script was almost ready after four or five weeks. The key crew members were flown in from L.A. I was already completely infatuated with two of John’s models. Life was good. And then the fat cat got cold feet, claimed he had suffered some sort of financial set-back. What the hell? What now?
Cousin Jack phoned his mother, my Aunt Jessie, in Tallahassee. She quickly assessed his predicament, then mentioned an amusing article she had clipped from the Tallahassee Democrat. A young man in his twenties decided to rob the bank of Havana, Florida. The bank manger convinced him that only a few hundred dollars was in the bank. When the rookie felon read in the next day’s paper that the banker was laughing about thousands that were actually on hand, he went back and got the rest of the cash. Aunt Jessie said the story would make a good movie and she was willing to help raise the funds. “Bring your crew to Tallahassee. We will make a movie here.” My aunt had raised sheep for over thirty years before she became an executive film producer—versatile Southern lady.
The resulting film was titled Country Blue and it starred my cousin Jack, opposite one of the girls from Mansfield’s agency, and Dub Taylor, an American treasure in cinema’s character actor ranks. Dub came to us not long after brilliant performances in Bonnie and Clyde and The Wild Bunch. I was clever enough to write a small part for myself as Dub’s son.
During filming, everyone was captivated by sixty-four year old Dub’s persona. He entertained cast and crew and the general public. Many of the old-timers on the streets remembered his enduring role as Cannonball, sidekick to numerous cowboy stars in a hundred westerns from the forties. When he wasn’t needed on location, I was happy to parade him around Tallahassee.
My job during production was assistant director, but that didn’t last long because my cousin and I fell out when I gave his leading lady some free advice. In the script, my lead characters robbed a small grocery store and came running out to their getaway car. During filming, the actress had a grin on her face and when acting Jack Conrad yelled, “Cut!” I went over to her and suggested her character, the one I created on paper, would not have been smiling. Leading lady went straight to her co-star/director, my cousin, and complained about me giving her direction. When Jack scolded me privately, I told him I would rather not be A.D. It was decided that I could finish the film as Dub’s “sidekick” assistant−a big promotion. Me and Cannonball never left each other’s side until I put him on a plane at the Tallahassee Regional Airport.
Country Blue was made for just under one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. When my cousin who was a good editor had trouble cutting his pretty face out of the two-hour plus rough cut, a seasoned Hollywood editor, Tom Rolf, was hired and negotiated Jack down to a somewhat tedious hour and fifty-three minutes. The investors, and there were many with $5000 limited partnership shares, agreed to purchase a patron’s position at the Atlanta Film Festival for $10,000. The movie screened at Atlanta’s famous Fox Theater and received a tepid response with a few hippies hooting derisively. Nevertheless, it caught the attention of B-flick mogul, Roger Corman, who offered Millstone Productions one million dollars for outright purchase of the negative.
That would have been a tidy profit of more than eight hundred thousand dollars on a two-year venture. “Would have,” but some with no money at risk managed to convince the investors that a better distribution deal could be found. Long story short, Country Blue was picked up a year later by a distribution company headed by Arthur Marks who promised big bucks but delivered none. The film played several hundred drive-in theaters during the winter of ’74. Marks and his partner split the receipts, then parted company. The negative and multiple prints disappeared. Millstone’s scorned investors down south chose to cut their losses and made no effort to recover their movie.
Remember Jimmy Bowen, record producer at Hollywood Sound, and a man who loved hard liquor? He was awarded one too many DUIs and had his license suspended about the same time Country Blue vanished from the drive-in circuit. An old pal, the secretary/receptionist at Hollywood Sound told me Bowen was the newly appointed president of MGM Records, and was looking for a driver. Within twenty-four hours, I was behind the wheel of a Mercedes Benz 300 short limo. President Jimmy was sitting beside me, playing one audio cassette after another. Before we sealed my chauffer deal, he asked me to sit with two of his closest friends at Two Guys From Italy. Don “Dirt” Lanier and Duane Eddy were waiting for me with pizza and beer. They had been instructed to give it to me straight, what a difficult person Jimmy could be, especially when drunk. I was told that there would be times when, no matter how much he resisted my demands, he would have to acquiesce and follow me out of the bar. Sitting there somewhat starstruck in Duane Eddy’s company required me to tell him that his album, Have Twangy Guitar Will Travel, was the first record I had ever purchased. He was only nine years older than me when I bought his album in 1959.
Driving Jimmy Bowen required living with him and his pregnant wife, Dixie. He was leasing eight acres and a house in Thousand Oaks, a former ranchero in the San Fernando Valley. Our freeway commute to Hollywood was a half-hour drive, depending on the time of day. Jimmy rode up front with me, playing cassettes nonstop and always welcoming my opinion. He treated me like a colleague and that was unexpected, considering his standing in the industry.
MGM was a label in trouble and the Germans (PolyGram) who had recently purchased it were hoping that Jimmy Bowen, a Hollywood maverick from Dumas, Texas, could salvage the label. Unfortunately, even Bowen couldn’t resurrect the looted and plundered MGM Records. Its previous president, Mike Curb, had used it to launch the Mormon monolith, the Osmond family, particularly, Donnie and Marie. Curb showed the Osmonds a mountain of money they could share with him by leaving MGM and becoming the superstars on his planned label, Curb Records.
The first thing President Bowen did was have a massive sound system installed in his office. The two speakers that faced him from twenty feet away were each the size of Volkswagens and packed glass-shattering power. Bowen liked to shout over high volume playback, even when he was on the phone. He stayed fueled with American whiskey and was turbocharged by the music. One of his favorite things to do after midnight in Hollywood was to phone his worker bees in Eastern Standard time while they were sleeping or partying late. He had them on speaker phone, music blaring, for the amusement of his fellow Hollywood nocturnals. The guys back east were surfacing from deep sleep, trying to comprehend what was happening, while their boss demanded sales and chart data. It was Bowen’s boot camp.
I couldn’t keep up with the boss’s insane pace, nor did I want to. Too often, I was summoned from MGM on Sunset Boulevard to the ranch in Thousand Oaks where pregnant Dixie wanted to be chauffeured on shopping or doctor trips. She was miserable, most of the time, heavy with baby and light on a husband’s love. Thankfully, she sat in the back seat because she drove me nuts with her driving instructions: “Always signal when changing lanes!”
Jim Stafford, an MGM leftover with a hit titled, “Spiders and Snakes,” was booked to perform at an amusement park, Knott’s Berry Farm. My assignment was to pick up a junior label exec named Bob Alou, and deliver him to the fun park. Alou was not a former disc jockey with a stage name. He really was Bob Alou and fit the description of someone who would have that name: short (maybe five-six,) bald on top, and dressed in pressed blue jeans with creases, and a sport jacket over a white tee shirt.
Alou hopped in Bowen’s black limo, up front beside me, and lit a joint. He made the mistake of handing it to me because I knew how to deliver him to Knott’s, until I smoked his hemp. By the time we arrived at the outdoor event, Stafford was thanking his audience and leaving the stage. Bowen was somewhat miffed and curious to know why we were so late. My new best friend, Alou, winked at me and blamed freeway traffic.
Next afternoon, when I returned Alou to the airport, he asked if I wanted to move to Nashville and write publicity for MGM’s country roster. Hell yes. I wanted out of Bowen’s limo and into his record business. Alou said he would phone the chief and he did. When I asked Bowen if he was amenable to Alou’s plan, he gave me the nod and wished me well. Before I left L.A., which was always my favorite place to leave, Bowen and I ran into Glen Campbell outside a recording studio. The two had migrated to Hollywood from Texas and Arkansas respectively, in the early sixties and were friends. When Bowen introduced me and I was shaking Campbell’s hand, the six-foot star looked up at me and exclaimed, “Damn Bowen, I knew you were in trouble, but I didn’t know you needed a bodyguard!”
Before I packed and departed for Nashville and life down south, Bowen returned from a label conference in New York where he had been amused by his German employers. He recounted a welcome speech by top exec, Herr Kinkel, who greeted the new American counterparts with “Zee last time I saw America was through a periscope.”
Nashville in 1974 was still very sleepy and southern. Waitresses addressed you as “Sweety,” “Honey,” or “Sugar,” and assumed you wanted sweet iced tea. MGM’s country division was located in a house, a small two-story converted to offices on early Music Row. My initial assignment was to write a fifty-word press release for C.W. McCall whose first of two hits was “Old Home Fill’er Up and Keep On Truckin’ Café.” I could have settled in and worked industry publicity, but word from Alou was that Bowen and the Germans were already butting heads. Then, out of the blue I received a phone call from commercial film producer, Peter Barton, in Tallahassee.
Before County Blue, my cousin Jack had edited some short films for Barton, and I had provided production assistance. Barton was notoriously cheap and liked to hire aspiring young filmmakers who would work long hours and churn out quality film for subsistence wages. The clients were often working working on State of Florida film projects. Their business was easily procured with food and drink Barton served via attractive young coeds from Florida State University. The process, from contract to product delivery, was tried and true, and Peter Barton Productions worked it with finesse.
Barton’s telephone offer to me was a script-writing position for a thirty-minute travel film sponsored by the National Tour Brokers Association. The subject was coach/bus travel through New England in the fall. I wasn’t intrigued until he told me that legendary character actor, Chill Wills, had been hired to play the lovable old tour director. My pay as screenwriter was way better than the indefinite circumstances I faced in Nashville. Bob Alou was happy I had so quickly found a parachute. We knew we would meet again, somewhere on down the road.
The Association had a sweet arrangement with popular Tauck Tours and I was part of the deal. In order for the writer to fully appreciate coach tours, I was invited to see New England in full fall color change from a seat on a tour bus. My travelling companions were mostly silver toppers, but they came with two very special perks: the hotel and Judy Walden. Barton was allowed to send one of his cute little assistant directors on the tour. Judy and I were flown to New York City from our homes, Tallahassee and Nashville, respectively. We met for the first time in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria where a room upstairs was reserved−one room. When we opened the door, we found luxury with one double bed. We looked at each other and grinned. Judy and I became an item for the next two years.
Chill Wills, when I met him, was seventy-two years old and had appeared in more than three hundred films. In 1956, he received a supporting actor nomination for an Academy Award for his memorable supporting role in Giant. To say that I was teamed with him at the end of his career is obvious. He was tired and none too pleased to be working on a travelogue. His wife of forty-six years had died recently and he arrived with a new spouse, Novadeen Googe. She was close to twenty years younger than Chill and stuck to his side like an intensive care nurse. As usual, in my film work, the story off-camera was much more entertaining than the one wasting film footage. My little script had Chill’s character educating tour passengers along the scenic highways of New England in autumn. There would be stops at an antique shop and a roadside produce stand. I did not miss the opportunity to write myself into the storyline as I had done two summers earlier in Country Blue. Instead of Dub Taylor’s character playing my dad, Chill’s tour guide played my dad in the fruit and veg scene. In spite of his physical discomfort, Cousin Chill, as he was happy to be called, was a good old boy with whom I was proud to be associated. He died about four years later at age seventy-six.
When the film was in the can, Judy and I wasted no time packing and heading for bigger and better in Hollywood. We shared a small rental home with my cousin Jack’s ex-wife, a musician friend named Benny Jones, and his girlfriend, Mary. The place on Sycamore became a way station for all sorts of beatniks and hippies.
Judy had no trouble finding work in various and sundry film productions. For me, there just didn’t seem to be anything happening in film or music. A movie sound mixer named Richard Portman introduced me to Lee Tucker, a projectionist at Goldwyn Studios. Lee was so amused by my tale of running projectors at Tallahassee’s Leon Theater, he invited me to become a relief projectionist for Local 33. The industry was booming in ’73 and the union didn’t have enough members to cover the demand. An old guy named Buddy at Paramount Pictures trained me to run picture and soundtrack in sync, and within thirty days I was assigned every production the members didn’t want to work. For example daily footage from The Brady Bunch, Mannix, and The Magician became my unwanted TV shows. Assignments I loved were dailies for Chinatown and Day of the Locust. I didn’t get to shake Jack Nicholson’s hand, but after viewing some Chinatown footage one afternoon, he did stick his head in my projection booth and ask, “Is that it?” I wanted to respond, “That’s all, Jack.” but I was so surprised by his appearance that I was only able to nod in his direction.
Day of the Locust, with John Schlesinger directing, offered me a better shot at meeting one of my heroes. Midnight Cowboy was one of my all-time favorite movies, and Schlesinger’s work as a director qualified him as my cinema master. All of my Paramount assignments came over an intercom in each booth. I never once laid eyes on the woman who commanded that two-way system, and from the tone of her voice, I was probably better off without the face. “Conrad, you have Brady dailies, and then I need you in Booth 37 to run some footage for Mr.Schlesinger.” Jackpot!
It was a typically sunny day in L.A. when John Schlesinger and another man strolled up to me, standing outside a small screening room where they were scheduled to watch some old black-and-white War of 1812 battle scenes. I greeted the two men and was immediately offered the extended hand of my hero director. Attempting to control my awe, I told Schlesinger what a big fan I was, and with a gracious “Thank you,” he immediately asked if I knew his companion, Waldo Salt. There, was the great screenwriter, Waldo Salt, who survived McCarthy’s Hollywood blacklist after writing The Philadelphia Story, Taras Bulba, and The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight; the Waldo Salt whose screenplays for Coming Home and Midnight Cowboy won Academy awards. We shook hands.
There were two more “off campus” assignments that became unforgettable moments in time for me. Most of the old union guys didn’t work weekends and were not up for evening work at the homes of Beverly Hills stars and producers. There was good money to be made off the Paramount lot. Private projection rooms were easy pickings and paid one hundred dollars per visit. My first amazing Saturday involved Roman Polanski and a male companion of his at a small screening room somewhere in Hollywood. Roman’s Chinatown was in a rough-cut stage and we were gathered to offer his guest an early glimpse of what became Polanski’s greatest American film.
Before we began screening, the diminutive director asked me if I could provide coffee. There was a break area with a Mr. Coffee machine. Polanski had never seen that type of coffee maker. I poured one bag into the brew basket and he quickly added a second. We watched as the machine began its warming process, and we watched. After maybe half a minute and no coffee in the pot, he looked quizzically at me and I assured him there would soon be hot liquid. He extended his hand to the side of the machine and gently rubbed it. “Perhaps a little masturbation,” he mused. Roman Polanski got a good laugh out of me before we turned down the lights and lit up the screen with his masterpiece.
My second private screening of note took place on New Year’s Eve of ‘73 at the Beverly Hills mansion of playboy-producer, Robert Evans. Coincidentally, dapper Bob was producer of Polanski’s Chinatown. He was only forty-four when I met him and was arguably the most influential producer in Hollywood. His credits included Rosemary’s Baby, Love Story, and The Godfather. His screening room was a small theater built next to the pool behind the main house. When I arrived, he personally greeted me, introduced his butler, and offered me a drink. He asked me to not be alarmed by the security personnel who would be arriving ahead of his guest, Secretary of State, Henry Kissinger. And then Mr. Evans offered me a brief tutorial on opening and closing the red velvet curtains in front of his movie screen. It was important to him that the curtains were fully opened when the first projected image hit the screen. He informed me that I would be screening Woody Allen’s latest and soon-to-be-released film, Sleeper. To spare Mr. Kissinger a large gathering, Evans had invited only his own current girlfriend, his friends George and Alana-Stewart Hamilton, and to keep Henry company, Candice Bergen. What a bag of mixed nuts! Miss Bergen was an actress and political activist, only nine months older than me at the time, which had her twenty-three years younger than Kissinger. Two Secret Service guys entered my projection domain and stared at the two large machines for a moment. They decided I was not worthy of assassin status. The six guests arrived after their New Year’s feast in the big house. I dimmed the lights, rolled film on projector number one, and flipped the switch which opened the curtains. Happy New Year!
There’s something quite lonely about life in a projection booth. I was always half-assed trying to write a screenplay, but only managed short treatments. When I wasn’t screening film, I would figure out ways to get my writing in front of big-time movie people. There was one idea I wanted to run by Sam Peckinpah, director of Major Dundee, Straw Dogs, and The Wild Bunch. Sam had a reputation as an often arrogant drunk, but I figured that was part of what made his beautifully violent films so good. His offices were on the Sam Goldwyn lot and that was easy access for me. With a dark comedy treatment in hand, I boarded the elevator for the second of three floors and heard a gravelly voice call out, “Hold up.” The doors parted and allowed Kris Kristofferson to join me. Speechless again, I did manage “Hi.” Kris was just a year past starring in Peckinpah’s Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid which was a production disaster: $1.6 million over budget.
Kris and I walked into Sam’s office together. Kris was greeted fondly by the secretary and motioned toward the back. The secretary assumed I was there with him and would follow him, but I explained that I was there to drop off a treatment for Mr. Peckinpah’s consideration. Months later, I received a very personal rejection letter signed by Sam and thanking me for letting him read the treatment “…I am up to my ass in karate film,” he wrote. He was referring to The Killer Elite, which completed the decline in his health and career.
My own “career” wasn’t catching the breaks I imagined, so I set up yet another self-imposed hiatus from Hollywood and show business. Girlfriend/roommate, Judy, and I pointed my tiny Mazda pick-up south and headed for the Mexican border. From Tijuana, we covered close to three thousand miles before stopping in Veracruz, south of Texas on the Gulf side. It was an unlikely place to part company, but Judy had work back in Los Angeles and I didn’t. Our romance ended when she hopped a flight west and I motored north to Dallas.
There were pals in Big D who owned a popular bar, the Abbey Inn. Live country rock and cold beer kept me comfortable. The sojourn introduced me to Stoney Burns, editor of the local free press music magazine, Buddy. The modest weekly publication was named after Texas native, Buddy Holly and in its 8×11 cover contained forty pages of articles and info on the Dallas music scene.
I told Stoney I had music industry connections and could supply him with print-worthy articles. He paid about two cents a word and had nothing to lose by allowing me to call myself a Buddy Magazine reporter.
A friend who was eight years ahead of me had learned to fly planes in the Air Force. He was working third seat for American Airlines and was changing his base to Nashville. That meant I had a place to stay in Music City and a place to launch my “career” in journalism. The little red Mazda headed north by northwest to Nashvegas.
It was April of 1976. One of my favorite new singer-songwriters, John Prine, was booked to open a show for Bonnie Raitt, a blue-eyed white girl who could play slide guitar and sing the blues. The warm-up act was Tom Waits. “Hello, this is Bill Conrad, reporter for Buddy Magazine, Dallas, Texas.” Worked like a charm – John Prine was happy to answer a few questions.
Ben Fong-Torres from the Rolling Stone was on the tour, writing a Bonnie article, and there I was, trying not to look for all the world like a groupie. John was great, a real gentleman. At one point, after we had moved from his hotel room to rehearsal at the Opry House, he could see I wasn’t sure how to approach him, so he called me over to sit with him and chat. John probably never saw the printed interview/article. It morphed into a story about all three artists and made the March cover of Buddy: “Bonnie, John and Tom Visit Opryland, USA.”
No sooner than I had become a rock journalist did the phone ring and pulled me back to the City of the Angels. Dear Ramona at Hollywood Sound Recorders heard that Ken Mansfield was looking for an assistant. She knew that Ken and I were friendly from my time at the studio, five years earlier. He was riding high in the country music scene, having recently produced “I’m Not Lisa,” a number one chart hit for Jessi Colter (Mrs. Waylon Jennings.) Not only had the song topped the country charts, it also crossed over to top the pop rankings. Outlaw country star, Waylon Jennings, was so impressed with his wife’s success, he asked Ken to produce a Waylon album straight away, in a Hollywood studio. The break with Nashville productions was a slap in the face to RCA Records, Waylon’s longtime label.
As my employer, Ken became the benevolent dictator. He wanted me to divide my time between manual labor/gardening on his eight acres of Laurel Canyon hillside, and various errands that involved his publishing and producing work. I was in no mood for yard work, but he did provide me with a habitable shack; a two-room where I found an old metal Buffalo Springfield sign which I attached to the outside wall by the front entrance. Ken said the sign and and shack were origins of the Stephen Stills-Neil Young collaboration ten years earlier. If I had to plant flowers on a fifty degree slope, at least I was working on hallowed ground.
My gig was defined by subsistence wages and a few perks. In addition to my shack, I was often fed, and was invited to Waylon’s recording sessions where food, drink, and substance abuse were part of the regimen. There was even the odd celebrity gathering The party at Kinky Friedman’s place on Sunset Boulevard was a gathering of the stars like none I had experienced before or since. Bob Dylan snorting coke in the hallway by the elevator was a sight I stashed in my 29 year-old memory bank.
When Waylon finished his album “Are You Ready for the Country,” with Ken co-producing, then left Nashville and life on the road, I felt a major void in my life. There was no way that force field with all the characters revolving around him was going to leave me behind.
I knew I had to leave Ken to get hired by Waylon. It was a calculated risk that required almost half a year of notes and proposal addressed to Waylon and Richie Albright, drummer and right-hand best friend.
I never thought about becoming a publicist/PR person and Waylon already had two people — Hazel Smith and Roger “Captain Midnight” Schutt — handling those chores. I had a loftier dream and set about convincing Waylon via Richie that I was the clever lad who could help pen a biography of Waylon’s first forty years. Not surprisingly, I received no encouragement; however, I did not receive a no-thank-you. I left Ken on good terms after less than six months of employment. The Waylon album was a hit and the title song was a country chart topper. Fortunately for me, all that new money and fame set up a breakdown of old friendships. There was trouble in the Outlaw camp. A lawsuit brought by Waylon and Jessi against Tompall Glaser over publishing royalties closed a door to Ken Mansfield and opened one for me.
The circumstances are documented in a following article, “Sex, Drugs and Rockabilly.”
