SUNSET COWBOYS: KINKY FRIEDMAN & BOB DYLAN—A BURRITO FIESTA ON SUNSET STRIP
By Bill Conrad
Who rents an apartment nine floors above the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood, California, throws a house-warming fiesta that attracts stars of music and screen, then vacates the premises the next day? Answer: the self-described “first full-blooded Jew to take the stage at the Grand Ole Opry,” and the same man who ran for governor of Texas in 2006—Kinky Friedman.
It was a lovely 1976 spring weekend in southern California. I was working for Ken Mansfield, the record exec turned producer, who represented the Beatles stateside for Capitol Records just before they went their separate ways. Ken landed on his feet and went on to produce a crossover smash hit for Jessi “I’m Not Lisa” Colter. Miss Colter was also Mrs. Waylon Jennings and one fourth of the first platinum country gang known as The Outlaws.
Waylon was so impressed with Ken’s west coast magic touch he hired him to co-produce Are You Ready for the Country, the country star’s decisive break from Nashville’s studio system. Ken was feeling so important and financially flush, he hired me as his personal assistant/gofer. And that’s how I was allowed inside Kinky’s party.
Two hours before Bob Dylan and Dennis Hopper stumbled out of the elevator, Kinky’s suite in the art deco Sunset Tower was already loaded with A-listers, one Hell’s Angel, and assorted freaks and geeks. There was Ed Begley, Jr., the comedian-actor, fresh from the set of Stay Hungry, with Austrian body builder, Arnold Schwarzenegger; Randy Quaid, just in from filming the Guthrie film in Florida; Susan Anspach (Five Easy Pieces, Blume In Love,) still in character—preoccupied, aloof; and Art Garfunkel, the invisible singing actor, getting by without Simon.
A female Hollywood type was flitting about, claiming credit for wrangling all the famous faces. She said that for x-amount of cash she could arrange for any star to visit your party. But she didn’t deliver the freak called The Fox. He was evidently one of those perennial Hollyweird favorites who dropped by, spoke in rhyme, and mingled incessantly. In a nasal a capella, he stopped to sing the chorus from “I’m Not Lisa” for Ken Mansfield who did his best to look cool in the moment.
Complementing the Fox was my favorite freak du jour, a diminutive man-boy called Bongo. He was that “brainy” kid from the Disney films, the one with the Moe Howard haircut and the specs with lenses thick as Coke bottle bottoms. He was caught up in the Tex-Mex theme and kept asking, “Where’s Kinky? Where’s Way-loan?” And speaking of Coke, there was no shortage of the white powder that once gave the drink its energy-boosting appeal; and there was no inhibition about snorting the illegal drug in full view of anyone watching. I kept hearing Randy Newman singing “Mama Told Me Not To Come.”
Where was the host? No one seemed to know or care very much. His party crib was barely furnished, causing some guests to sit on the carpet with their backs against the walls. Others stood in customary social circles. In the tiny kitchen, I found two of the session players I had met during Waylon’s recent production. They welcomed me into a tight circle that included Hell’s Angel Peter Sheridan who was not wearing his colors, but was no less intimidating. He was Willie Nelson’s part time “chauffeur” and he looked like a Nordic blond Paul Bunyan. When he laughed, you laughed.
Just as the Lone Star beer special promotions manager explained why he was unable to deliver the Texas brew Kinky had ordered, a delivery boy arrived, pushing a dolly stacked high with Coors. He was asking for Mr. Friedman, but didn’t care who paid him for his goods. No one knew where the host was and no one wanted to spring for the Colorado suds, so the unlucky lad just doing his job shrugged and departed with his six cases.
One food selection the Kinkster had definitely delivered was an assortment of the best gah-damn burritos this side of Boy’s Town. Those bad boys were the size of human forearms and a pile of them covered a dining room table. In the mix were mountains of nachips, guacamole supremo and three degrees of salsa. That Kinky—what an hombre!
Around the burrito buffet were several musical notables, some wearing Stetson and Resistol cowboy hats. Doug Sahm, a Texas musical prodigy who first struck gold with the Sir Douglas Quintet and “She’s About A Mover” grinned as he wrapped both hands around a burrito and bit off a corner. John “Gentle On My Mind” Hartford was telling Freddy Fender’s producer, Huey Meaux, that clogging, a hillbilly version of tap dancing, was now part of his act.
More stars arrived: Elliott Gould, Jack Nicholson, and Joni Mitchell. I didn’t actually see all of them. I was getting star weary and decided to head home with my boss, Ken, and his Italian beauty, Mrs. Teri Mansfield. I did finally see Kinky who was radiant in a tailored, icy-blue sharkskin, Western-style suit, trimmed tastefully with multi-colored rhinestones. His self-described “bedroom eyes” were covered by large black plastic sunglasses with colorful palm trees at each corner, also accented with rhinestones. He was smoking a long, expensive cigar and his persona allowed him to name his band The Texas Jewboys and to sign his anthem, “They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore.”
When we opened the door to leave, there stood Bob Dylan in a mild stupor. He was wearing a silk head cover, turban style, and positioning his clenched fist for a dose of white powder which he poured generously from a small brown bottle. He was oblivious to our presence and was ignoring Dennis Hopper who was still by the elevator warning him, “C’mon, man. This isn’t cool, man.” Dylan snorted his pre-party adjustment and walked past us, into the fray. Hopper begrudgingly followed.
Rolling Stone later reported that Elliott Gould became miffed when a few of the boys began singing for him his ex-wife’s (Barbra’s) standard, “People.” That same reporter wrote that Gould called Dylan a “sawed-off Jew,” and was then eighty-sixed from the party.
Kinky never spent a night in the Sunset Tower apartment. He was a registered guest at the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica, and headed out across America with his new best friend, Robert Zimmerman-Dylan.
