Nothing's Bad Luck

by C. M. Kushins

  Greil Marcus of The Village Voice was moved to write more than a usual review of the album, instead running a meditative essay on Warren’s persona within the grander perspective of the contemporary music scene. By the end of his overtly cerebral ruminations on the meaning behind Warren’s use of gun imagery, horror themes, and an apparent bloodlust, one is left wondering if Marcus approves or not.

  “If Zevon opened his first Asylum album hanging himself with the same corny rope (in “Frank and Jesse James”), he cut himself down by the end (in “Desperados Under the Eaves”),” Marcus wrote. “Right below the surface—with Zevon, the surface is usually a joke—Zevon’s songs speak of a fascination with violence as a means to life, of a need to touch it, to come to terms with it.”

  Of the album’s seemingly cavalier regard toward violence and death, Marcus added, “You won’t get to the bottom of Excitable Boy simply by noting that its subject matter includes contract killing, the Congo civil war, revenge murder, psychos, the Mexican revolution, rape, the Symbionese Liberation Army, necrophilia, and mutilation, but you won’t completely miss the point, either. Excitable Boy could just as well have been titled Red Harvest.”

  Less conflicted was tried-and-true friend Paul Nelson, who followed up his 1976 declaration that “Warren Zevon is a serious artist” with his reaction to Excitable Boy’s release. “Warren Zevon’s Excitable Boy is the best American rock & roll album since Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run (1975), Neil Young’s Zuma (1976) and Jackson Browne’s The Pretender (1976),” he jubilantly declared in Rolling Stone. “If there’s not enough firepower in that statement, let’s cock the hammer on another. Thus far, the Seventies have introduced three major American rock & roll artists—Browne in 1972, Springsteen in 1973 and Zevon—and I have every confidence the music of all three will be even better in the future.”

  Like all critics who had taken note that Warren’s fixation with guns seems to reach far beyond the marketing motif that identified his trademarked persona, Nelson too relished in writing about a musical artist who seemed to have romantically swaggered out of a dime-store pulp novel. “Pictured on the inner sleeve of this album is Zevon’s .44-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver resting on a dinner plate filled with his wife’s cooking,” Nelson noted. “The photograph is titled ‘Willy on the Plate,’ and it tells the whole story. Warren Zevon wants it all—and, on Excitable Boy, that’s exactly what he gets.”

  In his own rumination on the Zevon mystique, Greil Marcus had found the gun’s overwhelming omnipresence to be a somewhat darker specter, recalling a brief, yet ominous exchange with the artist: “Or as Warren Zevon said to me when I asked him if the gun pictured on the inside sleeve of Excitable Boy was his: ‘Not that one.’”

  Warren’s developing “bad boy” persona was further etched in an extended profile in Rolling Stone, coinciding with both the release of

  Excitable Boy and the start of its tour. “To me, Excitable Boy sounds ferocious, all growling guitars and driving drums,” wrote Dave Marsh. “To Zevon, ‘it’s more wholesome than my last album. Because of the spirit of fun. Fun is my idea of art—fundamentally, I mean.’”

  Marsh, like all writers before him, couldn’t help but emphasize the duality that not only mystified Warren’s audience, but often, seemingly, himself. “I’d call him a visceral intellectual,” Marsh noted, “except that he reminded me earlier of [Raymond] Chandler’s advice: ‘Eddie, don’t get complicated. When he gets complicated, he gets unhappy. When he gets unhappy, his luck runs out.’

  “Zevon says life is much less complicated with notes, which may be why he’s running in luck lately,” Marsh added. “And to celebrate his 31st birthday, he bought a .44 Magnum. When he got home, he threw up. That excitable enough for you?”

  To promote Excitable Boy, the label had upped their stake in Warren, booking a string of larger venues than his previous promotional tour. With “Werewolves of London” quickly becoming a quirky radio staple and excellent critical word of mouth for the album itself, there were higher expectations for audience turnout.

  Even amid all the positive early buzz, Warren had yet to prove himself as a genuine draw, leading to some mandatory budget compromises along the way. More importantly, the tour would be missing one of his most constant advocates: Jackson Browne, who opted to skip participation. After a falling out that all but entirely severed their professional working relationship, Browne had finally washed his hands of Warren’s career moves. While their personal friendship would continue for years, the long string of drama and stress surrounding their two albums together had greatly strained the duo’s collaborative projects.

  With another production credit under his belt, Waddy Wachtel’s reputation had grown and his schedule had continued to tighten. To compensate for the pay cut that came with accompanying Warren on the Excitable Boy tour, he asked for first-class airfare and more creative input. He also brought along ace drummer Rick Marotta, a partner on his new Ronin album project. David Landau, Jon’s brother who had contributed to Browne’s The Pretender tour, was enlisted for additional guitar work and, fresh off a longstanding gig with Peter Frampton, renowned bassist Stan Sheldon came onboard to round out the band. Up-and-coming comic Richard Belzer was handpicked to be the opening act.

  It was a stellar lineup of seasoned professionals, but when it came to touring with Warren, no one knew what to expect.

  Like the tour before it, the Excitable Boy tour was slated to begin its string of nationwide appearances on the East Coast. After a few warm-up shows in upper New York, the true kickoff launched in New York City—at the Bottom Line.

  For four months, they crisscrossed the United States, hitting some of the most notable venues available: Traxx in New York, Washington, DC’s the Cellar Door, and once back in Los Angeles, the Universal Amphitheatre. At the end of the tour, Warren played his first gigs at Los Angeles’s famed Roxy, which would later host one of his greatest recorded live performances. Throughout the spring, Warren and the band hit everywhere in between, usually playing sold-out shows to packed houses: Boston, Chicago, Dallas, Detroit, Kansas, and San Francisco were all enthralled with his unique blend of personal pyrotechnics and literary wit. Canada was also on the list, as Warren brought his cerebral circus to Calgary, Montreal, Toronto, and Vancouver.

  Aside from an enthusiastic audience reception and a growing legion of fans, the success of “Werewolves of London” earned Warren professional recognition as an up-and-coming star. When he was booked to play the Academy of Music in Philadelphia during the first week of May, a congratulatory phone call from label head Joe Smith was waiting for him—along with a limousine outside. Warren and Crystal were shuffled to their swankier hotel across town, where caviar and flowers greeted them in their suite.

  For all his apprehension over howling, it had made him a star.

  The critics loved Warren Zevon the rock star, but they weren’t privy to the offstage antics that were slowly signaling the unraveling of Warren Zevon the man. As the tour rolled on, his demeanor had noticeably shifted, the ultimate product of recent stardom and too many substances. By the time he and the band returned home in late July, Warren’s addictions had become a ghastly spectator sport. Much to the dismay of his family and friends, Warren’s alcoholism had shown itself, in grand scale, during numerous instances along the tour. Too many times on the road, he’d had to be propped up on stage, too drunk to play through his own material; Crystal sometimes idled by during performances to feed him lyrics he had forgotten. There were instances when he had to be carried offstage, and—in one memorable case—hadn’t shown up at all.

  In comparing his condition to that of James Dean’s iconic fall-down drunk from Giant, Warren later took to calling this dark period “The Jett Rink Tour.”

  Much to the concern and annoyance of Wachtel and the full touring crew, Warren’s condition not only dictated irresponsibility as the star attraction: the fame, success, and alcohol were fueling the temper he often kept suppressed. At a key
performance in Washington, DC, road manager Jerry Cohen was abruptly fired on the spot for failing to notify Warren that fireworks would be accompanying that evening’s rendition of “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” Warren’s fit of rage frightened all those within earshot. Later, in San Francisco, he fell off his piano bench and, in Chicago, sprained both his ankles while gyrating around the stage during a performance of “Nighttime in the Switching Yard.” He had also trashed several hotel rooms along the tour, leaving Elektra/Asylum to handle the bill.

  Critics were taking notice of Warren’s changing performance style, and more so, his public persona. What eccentricities were previously deemed electrifying were now often regarded as out-of-control and manic. Whereas Warren’s first album for Elektra/Asylum had successfully earned him critical recognition years in the making, Excitable Boy seemed to signal a new, dangerous era. Warren sought to meet the expectations of his new fans, becoming the real-life “excitable boy” of his music. By only his second album, a growing number of listeners equated the artist himself with songs chock-full of mayhem, debauchery, wild living, and plenty of booze and late-night adventure. As the pressures of newfound fame and addictions allowed Warren to play along with the notorious rock-and-roll character for which he was now recognized, those fan expectations slowly became a reputation.

  In the past, Warren hadn’t been prone to such public displays of narcissism. Although he had finally achieved the recognition from critics and peers that had so long eluded him, he was slowly becoming another person, one that family and friends were often nervous to be around. When his estranged mother and grandmother attended one of his concerts, bringing with them young Jordan, Warren had been so inebriated he didn’t remember they were there. And with only one hit single to his credit, Warren was expected to toe the line if he wanted to remain on top. Aside from his well-being, those in Warren’s inner circle worried he was close to destroying the career he had worked so hard to build, tossing away opportunities not likely to be repeated.

  However, as far as Warren’s behavior seemed to push his loved ones away, none had turned their backs on him. On the contrary, Warren’s intelligence and charm continued to keep his friends and family coming back for more, regardless of what he dealt out to them. As had been the case during his rambunctious teen years, “The Offender” was able to talk his way back into the good graces of the offended.

  Although critics remained well aware of Warren’s behavior and habits, they often wrote it all off as little more than a mystique he had crafted for himself. Almost all his earliest reviews championed the literary romanticism with which he displayed his drinking, hard living, and machismo through both his music and his personal life.

  The one critic who saw through the smoke and mirrors of the persona was old friend and Village Voice auteur music critic Paul Nelson.

  Nelson had been enthralled with Warren’s Elektra/Asylum debut, making it a point to rave about the album and the tour that followed. As Warren’s biggest critical advocate, Nelson had deliberately set out to meet the artist, whom he considered a kindred spirit in literary and musical influences. By 1978, they had become close friends and confidantes.

  The Minnesota-born Nelson had initially worked as an A&R label representative and prolific music critic for numerous underground magazines and newspapers. He was an early defender of Bob Dylan’s electric period and gave newcomer Bruce Springsteen’s some of his first positive critical appraisals, and his positive assertions of Jackson Browne, Leonard Cohen, the New York Dolls, the Ramones, Rod Stewart, and the Velvet Underground had aided in establishing them all as popular and important artists.

  It wasn’t long before what had begun as a mutual appreciation society became a genuine friendship. Only a few years older than Warren, Nelson shared many of the same passions: he was a devout film buff and lover of all things film noir and pulp; like Warren, he could gobble up hours of classic black-and-white mysteries and Westerns, binge dozens of paperback novels by Mickey Spillane and Ross Macdonald, and spend full weekends listening to the complete discography of a given artist. Whereas Warren would infuse the influences of all those same passions into his music, Nelson aimed to use the hardboiled literary tradition of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett to write exquisite feature stories and artist profiles. In the same way that “New Journalism” practitioners Norman Mailer and Hunter S. Thompson put themselves into the events they were covering, elevating journalism to the same standards as great literature, so Nelson pored over his own works of freelance criticism.

  Just prior to Ariel’s birth, Nelson had even arranged for the Zevons to accompany him to the Coral Casino Beach and Cabana Club in Santa Barbara to meet their favorite mystery writer, Ken Millar. Nelson had recently interviewed the legendary older writer, who was better known publicly by his pen name, “Ross Macdonald,” unaware that his writing held special significance to Warren and Crystal; during the impoverished early years of their marriage, the two would often stay and home, reading his books to each other as cheap entertainment. In later years, Warren would speak fondly of that afternoon and what a life-changing experience it had been to meet one of his living idols. The gesture had also solidified Nelson’s place within the Zevons’ inner circle, much more than just another friendly member of the press.

  During the early stages of Warren’s third Elektra/Asylum release, his friendship with Nelson would be put to the test, ultimately establishing the journalist’s place as interviewer, confessor, and finally, blood brother. As 1978 drew to a close, the effects of Warren’s dependencies were brewing like a storm, threatening both his personal and professional lives. Nelson had come along just in time to find himself in its eye.

  The true extent of Warren’s personal demons was largely unknown to those outside his closest social circle and most intimate collaborators. The critics and fans still adored the outrageous and over-the-top spectacle that Warren embodied when onstage, backed up with his trademark humor and showmanship.

  Yet even as Warren’s sobriety and personal responsibilities continued to slip, his career was reaching its peak. Following another sold-out show at the Roxy in Hollywood, he was scooped up by the label for an extravagant celebration at the Chateau Marmont. Company president Joe Smith personally presented Warren with his first gold record to commemorate the success of Excitable Boy. It was his first such accolade since the inclusion of “She Quit Me” on the Midnight Cowboy soundtrack almost a decade earlier—and this time, it was for his own solo album.

  While “Werewolves of London” had spent twelve weeks on the Billboard chart, peaking at Number 21 on May 13, the album itself had cracked the Top 10, spending twenty-eight weeks on the chart and ultimately placing at a respectable Number 8. Following the critical raves yet lukewarm sales of his previous album, the numbers for Excitable Boy were a promising improvement. The album had also been certified gold in Canada, marking the beginning of Warren’s longstanding constituency with fans abroad.

  At the tail end of the tour, Warren received his first truly negative audience response, taking some of the wind out of his sails. During the first week of June, he and the band had arrived back in California following a successful show in Dallas only to discover an enticing invitation waiting for them. With “Werewolves of London” in consistent rotation on the airwaves, the Grateful Dead had begun performing a jam-friendly cover as part of their set list. An outspoken admirer of Warren’s songwriting, founder Jerry Garcia sent word that he wanted Warren to share the bill for an upcoming show in Santa Barbara. Following a marijuana smoke-out that also included reggae legend Bob Marley, Warren himself took the stage. Before an audience of hippies stoned on pot and acid, Warren unleashed the electric werewolf in all its glory—dishing out his signature blend of literary rock and over-the-top stage antics. But the audience wasn’t biting. It was the first time he had ever been heckled. The following day, local critics detailed the onstage massacre in their equally scathing reviews.

  Despite this singul
ar incident of negative press, Warren and Crystal loved Santa Barbara itself. Having gotten their first taste of the sunbaked county’s rustic beauty during their visit to resident Ken Millar, the couple were enamored with its rural and cozy elements. Most importantly, it was just far enough from Los Angeles to keep Warren from his usual distractions.

  With the tour finally completed and a follow-up to Excitable Boy expected, domestic solace was just what Warren felt he needed. After shopping around, he and Crystal found a house in Montecito, an upscale Santa Barbara suburb that was home to many celebrities who sought to escape the spotlight among the peaceful, rural landscape. To help with Ariel and daily chores, Crystal hired an au pair and a housekeeper, while Warren converted the outdoor guesthouse into a private studio. He had it professionally soundproofed, sealing him off as far from the maddening crowd of Hollywood as he could get.

  When all was said and done, Warren had made his best attempt at a quiet, normal life. But even in the isolation his backyard studio provided, Warren didn’t need the help of outside influences to feed demons. In addition to amassing an extensive gun collection—all of which he kept loaded and casually spread throughout the house—he had started battling his chronic insomnia by bringing bottles of vodka to bed.

  In an eight-page biography he later penned for Paul Nelson’s epic Rolling Stone profile, Warren described his mental state at that time: