Barefoot in Babylon

by Bob Spitz

  Morris checked his watch. It was 5:07—just over an hour late. Not bad, considering all the headaches of the past four months. He poked Lang in the ribs and pointed with his head in the direction of the audience. “It’s outta sight, huh?”

  Lang nodded, transfixed by Havens’s driving guitar vamp. Without taking his eyes from the singer, he said, “You better not hang around here too long, man. How’re you intendin’ to keep the show rolling?”

  Morris turned pale. “Holy shit! You’re right. I gotta find someone else to follow Havens!” he sputtered, and darted down the steps leading to the production trailers.

  The phone on his desk was ringing when John reached the trailer. All the assistants had been treated to a half-hour’s leave so they could watch Richie Havens open the festival. Morris toyed with the idea of ignoring the call, but finally succumbed to curiosity. “Production,” he announced.

  The call was from Iron Butterfly’s manager. The group had just landed at Kennedy Airport and wanted to know how they were supposed to get from the airport to the Holiday Inn in Newburgh.

  “C’mon, man,” Morris said restively, “don’t hang this on me now. You guys were supposed to have this all figured out ahead of time.”

  They had, indeed, the manager pointed out, until they got to New York and were bombarded with news bulletins about the state of extreme crisis in White Lake. They couldn’t risk spending two days sitting in traffic or being squeezed onto a crowded train for a mere couple thousand dollars. That might be satisfactory for some of the other groups who counted on the exposure to boost their careers, but it certainly was not the case for international stars like Iron Butterfly. The promoters would have to come up with some alternate means of transportation if they wanted his group to perform.

  “What’s wrong with the limousines we have waiting for your group in front of the terminal?” Morris asked. “They have a direct hookup with our security command center and know which back roads to take to shoot you directly in here. We’ve been having nothing but success with the other performers on the bill.”

  The manager couldn’t rely on just anybody to insure his artists’ safety. No, they had another plan worked out, and they wanted Morris to put it immediately into effect. They would walk over to the airport’s heliport and wait for a festival helicopter to pick them up. They expected to be shuttled directly to the site, where the band would perform upon arrival, and, upon completing their set, board the same helicopter for a return trip to Kennedy. That was it, he said. There were no other conditions under which Iron Butterfly would play.

  “But your band isn’t scheduled to appear until Sunday afternoon, man. We’ve got to take care of a lot of acts who have been here for the last two or three days and are willing to wait their turn. This isn’t the goddamn amateur hour you’re talking about. Now, how about being reasonable and hopping one of our limos?”

  The manager repeated that he wouldn’t hear of it. It was the helicopters or nothing.

  “Well then, you’re gonna have to give me some time to make the proper arrangements and to clear the flight with the FAA. Why don’t you give me the number of the phone you’re using, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more of the details.” John took down the ten-digit number on a slip of paper and repeated it to make sure he had it right. “Okay, man—keep your guys cool until I can work things out.” He hung up the phone, and sat perfectly still while he contemplated the situation. What a crock of shit, he thought. Who the hell did they think they were, anyway? Iron Butterfly was a glorified bar band compared to the other artists on the bill and they were the only group with the balls to complain about the accommodations. He held up the tiny piece of paper with their phone number written across it, smiled to himself, and then crumpled it into a ball. Fuck ’em, he decided, and tossed it into the wastepaper basket.

  Morris still needed someone to follow Richie Havens on stage. He scanned the list of Friday’s acts to see who was available, and found his options were relatively bleak. Ravi Shankar was back at the hotel and the Incredible String Band needed too much time to set up, and he only had about ten minutes in which to get them on. No one had seen Bert Sommer yet. Arlo Guthrie and Joan Baez were headliners, and they’d have to be saved until last if he wanted to build the show’s momentum properly. Tim Hardin was going to have to swallow his fear and go on next. There was no other way out.

  Morris jogged around to the back of the stage, across the service road, and into the performers’ pavilion. The tent was comparatively empty, except for a few stragglers huddled in conversation and a disgruntled crew of electricians still fighting nature to connect the power for the refrigeration. John pulled up short in front of the serving table. He was distracted by a familiar face in the process of pouring itself a cup of coffee.

  Bill Belmont juggled a second steaming cup in his hand as he walked toward his friend. “I thought that was you streaking past. How’s the show progressing?”

  “Sensational,” Morris said sarcastically. “It’s about to come to a deathly halt if I don’t produce another act out of thin air in the next five minutes. Have you seen Tim Hardin around?”

  “He cut outta here right after you hit him with going on first,” Belmont snickered. “I think he took it as an omen and made himself scarce in case you got any other bright ideas—like putting him on second. Hey—wait a second. Don’t tell me that’s what you’re up to?”

  “Would you grant a condemned man a last request?”

  “That bad, huh? Sure. Name it.”

  “Organize a posse to bring Hardin in—dead or alive. Better make that alive. He’s gotta be able to do about twenty minutes; after that, he’s on his own.” Belmont said he would recruit a few of the stagehands to help out. “You’re a lifesaver, man. Look, if you come upon him before I do, don’t waste any time looking for me. Hustle him right over to the stage and let Lang know what the story is. Hopefully he’ll put two and two together and will handle it.”

  “All right. Just let me take this over to Joe”—Belmont nodded to one of the cups—“and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Joe?”

  “You know, man—McDonald.”

  “Country Joe’s here—in the performers’ pavilion?” Morris asked, doing a quick pan of the premises.

  “He’s right over there.” Belmont motioned to the back of a curly red head partially obscured by the master electrician. “Want to say a quick hello before you split?”

  “Hold it! Just hang on a second. Look, is Joe still considering a solo career?”

  “It’s way off, man. I don’t know.”

  “Well, we just might push the calendar ahead a few years,” Morris said, scratching the back of his head. “I might have the makings of a brainstorm here, or it might be total lunacy, but do you think we could convince Joe to go out there and do a few numbers?”

  Belmont grinned his approval. “It’s a hell of an idea. Let’s go ask him.”

  Country Joe McDonald was a spidery, modishly daft man who looked more like a high school misfit than an extremely clever and perceptive political satirist. Disguised in an army field jacket, orange pleated slacks, and a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, a skirt of reddish hair flowing across his shoulders, he was a zany poet forever lost in thought or—as a long-time friend observed—“a scholar on sabbatical from the human race.” Along with the Fish, whom he had toured with since 1963, McDonald was a mainstay of the Berkeley anti-Establishment movement, showing up for every rally, demonstration, and sit-in, prepared to sing. McDonald was best known for salting his eclectic arrangements with topical, acid-tipped lyrics, interweaving a sense of the absurd with Bolshevist commentary on the Vietnam war, police, drug laws, and politics. But as the revolution melted into another liberal country-club phenomenon, McDonald’s career began to slide. By 1969, his brand of parody was considered passé and Country Joe and the Fish were recognized as artifacts o
f the fickle record-buying public. That Country Joe and the Fish had even been invited to play at Woodstock seemed more a tribute to their past than an acquiescence to current demand.

  “Hey, guys—what’s happenin’?” McDonald flashed the peace sign as Morris and Belmont sallied over to his table.

  Morris placed a fatherly hand on the entertainer’s shoulder. “I need a favor, Joe. I’ve got no one to follow Richie and I wondered if you’d go on and do something?”

  “Whoa, man! Like, I’d be glad to help you out, but I don’t have a guitar with me. Can’t sing without a guitar.” He grinned.

  “We’ll get you one!” Morris pulled McDonald to his feet. “C’mon, man, let’s get over to the stage. Bill”—he turned to Belmont who was still balancing the coffee cups in one hand—“you work on getting a guitar. I’ve gotta get Joe on stage. And please be quick about it.”

  Richie Havens could be heard finishing the stanza of a song as Morris dragged Joe McDonald into the backstage elevator and hit the Start button.

  “Hey looka yonder, tell me what do you see

  marchin’ to the fields of Vietnam?

  Looks like Handsome Johnny with an M-15 in his hands,

  Marchin’ to the Vietnam war.”

  “We don’t have much time,” Morris fussed, as he and McDonald stepped out onto the back side of the stage. “If there is a God, will you please see that little Billy Belmont gets a guitar for Christmas six months early?” he joked, looking up into a slowly fading sky. A strip of clouds had masked off the sun, providing partial relief to those who had been sitting under its blazing rays all afternoon. In the distance, he could see a continuous stream of people pouring through the gates. The pasture was evenly coated with people as far as he could see, like a field of wild dandelion. Why, there must be close to 300,000 bodies out there, he thought, wondering how much longer they could go without somehow restricting the population. It was truly a frightening scene.

  Even more alarming was the sudden thunderous audience response that signaled Havens’s ending of the song. Without missing a beat, the black guitarist began strumming the introduction to his next number. This had to be Richie’s closing tune, Morris deduced.

  “How’s this?” a voice asked from behind him. Morris spun around in time to see Bill Belmont lift his trophy into the air. It was a wooden Yamaha guitar whose condition suggested it had seen better days.

  McDonald snatched it out of his hands and lightly ran his fingers across the strings. “Yeah, yeah, that’ll do,” he approved. “But I can’t play without a strap.”

  Morris threw up his hands in frustration, but Belmont saved him from further panic by ripping a piece of rope off the stage railing and lacing it to either end of the guitar. “Witness: a strap!” he exclaimed, impressed by his own split-second ingenuity.

  “Very neat, Belmont,” McDonald applauded. “But I seem to have left my picks back at the motel. I guess that puts a lid on my going on next.”

  Belmont put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Don’t give me that shit, Joe. Do I have to remind you how many times I watched you do a set using a matchbook cover for a pick? C’mon, man, no more excuses.”

  Morris watched this whole drama with mild apprehension. He had gotten McDonald this far; there was no way the singer wasn’t going on next.

  “Just get me a capo, and everything’ll be cool.”

  Belmont put two fingers on his forehead. A capo was a piece of elastic which wrapped around the neck of a guitar and allowed the artist to transpose a song into his proper vocal key. He knew that it was impossible for Country Joe to go on without it. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He tapped Morris reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, man, I’ll find a capo. Stall Havens for a few minutes.” And he disappeared down the steps.

  Morris caught Lang’s attention and pointed to Joe McDonald’s head. Lang chuckled and nodded his approval. Now, all Morris had to do was to endure Belmont’s capo hunt, time it to Havens’s finish, and he’d succeed.

  On stage, Richie Havens was whipping the crowd into a mushrooming frenzy. He had half-risen from the stool and was bent over the microphone in uninhibited emotion. A string on his guitar had snapped, but he played on.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,

  Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,

  Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,

  Yeah, a long, long, long way from my home.”

  “Oh shit! He’s on his way off!” Morris checked over his shoulder, but there was no sign of Belmont. Havens took two steps back, and then launched into another improvised chorus of the song, which had begun four minutes earlier as a freedom chant. Morris knew he had no longer than another minute or so before he had to go out on that stage and announce the next act. “Doesn’t Richie have a capo?” Morris asked McDonald.

  “No, man. He plays in an open tuning and uses his thumb to bar across the frets.”

  Havens had now stepped off to the side of his two musicians and was slowly backing off the stage. Still beating his guitar in time to the congas, Richie stepped behind a group of stagehands in front of the communications console. Morris wrapped an arm around the singer’s perspiration-drenched robe and moved his mouth toward Havens’s bobbing head. “You gotta go back!” he pleaded, not sure whether Richie even heard him.

  Havens continued keeping time to the two-man percussion section. His eyes were closed, and he resembled a victim of a voodoo trance. After completing a four-bar progression, Richie’s head lolled forward. “Can’t go back,” he said breathlessly.

  “You gotta go back, man.”

  “Can’t go back.”

  Without further debate, Morris put a hand in the small of Richie Havens’s back and gently shoved him out on stage. Havens re-emerged to an overwhelming ovation from the crowd, but it was clear that he did not intend to do an encore. He finished out the song, waved his thanks, and marched triumphantly off the stage. At that precise moment, Morris caught sight of Bill Belmont waving a capo over his head as he hustled up the flight of steps. John caught Havens by the arm and hugged him. “You were sensational, man,” he said, nearly in tears. Before he could release Richie from his grasp, Joe McDonald wandered out onto stage, wrestling the capo onto the neck of his guitar, and saluted the audience.

  “Gimme an F!” he screamed. A quarter-million voices responded obediently. “Gimme a U! Gimme a C! Gimme a K!” The bowl had erupted in jubilation. “What’s that spell?”

  “Fuck!” the audience shouted.

  “What’s that spell?”

  “Fuck!”

  “What’s that spell?”

  “Fuck!”

  “What’s that spell?”

  “Fuck!”

  McDonald reared back his head and laughed while he introduced the opening bars of a song on his hand-me-down guitar.

  “Come on all of you, big strong men,

  Uncle Sam needs your help again.

  He’s got himself in a terrible jam

  ’Way down yonder in Vietnam . . .”

  Morris and Belmont slapped each other on the back and yelled their support to McDonald, who was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “And it’s one, two, three, what are we fightin’ for?

  Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn,

  Next stop is Vietnam;

  And it’s five, six, seven, open up the pearly gates,

  Well, there ain’t no time to wonder why,

  Whoopee! we’re all gonna die.”

  “He’s outta sight, man. They love him.” Morris whistled, jamming two fingers inside his mouth. He wiped his hand on a shirtsleeve and motioned Belmont to follow him down the steps toward his trailer.

  The inside of the cabin was still empty, and Morris imagined that the assistants were enjoying themselves too much to return to work. He clos
ed the miniature window, cutting off a fraction of the droning cacophony. He offered Belmont a soda and opened one for himself. “I need you back at the Holiday Inn,” he said. “I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to stay on my feet at this pace, so it’d be much simpler if we kept the groups coming in time for their set.”

  “How do you propose to pull that off with the roads closed?” Belmont asked.

  “Helicopter. There’s no other way. In fact, I’m going to ship you over there now by helicopter so you can round up the next three acts. I’ll want to get Bert Sommer, Sweetwater, and the Incredible String Band over here as soon as possible. How long is Joe good for?”

  “The way he’s going—about a half hour, forty-five minutes, depending on the crowd.”

  “That’d be terrific,” Morris said hopefully. “I’ll hook Tim Hardin for the next spot, and that should give us about an hour and a half to put our shuttle into effect. You’ve got the number for the direct line to the stage, right?” Belmont said that he did. “Okay then. Just keep ’em coming until I tell you to stop. Every forty-five minutes should do the trick.”

  Morris called the security office to make sure he had a helicopter at his disposal and walked Belmont over to the launching pad. Afterwards, he made his way back to the performers’ pavilion to see who, if anyone, was around and available to play.

  A young man with sandy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and dressed from head to toe in tie-dyed clothing walked into the tent just ahead of him, carrying a guitar. It didn’t take Morris more than a flickering glance to recognize John Sebastian.

  Nearly two years had passed since Sebastian had dropped out of the public eye. After nine hit singles—including such rock classics as “Daydream,” “Do You Believe In Magic,” “You Didn’t Have To Be So Nice,” and “Summer In The City”—on which he sang lead vocals and played both the autoharp and harmonica, the Lovin’ Spoonful had split up, and Sebastian took up exile in Woodstock. The Spoonful were one of the few East Coast bands with universal appeal between 1965 and 1967 when a band emanated from either Liverpool or California. But they pulled up their Greenwich Village roots like a bouquet of four-leaf clovers and rose to skyscraping heights alongside such western counterparts as the Byrds, the Mamas and the Papas, the Righteous Brothers, the Turtles, and the Buffalo Springfield. A drug bust had cut their reign short—or, not so much the bust as the allegations that arose from it. It was reported in the underground press that drummer Joe Butler and lead guitarist Zal Yanovsky had fingered their drug source to the San Francisco police in exchange for their freedom, and that had been enough to seal their death sentence. Sebastian’s resurfacing now, especially at the festival, was news—big news—and a potential treat, if Morris had his way.