“Sorry, lads. No Hollies tonight. This is the new album from the Fabs!”
What? The new Beatles record? We had heard about this for months. How the hell did Graham have the new Beatles record? It wasn’t even out yet! Graham grabbed a 7½-inch tape reel from his shelf and threaded it into his machine.
“George gave this to me last week. It’s bloody amazing!”
And, Donovan said, “It’ll blow your mind.”
Which it did. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was, and is, the greatest rock album ever made. We knew it that night and it’s still true almost half a century later. Our collective jaws were on the floor. Song after song, trip after trip, we were whisked away on a cloud of hash and music and celebrity. And when “A Day in the Life” finally ended with the world’s longest chord, we were smiling and exhausted. Tucker said, “Man, those guys are gods! If I could meet them, I swear, I could die a happy man.”
“Hope you’ve got insurance, Tucko, ’cause your dreams are about to come true!” This says Graham as he reaches for his keys and his jacket. “Fancy popping ’round for a pint, lads?” We were on our feet in a heartbeat, ready to follow Nash anywhere. And on the way out, Donovan wisely cautioned, “Beware of Lennon!” I didn’t know what he meant at the time, but I should have listened.
We wound though the wet London streets with Nash at the wheel till we reached an inconspicuous-looking building in the middle of a business district—not quite what we were expecting. The tiny sign read THE SPEAKEASY, and an arrow pointed to the entrance. We went up the narrow stairs and the sounds of music pulsing from the club grew more intense with every step. Graham yelled over the music, “Stick around late enough and you’ll get to hear Eric jam tonight.”
Al asked, “Burdon?”
Graham laughed. “No, son, Clapton!”
The club itself was divided into two sections. The band onstage performed to a full house of trendy mods at tables and on the dance floor while a separate glassed-in area was kept relatively soundproof and designated as the restaurant. We were greeted at the door by a bearded gent in a bowler hat who met Graham with a hearty handshake and directed us past the bar to the showroom beyond. At the bar, Nash paused to make a quick introduction.
“Justin Hayward, John Lodge of the Moody Blues, I’d like you to meet the Turtles from America.”
We all shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. I think it was Mark who approached the two and congratulated them on their success. “You guys are really cool. Nice to meet you. Which one of you sang ‘Go Now’? ’Cause that’s one of the greatest songs of all time!”
“Uh, yeah, thanks, I guess,” replied John. “But that was Denny Laine and he’s no longer with the group.”
Volman tried to backpedal. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know. So, what are you guys doing these days? Still in the music business?”
“We are currently working on a major symphonic piece of vast proportions with the London Festival Orchestra. It’s a multidimensional journey into the psyche called Days of Future Passed.”
“Called what?”
“Days of Future Passed.”
“Ha! That’s great. Really catchy. Uh, yeah. Well, good luck with that.”
And with that, Mark set off on his way, following the pack into the club, shaking his head and mumbling. “Oh, yeah, that’s catchy all right. What pompous jerks.”
“Bloody tourists!” from Justin and John.
♦ ♦ ♦
Inside the Speakeasy, all the girls looked like Twiggy, the iconic pixie-haired waif model whose London fashion had taken the world by storm. We must have walked past fifteen look-alikes on our way to our next destination and we actually heard the Beatles before we saw them. It was just like being in A Hard Day’s Night.
“Aw, come on, John. Leave the candles alone. You’re gonna start a bloody fire in here.”
“I can’t see anything down here, Paul. It’s as dark as a hooker’s heart.” And then, a female voice.
“Please, Paul. Don’t humor him anymore. This is getting ridiculous. I’m going to leave.”
Graham led us around the corner, where the Fab Four were hanging with their dates at a private table in the back of the room. Well, actually it was the Fab Three—George Harrison was not in attendance. (For those of you familiar with the 2003 movie that I wrote chronicling this evening, My Dinner with Jimi, Harrison was added to this scene for dramatic effect. I regret fictionalizing some of those moments to this day.) The deal was, Lennon was actually under the table taking Polaroid pictures up the skirts of his female companions while Paul lent a hand. Ringo laughed at everything, and Paul’s then girlfriend, Jane Asher, was doing her best to drag him out of there. Dressed in Carnaby Street’s finest, the Beatles were dimly lit, and a halo of light illuminating their mop-top hairdos added just the right ambiance to make this already bizarre scene even more surreal.
Paul was ducking under the table himself now, helping his business partner illuminate the proceedings with his disposable lighter, and Jane was searching the booth for her coat as we approached them, with Graham in the lead.
“I’ll be leaving now, Paul,” Jane said through clenched teeth as she pushed her way out of the booth and stood there, staring him down.
“Hi, Jane.” Graham was friendly but she didn’t even acknowledge his presence.
“I’m going home, Paul. And I don’t mean your home.” She made her way toward the exit as we all walked up in a pack. Jim Tucker actually grabbed her arm to stop her en route.
“Hey, Miss Asher. Hi. My name is Jim Tucker and I worked with your brother.” Jim was referring to the Dick Clark tour we had done with Peter (her brother) and Gordon. He extended his hand, only to have her push him away.
“Piss off, wanker!” Jane just blew him off and brushed past us on her way out of the club. Jim stood there examining his hand for a long moment.
“Hey, guys,” Graham greeted as Paul frantically scrambled to his feet.
“Jane! Jane! Aw, come on, baby. We’re just having a little fun.” Jane kept walking.
“Boys, I’d like you to meet the Turtles, all the way from America.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Ringo was the first to shake our sweaty hands. Then both John and Paul settled back in their seats and greeted us in similar fashion.
Paul said, “I really enjoyed your record.” And then, to me, “Great voice, man. Nice set of pipes.” I was bursting.
Then Lennon. “Yeah, that’s a lovely bit of Flower Power in the middle there with those ba-ba-bas.” And then all three of them sang the ba-ba-bas. And we were all beside ourselves with swollen pride.
“So, where did you learn to sing?” Paul asked me.
“High school choir, I guess. Then we formed the band and started playing local clubs, you know, a little bit of R&B stuff—”
“What kind of R&B stuff.”
“Oh, you know, ‘Money,’ ‘What’d I Say,’ ‘Justine’…”
“‘Justine’ by Don and Dewey? I love that song.”
And then Paul began to sing the Crossfires’ trademark soul song. I joined in on the answers and the chorus. Ringo played spoons on the tabletop while the customers watched and Lennon looked on as if bored to death. When we were done, there was a smattering of applause and Paul said, “That was great. I’d love to do that with my band some day. You sing great.”
“Oh my God, thank you,” I gushed.
“Still, it is a bit sappy on your record there when you sing ‘invest a dime’ with that cry in your voice. A bit light in the loafers, if you ask me.”
“What?” Yeah, I became defensive all right. “We’re just trying to be the American version of you!”
“Touché” said McCartney.
“Well, that’s not bloody likely, is it?” Lennon piped in. His eyes skipped from Turtle to Turtle, checking us out for the first time. “And what do you call that guy over there?” John pointed at Tucko, who was cowering in his wrinkled brown suit, thrilled just to be noticed.
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“That’s Jim Tucker, our rhythm guitar player “
“Bad suit, son. And an even worse haircut. Did you tell your barber to give you a Beatle cut? It’s awful, man. You give rhythm players a bad name.”
Tucko, oblivious, stumbled for words. “You’re like a god to me, man. You guys changed my life.”
Much to his credit, Pons tried, in vain, to turn the conversation around. “We just heard Sergeant Pepper and I’ve got to thank you on behalf of the entire world for the greatest album of all time!”
Paul graciously nodded thanks and toasted us with his beverage. But John was not to be denied.
“Tucko, is it? I could have a lot of fun with that name. Let’s see… Tucko Tucko, bo bucko, banana fanna fo fucko…”
Tucker winced and Lennon saw the weakness and went in for the kill.
“There was a boy named Tucko, a very stupid fellow—”
Finally, Jim realized that he was the butt of Lennon’s abuse and could hold back no longer.
“What is your problem, man? You’re supposed to be the Beatles! I fuckin’ loved you guys and you turn out to be assholes.”
Lennon feigned shock and recoiled at the words.
“Tsk, tsk … such language. What would your mum say?”
“She’d say you were a dick, that’s what! Man, was I wrong. You’re a total shit! I’m sorry I ever met you!”
Lennon shook his head slowly, savoring every syllable. “You never did, son. You never did.”
And with that, Jim Tucker walked away from the table, up the stairs, and into a cab. And, following the few British shows we had lined up, Jim flew home and never played music again. The Turtles would continue on as a five-piece band from that time forward. The other guys followed Jim upstairs, and our goodbyes were a lot sadder than our hellos had been.
“See you, fellas,” said McCartney. “Sorry!”
Lennon narrated the egress. “And there they go, ladies and gentlemen, the Truffles from Salad California!”
♦ ♦ ♦
I was devastated. This had been the most important night of my life and it had gone to hell. I refused to cab it back to the hotel. I just watched, heartbroken, from the Speakeasy’s front door and felt like I wanted to cry. That is, until a voice broke my reverie.
“Excuse me. Can I please have your autograph?”
That voice just couldn’t be talking to me. I looked up to see a silhouette framed by the outside lights. It was an immaculately dressed hippie type with long blond hair and a blue velvet suit. He had a sheet of paper for me to sign and, without thinking, I took it from him and scrawled my name.
“Who should I make this out to?” I asked.
“Brian would be great, thanks.”
“Is that why you’re dressed like Brian Jones?” I asked, intelligently.
“No, I’m dressed this way because I am Brian Jones.”
At last, I left my torpor long enough to look up and, what do you know? It was, indeed, Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones. I couldn’t believe it.
“What? What do you want with my autograph? I’m nobody.”
“Are you serious? You’re Howard Kaylan from the Turtles. I love your stuff. I’ve got all of your records going back to the folkie stuff. It’s great, man. I love California music: you guys, the Beach Boys, the Mamas and the Papas. The Turtles have the best harmonies in the business. Isn’t that right, Jimi?”
“You can say that again,” said a voice from the stairway. With the lights in my eyes, it took a minute for me to make out the features of the dude on the stairs. I recognized him from the cover of Melody Maker. It was Jimi Hendrix.
“We’re going to grab some food,” Brian announced. “Would you care to join us?”
“I sure would!” I answered, a bit too anxiously. And the three of us all tried to cram ourselves into the doorway of the club at the same time—very Three Stooges.
Jimi said, “Why, you, I oughta!” à la Moe.
We all laughed and extricated ourselves as Brian went, “Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk,” and we walked back into the Speakeasy. Once inside, we approached the glassed-in restaurant and Jimi started making out with one of the waitresses as Brian found a lady friend and disappeared into the crowd.
“Is he coming back?” I asked naively.
Hendrix laughed and said, “I don’t think we’ll see him again this night. It’s cool. Wanna eat?”
I did. We were seated at a semiprivate table with a view of the stage, although all we could hear though the glass was the booming of the bass and an occasional screech of feedback. I think Adam Faith was onstage, but I wouldn’t swear to it. Jimi ordered for both of us, since he knew the club’s offerings without the assistance of a menu. Spinach omelets. I had never had one before. Not a big spinach fan.
Then the drinks started coming. Scotch and Cokes. Everybody was drinking them. I can still taste that acidic, sickeningly sweet flavor at the back of my throat. We spoke of many things, mostly music. I tried to document the conversation in the movie decades later, but it really wasn’t very enlightening. Jimi asked me what success felt like and explained how he had come to play his guitar upside down. We talked about girls and marriage and cars and his upcoming gig at the Monterey Pop Festival in June. He was really nervous that the American critics weren’t going to understand what he was trying to do, although he was already revered throughout Europe. He told me about being a paratrooper and about his father and Seattle. But mostly, we talked shop, all about the audience and how to work a crowd. He was smart and soft-spoken and a real mensch. I was impressed, not only with Jimi’s conversation, but with his tolerance for alcohol, which was amazing.
The drinks kept coming and then the omelet arrived. It wasn’t bad. A bit too creamy, I remember thinking. The restaurant manager came by and offered many glasses of complimentary cognac, which numbed the situation down a bit, and then Jimi broke out a joint. It was a huge bomber of hashish and tobacco: That’s what they were smoking in England, not marijuana, and I became instantly paranoid.
“Hey, what are you worried about?” Hendrix asked. This is London and it’s gonna be the Summer of Love—that’s what the writers are calling it already! We’re young and we have hit records and all the pussy we can handle. Shit, man! We rule this world! No one can touch us! Now smoke up and don’t waste it.”
And smoke we did. And drink. And eat. And talk until the room started spinning and I began to feel like an American amateur, in way over my head.
“Ooo, Jimi. I’m not doing so well, man. Where’s the loo?”
“The loo? The can? The potty? The powder room?” Jimi was not funny. And sadly, and much to my regret, my only response was, “I’m not gonna make it, man.” I proceeded to throw up violently, all over Jimi’s classic and beautiful red velvet suit.
He jumped to his feet, screaming.
“What the fuck, man! My suit! Shit! What the fuck?”
I passed out cold, right there at the table, in a pile of my own sick. I don’t know how I got back to the hotel that night. Not at all. But I do know that Hendrix jammed at the Speakeasy later in the evening. With Eric!
Clapton, not Burdon.
Sergeant Pepper came out the next day and I had one of the roadies buy me a portable phonograph so I could play it over and over as I nursed the world’s worst hangover. We had to cancel a few shows; Tucker stayed a few days before he flew home alone.
♦ ♦ ♦
Once we were able, on the following Sunday, the Turtles played at the Speakeasy and Jimi was there to root us on. He never mentioned the suit, but I do know that he had to retire it. I think he had others made, but that particular red velvet number was never smelt or dealt with again. Brian Jones was at the show too, taking 8-mm movies of us onstage, probably without sound—the complete collector. The Beatles were there too, as were the Moody Blues. Go figure! Luckily, we were great.
Decca assigned us this wonderful lady called Miranda who took us around town, went shopping for clothes and souvenirs w
ith us, and showed us how to blend in a bit with the locals, although we were far too fat to be mistaken for Brits. The trip did pay off, though. “She’d Rather Be with Me” got to number four on the UK charts and we did tons of TV and radio shows, most of which are still online.
Melita met me at the airport when our Air India flight brought us home. But she had cut off all of her long, beautiful hair. Seems like Twiggy’s pixie haircut had caught on big-time in the States and, even years later, she never grew it back. We got married that month, June of ’67, and the haircut went well with the Rudi Gernreich dress, so I guess it all worked out.
In years to come, we would get to know the Beatle lads quite a bit better and would return to England often, but there was only one Summer of Love and, having ushered it in with quite a bang, we were ready for the absolute best summer of our lives.
NINE
Eht Seltrut
What a wedding it was. Jim Pons, our new bass player and a recent husband himself, was my best man. He drove my Mercedes 280SL and I rode shotgun all the way to the Little Brown Church, a chapel well-used by the stars and their friends on Coldwater Canyon Avenue. My parents and brother, Al, were in attendance, as were Melita’s mother, Helen Benson, and whoever she was with at the time—I think it was this cabana boy she brought home with her from a trip to her native Greece. Oh, and a stepfather or two. The woman was a free thinker.
Afterward, Jim rode back with somebody else, and my new bride and I were off to our tiny bachelor pad on Kirkwood. Which, by the way, didn’t remain our residence for long. We found a big white box of a modern-looking edifice at the top of Laurel Canyon at the corner of Wonderland Park and Hollywood Hills Road and bought it. Soon there was to be the expected patter of little feet, if Melita had her say about it, and before I knew it, the little Mercedes was replaced by a hulking blue Volvo station wagon. I should have had a clue right then, but I was blinded by the zeitgeist and besides, marriage is all about compromise, right?
Shell Shocked: My Life with the Turtles, Flo and Eddie, and Frank Zappa, etc. Page 9
