My British Invasion

by Harold Bronson

  I saw The Last Picture Show, one of the best movies I’ve seen. The acting was natural and honest, and the story of high schoolers coming of age in a dying Texas town in the early fifties was authentically rendered through a black & white lens and a country and western soundtrack. Plus, Cybill Shepherd, in her acting debut, was a knockout.

  I was looking forward to taking Terri to see Ten Years After at The Forum on November 11. Since viewing their dynamic performance in the Woodstock movie a year previously, and liking their new album A Space in Time—the first on Columbia—I was up for the concert. But my car broke down in West Hollywood in the late afternoon and I had to cancel my evening plans. Fortunately, I reached Terri, but calling her hadn’t been assured. We were decades before cell phones, and there were no phones in the dorm rooms. I would call a pay phone booth on her floor. A resident had to be close enough to hear it. She would answer it and then knock on Terri’s door, whereupon Terri would come to the phone. Sometimes I reached her, sometimes I didn’t. Back in the days when girls were reluctant to call boys, she never phoned me. As time went by, I wondered if it was a reflection of her declining interest.

  Procol Harum, one of my favorite groups, was playing on my home turf at the Ackerman Grand Ballroom on the fifteenth, and tickets were only two dollars. Unlike other groups with similar classical influences, Procol relied more on a cathedral, Bach-like organ sound than orchestral accompaniment. It was a warm-up gig for their performance three days later with the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra in Alberta, Canada, which was recorded for a live album.

  The last time I had socialized with them was in August, at an evening party thrown on their behalf at the house of A&M Records’ president Gil Friesen. The group arrived after spending the day at Disneyland. As it was a hot summer’s evening, I wore a T-shirt promoting a new concert movie titled Medicine Ball Caravan. Drummer B. J. Wilson loved the slogan: “We have come for your daughters.” He pressed me into trading shirts with him. At first I thought he was kidding, but he was serious. I ended up with the one he had bought at Disneyland, a long-sleeve dress shirt decorated with tiny Mickey Mouse images. That night Procol Harum performed at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium and B. J. wore my T-shirt.

  One of my favorite new groups, Grin, was the opening act at UCLA. Front man Nils Lofgren made a name for himself contributing to Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush. I created an ad for Grin’s new album that ran in the Daily Bruin. Although I was the college rep of Grin’s label, the UCLA events person denied my request for a backstage pass. So, I wasn’t able to visit with my pals Procol Harum, but did introduce myself to Nils during the sound check.

  To coincide with the performance, the Daily Bruin published my Procol Harum interview from earlier in the summer (a version of which ran in the L.A. Free Press in August). From when I first met them, at the office of their publicists Gibson and Stromberg, their in-house lyricist Keith Reid impressed me the most. The band had begun when Gary Booker answered an ad to put Reid’s poetry to music. Gary had been the singer and pianist in an R&B group named The Paramounts. Keith had been a clerk in a London legal bookshop. In short order their pairing yielded a massive hit in the summer of 1967 with “A Whiter Shade of Pale,” and a successful rock group was born.

  Keith introduced to me the concept that art comes from emotional pain: “I don’t believe anybody is a happy person. I’ve never met anybody who is a happy person. Being alive is not a happy experience. I write when I’m unhappy or troubled. It’s an emotional release.”

  Terri was my date for the evening. She declined my offer to escort her to and from her dorm, suggesting that we meet at the Grand Ballroom. It was an excellent concert, and we embraced for longer than I would have hoped for after the show. I couldn’t help but feel that our moment had passed, almost as if it were a goodbye embrace.

  The UCLA basketball season started. One of my duties was to choose which Columbia and Epic half-page ads ran in Hoops, the program printed for home games. Rather than place the stock ads, and inspired by Stan Cornyn’s copy, I asked Paul if I could create something better, which he encouraged, acknowledging their shortcomings. I illustrated Sly Stone to attract readers to the group’s new album There’s a Riot Goin’ On, and created a new one for The Chambers Brothers’ Greatest Hits.

  I visited Grelun Landon, head of publicity for RCA Records. My relationship with him was based initially on my interest in Mike Nesmith and The Guess Who. The label was conservative, and didn’t have much that appealed to me, but had gotten hipper by signing The Kinks and David Bowie. Occasionally there would be a worthwhile release from a new group, like Sky or Fresh. Landon was personable, although so soft spoken I couldn’t understand everything he said. My first encounter with him made me question whether listening to loud music had diminished my hearing. His continuous smoking turned everything in his proximity grey, including his face and hair. He was far from dynamic, and too old to relate to the new rock groups. I had heard that he kept his job because of his close relationship with Elvis and his manager. His specialty was RCA’s roster of country artists, but the country genre seemed too reactionary to interest me. One afternoon he introduced me to Barry Mann, sitting on the couch in his office. With his wife Cynthia Weil, Mann had written a number of the classic songs of the sixties, including “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling,” “On Broadway,” “We Gotta Get Out of This Place,” and “Kicks.” I had heard Barry’s newly released album, Lay It All Out, because it was on a CBS-distributed label. As he was visiting Grelun, I didn’t want to pepper him with questions. It was cool to have met him.

  I stopped off at the office to check in with Paul Rappaport. I picked up a copy of Bob Dylan’s new single, “George Jackson,” an impassioned tribute to the former leader of the radical Black Panthers who had recently been shot dead attempting to escape from prison. The song was more a reflection of how Dylan felt than an accurate account of the events. It wasn’t among Dylan’s best, but it was a welcome return to social commentary, absent on New Morning, his album of a year ago.

  Mark Leviton had an extra ticket to see the Grateful Dead at UCLA’s Pauley Pavilion on November 20. I wasn’t a Dead fan, but was curious. The New Riders of the Purple Sage, a Dead offshoot, opened the show with their more conventional country repertoire. The Dead’s set was marred by delays caused by problems with the sound system. Their long jams failed to interest me. We left early in their set. Bill Pique wasn’t so lucky. He had to review the show for the Daily Bruin. He described it as “a never-ending jam from eight o’clock till one in the morning. It was all the same, long and monotonous. A drag.”

  The next week I ran into Phil Savenick, the cartoonist for the Bruin, who’d taken photos at the show. He’d seen Phil Lesh use his bass to whack a fan who tried to climb on the stage. Earlier, backstage, the new pedal steel guitar player for the New Riders shoved a girl into a urinal because she didn’t recognize him from having played the first set. Actually, there was no “backstage.” It was the arena’s locker room. I guess the Dead weren’t as mellow as they appeared to be. Half a dozen drug casualties were sprawled out, nearby, in front of the urinals, Phil reported.

  A week later Mark and I went to see The Doors perform at the Hollywood Palladium. The group’s new album, recorded after Jim Morrison’s death in July, had just been released, and the single, “Tightrope Ride,” was getting airplay. I liked the new album and enjoyed their set. They were a terrific band, but it was clear that, without Morrison, something was missing. Dr. John opened the show, but lacked the mystery I found so appealing in his voodoo-themed Gris-Gris album. Opening act Curved Air, an English progressive band with an attractive female singer, was too ethereal for me.

  On November 30, Sweathog, a Columbia Records group, played a noontime free concert for the students in the Ackerman Grand Ballroom. “Hallelujah,” their new hit single, was the highlight. I was a fan of the drummer, Frosty, who’d come to prominence accompanying Lee Micha
els. The last time I’d seen the group, when they opened for Black Sabbath in Long Beach, guitarist B. J. Morris had lit his guitar on fire, which would not have been appropriate here. I composed an ad for the Daily Bruin and helped to promote the event. After the set I met them and their manager, Lenny Stogel, and escorted the band to KLA at the back of the hall to record an interview with one of the DJs.

  On the turntable: Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen’s Lost in the Ozone, Van Morrison’s Tupelo Honey, Don MacLean’s American Pie, Herbie Mann’s Push Push, Batdorf and Rodney’s On the Shelf, The Who’s Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy, Led Zeppelin IV.

  December

  On Friday, December 3, I went with Sherman Cohen to see The Beach Boys in concert at the Long Beach Arena. Brian Wilson wasn’t touring with the band, but they brought him out to play organ on an odd number, “A Day in the Life of a Tree,” from their new album Surf’s Up, with a recitation by their manager, Jack Rieley. I would have preferred to have seen Brian on one of his more familiar songs, but it was good to see him on stage, period. The Beach Boys played well, although the show was not well attended.

  I had met Mark Leviton the previous year when, as a freshman, he came into the Daily Bruin office to inquire about writing for the entertainment section. Mark and I bonded over our mutual appreciation for the bands of the British Invasion, Frank Zappa, the Firesign Theatre, and private-detective novelist Raymond Chandler. With short, crinkly hair, a beard, and glasses, he couldn’t pass for a wannabe rock star, but that didn’t mean that the kid didn’t have talent.

  We wrote a couple of songs together—Mark supplied the music to my lyrics—with the intention of revamping my band, Mogan David and his Winos. “Street Baby” depicted a homeless kid living on the streets. “Party Games” reflected the frustration we felt as shy guys after approaching disinterested girls at the previous summer’s Behemoth Festival, Heather Harris’ annual party staged in her parent’s backyard in Westwood.

  We had a few rehearsals in preparation for going into the recording studio. I sang, Mark played guitar, and Jim Bickhart returned to play bass even though he had graduated. Matye wasn’t into it—he was into his girlfriend—so he was gone. I didn’t call Jon Kellerman, who was now in graduate school.

  The last session with Kellerman hadn’t ended well. After recording the two songs for our single, I wanted to run down a version of Betty Everett’s 1964 hit “The Shoop Shoop Song,” for backup, but Jon became bored and led us into playing surf instrumentals. As Paul Rappaport liked our first single and our musical taste, he was a natural for the lead guitar slot. Plus, he played the same guitar as Kellerman, a Gibson Melody Maker. I loved the tone. My friend Todd Schneider’s younger brother, David, played drums.

  Our first single had been produced at no cost: the instrumental tracks were recorded in Tom Matye’s parents’ living room; the vocals were recorded many months later in the bathroom of the student apartment we shared on Beverly Glen Boulevard using our neighbor, comedian George Carlin’s, tape machine.

  This time out we were recording in a proper studio, although a low-budget one. Paul and I knew Rich Fazekas through college radio. He engineered at Sound Sync in Riverside. On Sunday, December 5, I picked Paul up at his apartment in West LA and we made the seventy-mile trek. We recorded the two songs Mark and I had written. The main problem we experienced was that David had failed to fully rehearse the drum breaks we had written for him on “Street Baby,” and we had to start the song sixteen times before we got it down. The studio wasn’t glamorous, and was far from the happening environs of Hollywood, but we were excited to be recording in an actual studio.

  I met Mark in Hollywood for a screening of Stanley Kubrick’s new film, A Clockwork Orange. My enjoyment of this inspired example of filmmaking was compromised by the cruelty of violence. I felt shaken as we exited into the afternoon sun.

  Among my classes, I made a mistake in taking the Perception of Music. I thought I would learn why music affects us, why certain melodic phrases or minor chords make a listener feel sad. It wasn’t like that at all. It was mostly comparing different listening experiences and different musical scales from different cultures.

  On Thursday the sixteenth, I was killing time in the lobby of the Continental Hyatt House waiting to interview the biggest pop star in the world, Marc Bolan of T. Rex, for Phonograph Record Magazine. Atomic Rooster, a British progressive band, checked in while I waited. The hotel was favored by visiting musicians as it was on the Sunset Strip and close to clubs, like the Whisky, where the group was booked. Primarily because of Led Zeppelin’s outrageous behavior as guests, it had become known as “the Riot House.”

  I would have been anxious over the time lost if I hadn’t finished my final exams. Meeting Marc in person was an experience. He was a combination of rock star and animated character. With his big hair and little-girl shoes, he kind of looked like Minnie Mouse. I refer you to my chapter on Marc later in this book.

  I had spoken to Terri before finals, and told her I would call her over the winter break. I contracted laryngitis, and couldn’t speak. I had my mom call her mom to tell her why I couldn’t call. I rested at home, listening to music and watching TV. In those days, prior to home video recording on VCRs, I didn’t watch much, mostly old movies, but occasionally TV shows: All in the Family, Sanford & Son, and 60 Minutes.

  On the turntable: Badfinger’s Straight Up, Mary Hopkin’s Earth Song/Ocean Song, The Kinks’ Muswell Hillbillies, Harry Nilsson’s Nilsson Schmilsson, John Denver’s Aerie, Alice Cooper’s Killer, Faces’ A Nod Is As Good As A Wink…To A Blind Horse, The World of Johnny Horton, John Prine.

  January

  I was excited about the new quarter. I was taking two history-of film classes, the American Motion Picture and Documentary Film; and a sociology class, Social Change. This year the UC Regents raised the undergraduate fees to $200 a quarter, double from my freshman year.

  On January 6 the Daily Bruin published my career overview on one of my favorite bands of the British Invasion, Herman’s Hermits. My feature on the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band finally ran in Coast Magazine. Although I had interviewed them in August, it was held pending the release of their All the Good Times LP. What I didn’t include was an encounter with R&B singer Bobby Womack.

  It was the first time I had been in a recording studio, United Artists’ on Third Street in Los Angeles. The bass player and drummer were recording a rhythm track for the (Hank Williams–composed) Cajun standard “Jambalaya.” I thought a band performed together, not just (in this case) two members recording separately. I was a fan of the group, and enjoyed talking with John McEuen and Jimmy Fadden. Bobby Womack breezed through the door in a buoyant mood. My friend Robert Wolfe and I were introduced to him, and when he shook Robert’s hand, something fell out. He had slipped him a “red,” a Seconal pill. Robert picked it off the floor and said, “You dropped this.” Bobby responded, “No man, that’s for you.”

  When we writers got together, most of the discussion was about music. We didn’t talk much about politics or sports or even girls; we didn’t talk about scoring or taking drugs—because we didn’t. It was music, film, and what was happening on campus. We talked about Duane Allman’s recent death in a motorcycle crash, and questioned if The Allman Brothers could stay together after having lost one of rock’s best guitarists. We discussed Peter Frampton leaving Humble Pie, how in addition to his talent he provided a balance for Steve Marriott. We sought the meaning of lyrics. Paul and I speculated on Bob Dylan’s “Desolation Row,” especially the line, They’re painting the passports brown. Mark and I talked about the tragedy that had befallen The Mothers of Invention. During a concert in Switzerland, a stupid fan shot a flare gun into the rattan-covered ceiling at the Casino de Montreux, which caused it to burn to the ground. A week later in London, another stupid—and jealous—fan pushed Frank Zappa into the orchestra pit during a performance at the Rainbow Theater. Frank’s injur
ies were serious, and the future of his band was up in the air.

  As a college rep, I was required to go to the CBS Records regional sales meetings at the Century Plaza Hotel on Saturday, January 22, and the following day. I hung mostly with Michael Ochs, Columbia’s West Coast head of publicity. Forthcoming releases were presented, with the intention of inspiring the company to promote and sell the product when it hit the stores. One record spotlighted The Frogs—in suitable voice—performing a cover of Peter, Paul, and Mary’s “I Dig Rock ’n’ Roll Music.” It was so awful, it tarnished the company’s credibility. During the break I met Rolling Stone publisher Jann Wenner.

  On Tuesday the twenty-fifth, I went with Todd Schneider to see the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band at the Troubadour. Opening act Jonathan Edwards was still high in the charts with his hit “Sunshine.” I liked his pop-folk style and had his debut album at home. After his set, we chatted with the girls who were to our left, but when they told us that they were the wives of the members of the Dirt Band, we turned our attention to the two guys seated to our right, Bob Emmer and Leon Nirenberg. Bob was the college rep at USC for A&M Records. The set soon started. The Dirt Band played well, alternating instruments as they ran through bluegrass, Cajun, and country styles. I was reveling in “Mr. Bojangles,” “Some of Shelley’s Blues,” and “Jamaica, Say You Will” when, two-thirds of the way through their set, an inebriated Leon, who sat to my immediate right, vomited. Some of the matter bounced off the floor onto my right sock. Bob Emmer made light of the situation by promising to buy me a new pair of socks.