After the launch of the Continent of Atlantis at our Journeys End Restaurant and all the press coverage, I became very popular among the elite of Atlanta. Others wanted what came easy to me—my creativity, marketing, and advertising skills. Some, however, resented my particular professionalism, and my intuition that gave me freedom to pick and choose what and how I would do things. Most people don’t like free birds because they are not one themselves.
Charli went to luncheons and took horseback riding lessons with Ann Partiss and other wives of the well-to-do clan. I felt like a foreigner in a foreign land, the different guy.
Charli, Bruno, and I moved out of the Sundown Apartments and were now living in luxury in a large ranch-style house in the center of the most prestigious area just outside downtown Atlanta. We were on the Brookhaven Country Club Golf Course, a short distance from my office at the Colony Square Complex, where I decided to open an advertising agency, Chrome Ball Productions, named after the episode. I drove a 1966 classic maroon 4.2 Mark 10 Jaguar that everyone called Big Red.
My clients included Colony Square, Atlantis and Journey’s End, Sundown Apartments, WLTA Radio, Ted Turner Communications, and several other establishments and personal companies like Mr. George, as I called him, who was a prominent real-estate tycoon well connected in the Atlanta business community.
Neville was now living with us again. He showed up at the airport with just one little suitcase and a straw fedora hat. Charli and I would constantly go back to New York and stay at the Plaza Hotel while Neville stayed in Atlanta with Bruno.
One thing I learned in Atlanta is you never entirely know what people are really about. Mr. George, for example, appeared to be a straight redneck with a wife and little kids living in a mansion, an estate with white columns, driveways and fences, and Dixie Flags. But secretly he led two lives; some days he was a straight Southern businessman, and others he was the owner, distributor, and producer of a chain of porno movie theaters in New Orleans: the Paris, Toulouse, and St. James. I became the advertising agency creative director to promote the theaters and coordinate the premieres and openings. Part of my agency’s job was to write, design, and place the advertisements for the theaters and films in newspapers and magazines. I also wrote and produced the radio commercials, which were very provocative and extremely controversial.
I purposely placed some spots on Christian radio stations that ran them; how, you might ask, did they air? Well, simply because no one checked the content. As you could imagine, the X-rated material brought both commotion and promotion. Just how I like it. After outraged listeners called the radio station to complain, Chrome Ball Productions was banned from placing any more advertising on Christian stations. But as the master Mick said, “Publicity is publicity.”
Ken wasn’t done with me. He invested in and operated a strip coal mining company, Mako Mining, in Annville, Kentucky. We would go there a couple of times a month. I was a small partner and of course marketing director. Ken made sure I participated for my shares. He thought it would be funny to see me running around with coal miners. Whenever we went to Annville we all stayed in a giant, old wooden house just outside of town. Five of us: Ken, Charlie Mixum, two local coal miner boys, and me. “Town” consisted of four, maybe five streets that included a combination post office/convenience store, a small diner, a hardware store, and several homes next to each other with porches and unemployed people in rocking chairs.
The old wooden house we were living in was falling apart. Ken said it was haunted. One night while sitting around the kitchen table we heard sounds as if someone was running across the roof. I had no idea what it was and neither did Mixum or the boys. They believed Ken that it must be ghosts. They were truly scared to death. After two nights of this I went outside to see what was going on. Ken followed me. That’s when we saw the apples falling from the tree onto the tin roof. Ken knew this all along, but Ken being Ken, he said, “Don’t tell the others.” I never did and I’m sure to this day they believe it was ghosts.
Annville, Kentucky, was quite a place, full of characters like the local crazy guy from town who would show up in my bedroom staring at me while I slept. The local boys said, “Don’t pay him no mind; he does that to everyone.”
Ken always liked to cause trouble. He wallowed in it. One morning we had to get up at the crack of dawn. Having breakfast at the local diner, Ken ordered eggs Benedict. The scrawny bleach-blonde waitress looked at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. She didn’t know what it was. Annville was a small little town made out of wood, like a run-down Lionel Train Village occupied by the people from the movie Deliverance.
The waitress said to the cook, “He wants eggs benedick. What in the world is it?”
The other customers turned and looked at our table as if they thought we’d made a dirty remark. Are these wise guys were makin’ fun at us?
The cook answered back sarcastically, “Yeah, scrambled or bulls eye?” Ken answered, paying no mind, loudly and very seriously, “Over easy.”
The next day was my first working day at the strip mine site. Ken, again humoring himself and the other miners, gave me the most dangerous job of all. I had to fill the twelve-inch drilled-out holes in the mountaintop with dynamite charges that, when ignited, blew up the dirt and exposed the coal. Then the dozers would come in, strip the coal, and put it on large dump trucks to be hauled. After filling the holes I was to run as fast as I could to get out of harm’s way before they would yell, “Fire in the hole!” then ignite the charge. The miners got a kick out of watching me scramble, not really caring if I was able to run away without getting killed. It was very funny to them. At any rate, now I could add coal miner to my résumé.
Ken was being forced to make changes with Atlantis. The bank was not happy with the way he was operating, especially the money he was spending. During that process the bank brought in a new operating management company, ASECO, whose representatives met with me under the guise that I would help them in transition, when in reality they and the bank were trying to get rid of Ken’s team. ASECO was very cunning; they gave Chrome Ball a project to create and design a promotional brochure, a selling tool for their company that would be used to generate sales at the Atlantis complex. But it all was a scam to get information from me: how I did things in the past, who my contacts and vendors were.
Once I realized what they were up to, trying to get rid of me, I met with Ken. He suggested I consult with a lawyer since I was under contract with him and Atlantis. Per Ken’s recommendation the lawyer I met with was Stanley Nylan, who was a quadriplegic, confined to a wheelchair. The only parts of his body that he could control were his eyes, mouth, one arm, and two deformed hands. He had to be wheeled in and out of the rooms, but he used his hand to write notes and smoke a pipe. Why I mention this at all is to emphasize that despite his condition he had tremendous drive and a brilliant mind. Stan Nylan had won several landmark court cases, wrote books, and spoke at seminars. At first I liked him a lot, even though I thought it strange that he videotaped our first meeting. Later it came out that the bank was paying him; he was working for them and ASECO, not me. It was their way of finding out even more information and building a case against me. Ken gave me a copy of ASECO’s and Nylan’s report. Their conclusion was I had too much power and that I should be fired. Just like with Guccione. I have since learned to camouflage what I think and do, and instead of protecting my position I am learning to share it with those who give it to me. Number one: I don’t trust anyone but my kids and of course Charli.
In late 1975, Charli, Bruno and I were sitting on our veranda looking out at the lush golf course dotted with weeping willows, a small lake, and greener-than-green grass, the same grass I’d never even stepped on once since we’d moved there. Although Bruno did take a dump on it occasionally. As we sipped our coffee all three of us looked at each other and I said what I’m sure we were all thinking: “Charli, what the hell are we doing in Atlanta?”
CHAPTER 13
As if sent by the Gods, the next day Ray Paret called from New York rambling on about a new project he and Michael Lang were doing, and he asked me to join them. He would not take no for an answer, and his last words to me as he hung up were, “I’m coming down. I’ll see you Friday.”
Ray came to Atlanta, laid out the plans for the Riviera 76 Festival, and I agreed to do it. A week later, I gave my ad agency Chrome Ball Productions and all accounts and clients to my agency staff. Charli and I split, headed back to New York, and checked in to the Mayflower Hotel.
Michael Lang had decided to produce, this time without Artie Kornfeld’s involvement, another day Woodstock-type festival, called Riviera 76. He moved the party to the French Riviera at the Circuit Paul Richard Racetrack in Le Castellet. Along with Ray and several other investors, I was his partner and coproducer. Our office was at the old Gulf & Western building on Columbus Circle. Right from the start, I realized the plan had problems. Michael was spending most of his time in Paris while the New York office tried to keep up with his fast pace and always asking about the details. I began to question whether the artist lineup was strong enough.
I set out to make some changes. Charli now worked with me on everything I did. We truly became, as everyone referred to us, Frank and Charli. You couldn’t say one without the other. She answered the phone, greeted everyone at the door, made the initial calls, and sent out the contracts to add some acts to the festival like Jimmy Cliff, Eddie Palmari, Ray Barretto, Gil Scott Heron, and Joe Cocker, who had performed and recorded with Stuff, a band Sunshine had signed to a recording production agreement, and who were already booked to play. I knew Lang didn’t want Joe there. When I brought Cocker up earlier, he’d told me, “He doesn’t fit the show theme.” Michael was all about jazz-rock. He decided it was the new coming in music. That vision came and went, and never really materialized.
Ultimately we lined up two hundred musicians from across the globe. Somehow, Michael forgot to book and secure the passenger and cargo planes to get all of the acts from New York to France. Luckily, my father was in the shipping business at the airport. He set it up. Two weeks before the festival, I flew to Europe and had to pay World Airways for the planes. I came back to New York and then was ready to fly on to Paris.
Most of the acts not from France met in New York and boarded our chartered plane bound for the Riviera. Picture a plane full of musicians and their entourages, our staff and support people, over two hundred people, all smoking pot, drinking, and snorting coke for ten hours. With amazing foresight, we arranged for the plane to land without having to go through customs. Thanks again, Dad.
Our first emergency occurred before the festival even started. When the planes landed in Marseille, about twenty-five miles away from the town of Bandol, near the site, all hell broke loose. Michael had hired his assistant Ticia, who worked on Woodstock ’69, to be his event travel planner. He thought she was a genius and put her in charge of transportation and accommodations.
This logistical guru decided to color-code everything. Each musician was assigned a color to match a colored hotel where they were booked (red, blue, yellow). Luggage was marked and color-coded accordingly. Matching color-coded buses were parked on the tarmac ready to put her plan into motion.
The miscommunication started as the planes landed, when our French liaison told all the bus drivers to leave. I have no idea why or what he was thinking. The color-coded buses were gone. The musicians stood on the tarmac not knowing where to go. We had to call in taxis and car services. Problem was, when they got into the cars, the drivers asked them, “Where to go?”
The bewildered musicians answered with the only information they knew. “The red hotel.” “The blue hotel.” “The yellow hotel.”
Half the drivers told them to stop being ridiculous. The other half drove around the city looking for colorful, phantom hotels in blue and red, all happening while the taxi drivers only spoke French. What a mess.
Somehow it all came together, just half a day late. On the first day of the festival, it rained. The weather, unfortunately, was not the worst of it. The next day I asked Michael for an update on crowd size and gate receipts. His answer surprised me.
“There are no significant gate receipts.”
“Not again,” I thought. Just like Woodstock ’69 and as a matter of fact all the future Woodstocks to come, not only did it rain, but there would be no significant gate receipts.
To make matters worse, we were having trouble just paying the bands, and then twenty French security guards demanded more money. When they did not get it, they quit, just walked off, leaving me and five security guards from England to secure the stage. I can still see this image as clear as yesterday: standing off to the side of the stage, discussing our problems with Michael. I looked at him as the rain drenched the crowd. They were emulating ’69, beating drums, chanting, and dancing nude in the mud.
Understand, I’m an opportunist. Actually, it’s more than that. I will prostitute myself, just as long as I’m getting paid. As Charli always reminds me, I’m no Moses or the Pope. It’s not for me to tell someone what they can or can’t do to fulfill their dream, however: I don’t want other people’s dream to become my nightmare.
As far as I’m concerned, as long as they’re paying me, that never happens. However, I also add to that philosophy this credo: If I piss in the wind I don’t want it to hit me in the face.
During this episode, it literally did. I did not trust or have faith in the French. As I stood with Michael talking about it, a fine mist fell all around us. I looked back and saw a latrine on the rise above us. Piss was actually spraying on us as I spoke. From my experiences, whenever the French are caught fucking up, they cry, hiding behind their tears, saying how can I deal with the problem when I’m crying?
Anyway, the ticket problem started because Michael had arranged to have the Bank of Bandol armored trucks pick up the gate ticket money and deposit it into our bank accounts. What he did not know was that he had actually made the deal with the Corsican mafia. They took the money from the gate box office straight to their bank, not ours.
We did not have enough money to pay all the acts or most of the bills or to ship equipment back to New York. I had to call my father again. He, my mother, and my younger brother Robert flew to the festival site from Italy where they were vacationing. Somehow, they got to the stage. I explained the situation to Dad. He asked in his quiet, sort-of-to-the-point way, “What do you want to do with him?”
I knew he meant Michael. Dad, born and raised on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, could deal with the Corsican mafia no problem. He disappeared and came back an hour later. It seemed he had cleared everything up with the mafia, arranging to have the bands and their equipment return to New York. I would run into the French mob again, but that’s for a later story.
With everything seemingly taken care of after the festival, Michael, Charli, and I went to visit Albert Gertner, our financier and producer, at his castle outside of Paris, to discuss plans to begin assembling the parts for editing the sound recordings and film footage for the Riviera movie. Unfortunately it never got made. There also was no film of Woodstock ’79, ’94, or ’99.
In Charli’s Words
At Gertner’s castle outside of Paris the surrounding countryside was beautiful, with more than a mile-long tree-lined driveway leading to a moat and bridge. Right after we arrived, someone on staff came up to me, asking what I would like for lunch. He offered chicken, veal, or lamb. I chose the lamb.
Albert Gertner waited for us in the parlor. As Frank and Michael talked to him, I looked out across the grounds. A servant appeared from one of the out buildings, dragging a freshly slaughtered little lamb.
That night we ate on the bridge over the moat. When our meal was served, we realized every part of that lamb was used in the preparation, inside and out. I pretended to eat some of the more exotic cuts and when Gertner wasn’t looking I’d throw the bloody parts
into the moat.
From Gertner’s castle, Frank and Michael evaded the threats and bill collectors that hunted them after the festival. Renting an expensive Peugeot, the three of us drove from France to London, stopping at every famous chateau and vineyard along the way, drinking and eating the best food on the menu.
My favorite memory of that time, one that started a tradition that continues today, has to do with duck. No matter where we went, we always ordered a duck. It became a kind of inside joke. We decided to compare and find out who made the best duck in Europe. Sitting down at our next feast, someone would say, “Let’s order duck for the table.”
It was an amazing time in our life, one full of lavish adventures, like something out of a fairytale. Our journey led us to the Hotel de la Post. Once settled at our table, the waiter eloquently explained the hotel’s history in combined English and French.
“Bonjour, Madame, Monsieur. Welcome to the Hotel de la Post. Did you know, Emperor Napoleon extraordinaire visited here tres beaucoup? As you can see on the menu, we have in stock his very personal brandy, ça va, the exactement bouteille from which he actually drank.”
He pointed it out, $45 a shot. I don’t think he ever expected Frank to order it. It was for show only. That waiter must never have run into anyone like my Frank before.
“We’ll take the whole bottle.”
I think he almost fainted. When that poor young man returned with the bottle, his hands and knees were shaking. After dinner, the bottle came with us to the room. The next day when we checked out, we left a small amount in the bottle for the maids along with some francs as a tip.
After our cross-country drive from Bandol, France, to London, we returned to New York. We were staying with Michael Lang at his loft on Broome Street in SoHo. Frank and Michael were putting things back together after the festival in France. We’d abandoned our life and home in Atlanta, so I spent my time searching New York City for a new apartment. I searched the city every day: East Side, SoHo, Greenwich Village, everywhere. Ultimately I found myself back in our old neighborhood on the Upper West Side. Finally I found the apartment, a great one, on West End Avenue and 81st Street, huge, eight rooms. The owner and manager of the building had no intention of renting it to me, though. The entire building was filled with nice Jewish families and they wanted another one in this apartment. I went every day to visit with the landlord, Bushy Friedman, a big, bearded, burly, bully of a man. He could not get rid of me. I was there all the time, until he actually said, “Give me a few days.” What he was really doing was stalling until he could find a family that would fit in with the rest of the tenants. Eventually, he said he wanted to meet my husband. I knew that if he met Frank, ponytail and beard, and especially Bruno, he would not rent the place. He finally agreed to rent me the apartment. Then he met Frank; that was something.
Frank & Charli Page 15
