Frank & Charli

by Frank Yandolino

  Paul Butterfield

  The first time I saw Paul Butterfield was during Woodstock 1969, when he was already famous. The Paul Butterfield Blues Band with Mike Bloomfield and Harvey Brooks from The Electric Flag was one of the best groups around, ever since they began playing during the mid-sixties at the Fillmore West. Right after Woodstock, I met Paul at Michael Lang’s house, “tapooz,” in Woodstock. We talked and smoked a cigarette outside on the porch.

  Paul had a knack and a need for getting pity from anyone he could, and he was also a great complainer. He would whine, rant, and rave to constantly borrow money from everyone. He of course never personally paid them back. I couldn’t go anywhere without being told Paul owed someone money: shows, clubs, studios, especially on the road, sometimes two or three people, bartenders, security, doormen, waitresses, club owners, and of course the road crew. They would approach me saying that Paul told them I would reimburse them for the money they gave him. Paul was a master of the game. The hustle was part of his blues and was of course meant to get money to buy booze and drugs.

  I would calculate these debts to be paid well in advance of accepting or sending him out to do shows; it was always part of my budget when calculating how much he or any of the bands I managed would get paid. I didn’t always pay back everyone. It depended on their story and what Paul used the money for; if it had anything to do with drugs I wouldn’t pay them.

  As a manager, the main thing is the artist must trust you. In order to do your job and make decisions without them constantly interfering, you must not break that trust. Once you lose that trust, it’s over. Their paranoia and insecurity take over, and then you can’t trust them, either.

  Butterfield was living at the Gramercy Park Hotel, as was bandleader and keyboard player Paul Shaffer. We would often meet at the hotel restaurant. In order to save money, Butterfield wouldn’t ever buy bottles of booze, opting to drink in his room. On one occasion we were having dinner, which of course meant Paul would order something very expensive, take two bites, not finish his meal, and have several drinks. That night I asked him why he doesn’t finish the last few sips of his scotch and coke, always leaving about an inch in the glass filled with ice. His answer surprised me.

  “There’s no booze left at the bottom. It rises to the top of the drink so that’s why about halfway down I order another.” Sometimes there would be two or three glasses on the table because the waiters weren’t sure if he was still drinking them. They didn’t know he already drank all the good stuff.

  Butterfield came close to dying on several occasions. One night in particular, I called his room but for several hours got no answer. I began to worry as it got late because he usually checked in with me. As I had done several times before, I called the hotel manager, asking him to use his key and check on Paul. By this time the manager knew my voice. He would usually either say that Paul was not in his room, that he was sleeping, or—the worst reply—that I better come over. This time he told me he had banged on the door, rang the bell, and called the room but got no answer. Extremely upset, he gave me that most undesirable reply: “You better come over right now.” When I arrived, the manager was visibly shaken. He let me in, and there was Paul, still dressed, lying on the bed. I wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead. He was blue, his mouth wide open with foam coming out. This was the second time I had to revive him, mouth to mouth, before the paramedics came in, hooked him up, and took him away to the hospital. I took a taxi to Bellevue Hospital.

  After he was stable, I left the hospital and got into a taxi heading uptown. As I’m looking out the window I notice, out of the corner of my eye, the driver’s head fall back on the headrest. He was fast asleep. It all happened in seconds and the next thing I know the taxi smashes into another taxi or car or something, so now I’m laying on the floor of the cab, holding my hand to my head, sort of delirious as the paramedics take me in an ambulance back once again to Bellevue.

  There I was, four in the morning, lying on a gurney with a brace on my neck in the middle of Bellevue. People are being wheeled in with holes all over their bodies, everything from gunshots to stabbings and bat beatings. It was like watching animals at the zoo. I don’t know what was worse, the people being worked on or the people who brought them there. I couldn’t believe my eyes; a guy to my left was arrested lying down, not moving, as the doctors tried to save his life while different colored fluids came out of every opening in his body. He died of an overdose. He was wearing a suit and apart from the unnatural colors looked like a stockbroker or an insurance agent. Meanwhile, a woman on the other side of me was holding her head in her hand trying to stop the bleeding after being hit in the head with a frying pan by her boyfriend, who was being arrested by the police. After about four hours no one was even paying any attention to me. I was insignificant compared to what else was happening. I got up, took the neck brace off, and walked out of the hospital, got in another cab, and this time made it home unscathed.

  I guess I was still a little delirious, though, since after having trouble opening the door with my key I had no choice but to ring the bell, which woke Charli and the kids, who came to open the door. After seeing my cuts and bruises, they were shaken and worried, asking me a hundred times: What happened, Dad? Are you okay? I assured them I was, but the kids continued to cry anyway.

  Several weeks later Paul had finished recording his latest album. I designed the cover and concept and named it The Legendary Paul Butterfield Rides Again. To support the album release I put together various musicians and different variations of bands, including Paul Shaffer, Anton Fig, Harvey Brooks, Blondi Chaplin, Rick Danko of The Band, Jaco Pastorius, Danny Draher, Crusher Bennett, and others.

  But Paul’s downward spiral continued. Nothing was working. It was never enough for Paul, no matter what I did for him. I personally saved his life several times at the Gramercy Park Hotel and committed him to rehab. Just ask Paul Shaffer.

  Butterfield unfortunately was a seasoned junkie. In rehab, he would “cheek the medicine,” which is a term used when a patient moves the pills over to the inside of his cheek instead of swallowing them.

  After releasing The Legendary Paul Butterfield Rides Again, a new band was formed. Unfortunately some members had the same problems as Paul. Rick Danko and Jaco Pastorius were also junkies. Once, after running out of excuses to borrow money, Jaco told me his wife was dying somewhere out of state and that he needed a few hundred bucks. That night I tracked her phone number down and called. She had no idea what I was talking about and hadn’t heard from Jaco in weeks. I gave him the money anyway. After all, it was Jaco. He was strung out, hanging out in bars and studios hoping to get work, and I guess deep down I hoped he would do the right thing and send his family some of the money. I never did find out if he did. Jaco died a short time later.

  I put together a US tour for the Paul Butterfield band with featured guest Rick Danko of The Band. I was busy working on several other projects and could not accompany them. I needed a replacement, and I knew I could trust my brother Robert to act on my behalf as road manager, protect my interests, and most importantly keep Paul and Rick in check. But, knowing how difficult it was to manage a tour and all the expenses, asking him was a dilemma. And indeed, it became a nightmare. Robert called me several times a day requesting instruction on how to put out one fire after another. Despite his inexperience he rose to the occasion, gained the respect of the band, and got through the tour, doing a great job. He learned the hard way, however, by throwing himself into it head on, much like what I did when I became the manager of Stuff. Being a manager is a twenty-four-hours-a-day job. Artists have no respect for your time. They want what they want when they want it and no matter how much you do, some still complain and wonder why you deserve to get paid. It’s the nature of the beast. Robert and I laugh about it now, but he never volunteered again.

  Later on I arranged for Paul to perform at the “Crack Down” benefit concert at Madison Square Garden. When I got backstage Paul was
there with several other musicians on the bill. He was already high, while others were hiding in a corner, getting higher. How appropriate that a benefit meant to raise money and spread awareness of the widespread epidemic and to ask kids to stop the use of crack was being performed by some who were high on one drug or other themselves.

  Back in the dressing room, Paul and I were sitting around when Carlos Santana came over and sat next to Paul. They exchanged salutations, hugged, and promised to do something together. Carlos seemed very sincere but deep down he knew the real Paul. People always said they would definitely like to do something with him but in this case no one from Santana’s office called me back. It was the same later on with Big Daddy Kane, while making his record and promotional dates. Kane got a lot of “I would love to do something with you. Count on me,” but most didn’t show up. They knew Kane like people knew Paul.

  Just before Paul was to go on, Bill Graham came over to him, irate. “How can you do a crackdown concert high?”

  Paul just looked at him sadly, suggesting, “I’m not high.’’ And in Paul’s way of thinking, he was right. He wasn’t high, he was always like this; in his eyes he was normal. I could not do enough for his insatiable disease. I made sure he had anything he could want, except drugs. And everyone knew if I found any I would destroy the drugs immediately. But it didn’t matter. Paul always seemed to be able to figure it so he would win. He always said, “I can’t help it. It’s not my personality. It’s in my genes, a chemical imbalance. Ask any doctor.” Unfortunately he was one of us who couldn’t do anything about that gene.

  In 1987 Paul moved to LA, the elephants’ burial ground of creativity. A place you go to die. Artie called me from California saying Paul wanted a few-hundred-dollar advance against an upcoming show, asking if it was okay. I said yes. Two days later I got the phone call: “It just came over the news. Paul Butterfield Dead, of a drug overdose.” Paul was dead. He just couldn’t help himself or allow anyone else to. I guess he got what he wanted.

  Too bad I tried everything. No matter what I gave him, he would say, “If I only had blah blah blah …” It was never enough for him. Before Paul died, I asked his doctor for advice. “What should I do? How should I help him beat this catch-22?” If I did nothing, Paul would get more depressed and get drunk and get high. If I gave him what he wanted he would take his money, drink and get high. The doctor said I was in a no-win situation. No matter how much I did for Paul, and I tried everything—I delivered new records, a new band, a car, an apartment, worldwide tours, any kind of luxury you could imagine, even a new girlfriend—he would continue to get high. By the time he died he had already OD’d several times. I guess that’s why they are called junkies—they will always find a way and an excuse to get high.

  In Charli’s Words

  Paul would come to our apartment often. Although I would make dinner, he rarely ate, but would pretend to eat by moving the food around his plate while he drank his scotch and coke. One night we went to see him perform at a club in the city. He was great. Paul was a terrific performer, with so much heart and soul and more blues inside him and that harmonica than anyone I ever met. One thing I remember about him is that he taught Bob Dylan to play the harmonica. That was a great thing. When we traveled to England to the Cambridge Folk Festival he was so amazing; everyone said the sound of his harmonica would bring German Shepherds out of the woods. We spent a lot of time together. He was a very kind and soulful man with a lot of compassion and this was why his music was so well received, especially by real musicians who knew he was gifted musically. He never had a lesson and he could play without ever practicing. It was easy for him.

  Unfortunately, he was so addicted to drugs and alcohol that that was what he lived for. The people that met him along the way didn’t realize that most of the time he was really not there. He would come to my house after getting out of rehab and give me gifts that he made himself in the rehab. It was an honor to have known him and when I dust the shelves in my living room where his harmonicas are, a tear falls from my heart because he should not be gone. He was a wonderful person. Frank saved his life at least a dozen times. Paul’s doctors always said, “Don’t bother. He will be back in the emergency room again and again.” We tried everything—inviting him to our house for dinner, going to his shows—but unfortunately we were able to keep him alive only for a few extra years. When he was out of our sight, when he went to California and got what he craved, it killed him.

  I was so angry with him for a while after his death. Everything was going well, Frank had just gotten a record deal for him, and then we received the phone call that Paul was dead. Frank left the next day to take care of the funeral in California. I recall Frank saying most of the people there were drug addicts, too, just coming from one rehab or another. Those who spoke at the eulogy all spoke about their addiction and how much they will miss Paul. Frank came back from that very depressed and so was I. It took me a long time to say goodbye to Paul. My heart was broken, mainly because his death was self-inflicted and senseless. Paul is greatly missed; luckily we have his music to remember him by. Unfortunately some people just throw themselves into life without paying attention to the danger, just living for the moment. As Frank says, “I still look both ways when I cross a one-way street.”

  CHAPTER 20

  India and “God Man”

  Charli and I were having dinner at Mughlai, a local Indian restaurant of the Upper West Side, eating Indian style with one hand scooping up the food with a piece of naan bread. Most Americans at the restaurant ate with knives and forks. I guess our style of eating and our cool look got the attention of several men sitting nearby. One of them approached us and introduced himself as VJ Gupta, the owner of the restaurant. He asked me what I did. Telling him I was a producer of sorts, he suggested we meet his friends, Prakash Mehra and Mahendra Shah. We joined them and two other guys at their table. Prakash was introduced as India’s leading and most famous film producer/director.

  We hit it off immediately talking about an idea Prakash had for his next movie, The God Connection. We ate, drank, and swapped ideas and story lines till 4 a.m. Prakash was so excited he invited me to go to India in order to get a feel for the country and become the producer of the film, and to help get a screenplay written that would work for a film made in India and, for the first time, partially shot in New York with American and Indian stars and music. Psyched, I grabbed the opportunity. I was going to India. Since then I’ve gone back seven times. I love everything about India.

  I was the partner of the biggest award-winning director in India, in Pakistan, and throughout the Far East. Prakash Mehra was king. They bowed to him and kissed his feet. He was a great storyteller and his ability to tell them became a business, like me. And so my ideas became stories. We both made a living out of what we loved to do, telling inspirational stories.

  His movies gave people hope, took them off the street, kept them out of trouble, taught and showed them things they could only dream of. Everyone in India went to the movies, some indoor, others on a screen in an open field. They were grateful to see the stories come to life that depicted old fables passed down for generations mixed with new tales, done “Bollywood” style—their version of Hollywood and Broadway musicals mixed together.

  You only have to go to India once; from the moment you get off the plane, you will never forget that smell. Just close your eyes and immediately you know you are in India. Hot, stagnant air no matter what time of day, the smells and ingredients all come together like Indian cooking filled with hints of old dirt, burning embers, fire, smoke fumes, and Indian spices. People are cooking everywhere on every corner and beach. And during the monsoon season of course you know where you are because it rains every day. Torrential downpours for months, and then it smells even older. I love it.

  On the way to Delhi from Juhu Beach, on a sightseeing trip, the route you must take first goes through the outskirts of town before you realize it’s all town, town never ends, it’s
all connected like one big town spread over an entire continent—India. It was a very hot sunny day as usual, and while videotaping the journey, looking through the camera, I realized that along every inch of road, under every building and structure, was a little hut, a house of some sort, some made of brick, wood, cardboard, some with tin roofs, others made of sheets of plastic and tarp. All variations and combinations of them, one after another, stuck together among the debris, garbage, animals, mud, and kids playing and most visibly laughing, always laughing and smiling, barely dressed.

  I was shooting video of everything. Looking through the viewfinder I realized something I couldn’t believe—that on every one of those little tiny structures was a TV antenna. I asked the driver, “Are those TV antennas on the roofs?”

  “Oh yes, sir. They all have TV and VCR as well.” I was shocked.

  “They have electricity?”

  “Yes sir, they pay rent as well to the local mafia bosses, just a few rupees a month.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Oh yes, sir. They pay from money they get from begging, odd jobs, and hiding illegal contraband for the bosses.”

  In this life there is one of everything.

  We continued driving on the road, River Side Drive, oddly the same street of our apartment in New York, but what a remarkable difference in the scenery. My driver insisted we stop on the side of the road to eat at the most famous paani poori street stand in India. A simple hollow doughnut ball, this guy has been selling paani for many years. He punches a hole in the hollow thin dough pastry with his thumb and fills it with broth. I ate at least ten, hoping I wouldn’t die. I didn’t; they were very good and I can still taste the distinct flavor. All day and night at least ten people wait in line, eating on the spot as fast as they can, or as fast as he can make them. He must sell a million a week, and they only cost a few rupees for six.