by Al Kooper
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Introduckshun
Preamble: Roots
1958-1964:
Thus ended any pretense I might have had about leading a normal existence.
1965:
1965-1967.
1967-1968:
1968-1969:
1969-1972:
DEAD NUDE GROUPIE FOUND IN ROCK STAR’S HOTEL ROOM
1972-1974:
1974-1979:
1979-1981
1981-1985:
1986-1990
1990-1995
1996-1998
1998-2007
Index
Backbeat Books
An Imprint of Hal Leonard Corporation
19 West 21 st Street, New York, NY 10010
Copyright © 1998, 2008 by Al Kooper
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission, except by a newspaper or magazine reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review.
Published by Backbeat Books in 2008
Previously published in 1998 by Billboard Books/Watson-Guptill Publications
Printed in the United States of America
Book design by Robin Lee Malik, Buddy Boy Design
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Billboard Books/Watson-Guptill Publications edition as follows:
Kooper, Al
Backstage passes and backstabbing bastards / by Al Kooper.
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 0-8230-8257-1
1. Kooper, Al. 2. Rock musicians—United States—Biography.
I. Title
ML420.K8A3 1998
782.42166’092-dc21
[B] 98-22172
Backbeat ISBN: 978-0-87930-922-0
www.backbeatbooks.com
This book is respectfully dedicated to my parents, Samuel (1909- 1998) and Natalie; my son, Brian; and my dog, Daisy. Any of them, at any given moment, could put a gigantic smile on my face....
“Is it the lies?
Is it the style... ?
It’s a mercenary territory
I wish you knew the story
I’ve been out here so long dreaming up songs,
I’m temporarily qualmless and sinking
But I did my time in that rodeo
It’s been so long and I got nuthin’ to show
Well, I’m just so plain loco,
Fool that I am
I’d do it all over again....”
“Mercenary Territory”
By Lowell George, Elizabeth George, and Richard Hayward
©1975 by Naked Snake Music/ASCAP
Used with permission.
Introduckshun
I know what you’re thinking. It’s gotta be one of two things:1. .Who wants to read a book now by or about Alice Cooper?
2. .1 know who Al Kooper is, but I read this book twenty years ago and it was a lot cheaper to buy then.
Let’s clear the air.
This is not a book by or about Vincent Furnier (né Alice Cooper.) It is a book by and about Al Kooper. If you don’t know who Al Kooper is, that’s fine. But don’t let that stop you from perusing these eye-opening accounts of encounters with Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Gene Pitney, The Royal Teens, Bill Graham, Quincy Jones, Blood, Sweat & Tears, Mike Bloomfield, The Rolling Stones, Lynyrd Skynyrd, George Harrison, Miles Davis, The Tubes, Nils Lofgren, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and all the other wonderful people I’ve been fortunate enough to cross paths with over the last forty years.
Yes, the first edition of this book came out twenty years ago, albeit in truncated form. Published in 1977, the original book concerned itself with the years 1958- 1968. That was a fascinating time in American music and general sociology, and that is why I spat out an autobiography at so tender an age. So much happened to me in those ten years, that it lent itself to a fast-paced, adventurous, rather humorous tale of a boy caught up in a wave he could not and would not stop surfing.
As time went by, the book slipped out of print and many other new milestones whizzed by me, until, as I approached my fortieth year in the music business, it became apparent that this book had to live again. But this time, instead of ten measly years, why not let the reader in on forty (1958-1998) wild, metamorphic years that even I can’t believe I’m still alive to recount?
Ben Edmonds worked closely with me on that first book. This version omits his side-bars from that first printing; however, I owe a great debt to him for asking me all the right questions, thereby unlocking the little tidbits of information I had previously forgotten. A lot of his editing is sprinkled in the sections that deal with 1958-1968. From 1968 to 1998 I was strictly on my own.
In 1995, the cult following for the original out-of-print book placed a $100 bounty on its cover for a rare paperback or hard-cover copy. Time has shown that the hard-covered ones all came undone with pages trailing behind them in the wind. This time, we’re publishing in trade paperback only, which means it’s a paperback, but larger in size than the ones you see in the drugstore or at the airport. No hardcovers. It’s only rock ‘n’ roll....
The rather lovely Beverly Keel encouraged me to take the first steps. David Lane ran interference for me so I could sit typing in Nashville for months, uninterrupted. Beverly, Jeff Tamarkin, Kathy Alpert, and Jaan Uhelszki were indispensable in their support and tireless editing. Kathy Alpert kept all the distractions at bay in Boston so that I could finish on deadline. Our band, The Rekooperators—Jimmy Vivino, Anton Fig, and Mike Merritt—still keep the joy and spontaneity in the music for me. And, finally, my dog Daisy was always full of sage advice and had the good sense not to chew up this book.
One of the horrible offshoots of rock ‘n’ roll history books is revisionism. That is, someone who is a lazy researcher publishes an untruth in a book that is used by other researchers. The untruth becomes used so many times that it becomes “the truth.” The difference with this book is that I was present when these events took place and they are not up for conjecture. In the course of the last two weeks, I have read in recently released “factual” books how I dated Linda McCartney before Paul (not true), formed The Blues Project (not true), and many other so-called facts that never happened in my life. I urge the writer who does research to try and speak with someone who was in the room when something happened, as opposed to taking the word of some hack on assignment. Otherwise, we are doomed to see things in the future like The National Enquirer Book of Rock. That would be unfortunate. So strike out against the forces of revisionism and read this book. It’s the truth. It’s factual. Getting the “real” story out to you is satisfactual....
It’s time to get comfortable and begin reading. Because herein are tales told on people, myths debunked, hilarious moments caught in mid-air, and things you couldn’t possibly imagine happening if you were born after 1965. Rare photographs (which include many a fashion faux pas) have been added to document events and make them even more enjoyable. I’m sure this will interest you if you love rock ‘n’ roll. And twenty years from now, God willing, you can pass it on to someone born after 1995 with a subtle, knowing grin on your face.
AI Kooper
April 1998
Preamble: Roots
“New York City, you’re a woman
Cold hearted bitch ought to be your name
You ain’t never loved nobody,
Still I’m drawn to you like a moth to flame....”
“New York City (You’re a Woman)”
Music and lyrics by Al Kooper
© UniChappel Music Inc/S
ix Continents Music/
Sea-Lark Enterprises Inc.
All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Prior to the invention of California, the uncontested center of the music industry universe was a five-block stretch of Broadway in New York City. Three buildings in particular—1619, 1650, and 1697—summed it all up. Like three octogenarians in a rock ‘n’ roll rest home, they each assume very distinct personalities once they start telling their tales about the faces they’ve seen and the times they’ve shared.
1619 Broadway (at West 48th Street) is more commonly known as the Brill Building. Having been constructed in 1931, it is the youngest of the three, and yet it’s the most notorious. It was the first of the lot, however, to gamble on show-biz by painting ASCAP and BMI on its opaque glass doors instead of MD or DDS. The inherent Jewish/Italian balance was not disturbed by this changeover; the fate of those entering the building was merely transposed from healing to stealing.
Throughout the years, revisionist tomes have insisted that the music business rose and fell at the Brill Building. This simply is not true. The Tin Pan Alley era (1930-1955) flourished at the Brill Building, but in the mid-fifties the action moved over to 1650 Broadway, which unlike the Brill Building was an edifice without a name, just a number. All the glory and the music that came to be known as “the Brill Building Sound,” in fact, came from 1650 Broadway. So, what was the Brill Building’s story? Here goes:
The Brill Building stood against a fairly standard New York backdrop of camera stores and record shops that had been going out of business since they opened. One of the most lucrative ventures in this particular neighborhood was painting “Going Out Of Business” signs. To the right of the entranceway you couldn’t miss a gnarled specimen of humanity astride a fire hydrant (his only visible means of support). This was the notorious Broadway Larry, the unofficial doorman of the Brill Building and one of the most outrageous characters in all of New York City. He’d been standing out in front with his shopping bag and unshaven face for as long as anybody could remember, assailing random passersby with an X-rated stream of abuse. When long hair first came into vogue, aspiring hippies were subject to an extra helping of his verbal shit-rain. But the guy’s charm was that he so obviously considered anybody deserving of his hostility. Some of his best victims were immaculately-dressed corporation executives, who’d turn twelve shades of purple when dropped in their tracks by a loud “Hey asshole!” from the lips of my man. A great guy, Broadway Larry; a credit to his race.
The Brill Building was where Elvis Presley’s publishing interests were looked after, and where the entire Southern rockabilly scene came to pick up its weekly allowance checks. It was the base of operations for the Goodman family, who handled the Arc publishing empire, which encompassed the songs of Jimmy Reed, Muddy Waters, Willie Dixon, Chuck Berry, Howlin’ Wolf, and nearly every other Chicago blues singer of note. Arc’s fortunes, unlike those of so many of the other fifties’ musical giants, remained unaffected by the renaissance of the sixties. Every white blues-based band, from The Beatles and Rolling Stones on down, still recorded Arc songs in order to achieve their cultural authenticity.
Bobby Darin, Don Kirshner, Perry Como, and Frank Sinatra were once just faces in the 1619 hallway crowd. Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, the Hardy Boys of rock ‘n’ roll songwriting and refugees from California, set up shop there and ground out “Young Blood,” “Black Denim Trousers and Motorcycle Boots,” “Hound Dog,” and a good piece of the foundation upon which rock was built. Their sixties’ record company Red Bird operated out of the Brill Building.
When Bob Dylan, The Beatles, and others changed the attitude of the music business in 1964, the new messiahs were already ensconced and successful in 1650 Broadway, not wishing to be associated with any bygone era. Nashville went big business, pulling its interests southward. Little by little, 1619’s charisma faded. By the mid-seventies, the Brill Building was only a third occupied. Still, its legend could not be stopped. An older, wiser, Broadway-beaten Paul Simon still has an office there. The superintendent of the building at the time, Mike Mihok, informed me that the film business was now the building’s major source of tenant revenue. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Though 1650 boasted a Broadway address, its entrance was actually on West 51st Street, between Broadway and Seventh Avenue. The building was erected in 1922, when musicians were relegated to using the side door. In contrast to the relative seediness of the Brill Building neighborhood, 1650 was on the perimeter of the theater-hotel district.
In 1945, the building changed hands, and the new owners had the foresight to renovate for the coming musical onslaught. The new music business wasn’t buying the shirt-and-tie, opaque-glass-door ambience of the Brill Building. Believe me, it was necessary for 1650, like so many of its tenants, to maintain a facade of youth. The rents were cheaper than at 1619, and the restrictions were virtually none, rendering it possible for almost anyone to obtain office space if they had a speed-rap capable of clubbing the rental agent into submission. Many did.
Soon 1650 hosted a wide-ranging clientele of hustlers and would-be music moguls who didn’t have the credentials the Brill Building required and therefore had to establish an alternative order. 1650 was not a place in which to rest on your laurels; it was a place to earn them. This kind of tension created by people hungry for success gave the building an electricity that immediately distinguished it from the Brill, and transcended anything that had ever come before it.
Aldon Music, the hottest song-publishing concern of the early sixties and perhaps of all time, dominated 1650’s action. Ironically, as I mentioned before, much of what today is called “the Brill Building Sound” actually originated at 1650 right in Aldon’s offices! The product of Al Nevins, a performer (The Three Suns) and writer (“Twilight Time”), and Don Kirshner, whose television rock programming established him as a mainstay of the seventies, seemed to have the top of the charts padlocked until The Beatles finally intervened. In 1962, Carole King, Gerry Goffin, Barry Mann, Cynthia Weil, Neil Sedaka, Howie Greenfield, Helen Miller, and numerous others competed for space at Aldon’s piano to compose the hits that would monopolize the airwaves. Even The Beatles recorded Aldon songs when they first started out. The standards of today had their origins in 1650 behind Aldon’s doors: “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow,” “On Broadway,” “You’ve Lost That Lovin‘ Feelin’,” “Chains,” “It Hurts To Be in Love,” and “We Gotta Get Outta This Place” are just a fraction of the titles that come to mind.
Though the late George Goldner seldom receives credit, he made records while in residence at 1650 that had as much to do with defining the New York R&B sound as did Ahmet Ertegun over at Atlantic Records. George’s indie labels included Gee, End, and Gone Records. “I Only Have Eyes for You” by The Flamingos, “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” by Frankie Lymon and The Teenagers, “Maybe” by The Chantels, and “Tears On My Pillow” by Little Anthony and The Imperials are just a few of George’s claims to fame. Alan Freed, the Akron, Ohio disc-jockey who made the phrase “rock ‘n’ roll” a household word, and is the father of the radio art form as we know it, maintained an office here, run by his manager, Jack Hooke. For the sake of history, it is interesting to note that Alan Freed’s son, Lance, at the time of this writing, has been running Almo Music—the publishing wing of A & M Records—for the past thirty years. George Goldner’s daughter, Linda, was married to contemporary super-producer Richard Perry and produced several records herself. Until he contracted California fever, Neil Diamond occupied a cubicle at 1650. Leo Rogers, who managed The Royal Teens, and Aaron Schroeder, who today administers the Barry White publishing catalogue, had office space there. It also housed Ray Rand’s cooking little venture, Adelphi Recording Studios. The latter three gentlemen all played an important part in my early education, and we’ll return to them soon.
Above the entrance to the building is a sign bearing the inscription: “1650 Broadway, the best known address in the entertainment f
ield.” An exaggeration, perhaps, but ironically not by all that much. I wish it just said, “The place where rock ‘n’ roll exploded.” So remember—it wasn’t the Brill Building; it was 1650 Broadway. Tell a friend.
1697 Broadway could have been the place where the adjective “funky” was coined. Built in 1907 (my father wasn’t built until 1909) and originally called the Hammerstein Building (my father was originally called Kuperschmidt), this was the smallest and craziest of the three. It penetrated the theater district even further than 1650, and sat in a weird neighborhood hybrid of Cadillac and Chevrolet show-rooms, office buildings, and respectable hotels. On the east side of Broadway, somebody had picked up the tab for extensive renovation in the form of modern high rises, and formerly ugly residences had been transformed into cute little office buildings. But if you walked one block west to Eighth Avenue you’d find yourself in the middle of Dylan’s “desolation row,” an area infested with whore houses, sleazy bars, and porno-supermarkets totally beyond renovation or redemption (although they’re giving it the old college try in the late nineties).
The ground floor of 1697 was given over to the CBS-TV soundstage from which The Ed Sullivan Show beamed its way into millions of American homes every Sunday night (which is about as far from funky as you can get; it is now the TV home of David Letterman). Up the stairs and around the corner, however, lurked the spectre of rhythm and blues, a festering sore on the face of “white American culture.” This building was predominantly rented to African-Americans, to the extent that the few white people who took office space there almost felt obligated to have at least one R&B hit (i.e., The Tokens, Jewish as the driven snow, who produced a sizable R&B hit in “He’s So Fine” by The Chiffons, and later, as publishers, ended up winning a suit against George Harrison for borrowing more than a few bars from their song for his “My Sweet Lord”). Upstairs were countless dance studios, recording facilities (most notably Broadway Recording, now defunct), and rehearsal studios where you’d have to fight for listening space in the stairwells (I did!) when Ray Charles cracked the whip over his big band or James Brown ran his supersweat revue through its paces.
