Backstage Passes and Backstabbing Bastards

by Al Kooper

  Everyone was a little uptight as we climbed aboard that first day, but Stanley had an excellent planeside manner and, placing Danny in the copilot’s seat (he was the most nervous and Stan figured if Danny could see everything was OK, he’d be cool), he taxied down the runway and took off directly into a huge blizzard. The plane bounced around the sky like some crazed pinball, but it’s different somehow when you can see the pilot, hear the radio transmissions, and see out the front window. There’s no element of doubt, no matter how bouncy the ride. Suddenly, Stanley pointed off to the right side and announced we were in the area. “There’s the runway,” he said, and we all looked down. It looked like a teenie black magic marker line on a huge sheet of fluffy white paper. He swung around and headed straight for it. The plane was swaying from side to side but he was dead on it and he landed smoothly to a standing ovation (well, half-standing). We never thought twice (well, maybe once) about flying with him again.

  Sometimes we’d take turns sitting in the copilot’s seat, and Stanley would let us take the wheel and steer the plane. I had it once and was supposed to maintain an altitude of 7,000 feet. I held the wheel steady as a rock for forty-five seconds until I Stanley nudged me, saying, “You better bring it up a little; you’ve just dropped 1,500 feet.” It’s a good thing he never passed out or anything. That wheel is so sensitive—don’t believe those movies where the stewardess ends up flying the plane!

  Once we had a show in Canada and we couldn’t get Pell. It was the opening of Montreal’s Expo, and we were playing in Place de Nations, which held close to 100,000 people. Everything converged on this boxing ring (!) that was used as a stage in the center of the arena. You’d think they would’ve erected a real stage or something for the fucking Montreal Expo. No way. So it was with great trepidation that we stepped through the ropes and addressed this mostly French-speaking, short-haired audience.

  It took us about five seconds into the first song to realize that the “sound system” for our concert was also the same one that the announcer would use to say, “And in this corner, weighing 215 pounds....” We looked at each other, somehow made it through one more instrumental (singing was impossible in a room that size with a tin-horn PA system), and then departed rather ungracefully through the ropes in the general direction of the dressing rooms, dodging a hail of bottles as we went.

  Andy went to the bathroom and didn’t return. Our roadie rescued him from a slicing at the hands of a couple of young punks. The climax of all this bad feeling was a short but genuine fistfight between Steve and myself. Both our nerves were short and shot, and somebody said something dumb to somebody and that was it; flailing arms everywhere.

  Like I said, we were with a new pilot on this trip. The pilot, it seems, had inhaled a few drinks at the gig (which is against the law, by the way) but no one got on his case. He still had to fly us home, after all, and nobody wanted an angry, drunk pilot, did they? We got back on the plane real shaken. He taxied to the runway; so far so good. Fingers crossed. He revved up the engines for takeoff and then his haughty voice came over the intercom: “Fasten your seat belts, kiddies, it’s time to cheat death once again!”

  Danny was especially terrified during this two-hour jaunt and, as we thankfully began our descent over New York, Kalb began howling in pain. It seems that his ears were bothered by the pressure drop, an affliction that can sometimes befall anyone who flies, and he was in terrible pain. We made three separate descent attempts courtesy of our polluted pilot. Finally, with mostly green faces and Danny locked in Roy’s arms howling away, we dropped down to terra firma, grateful to be alive. For the most part, however, flying was a commonplace thing to us, and I never thought too much about it. It was like getting on a subway or a bus to go to work in the morning.

  Limousines also found their way into our lives at this time. We got a big kick out of the incongruity of it all; chauffered Cadillacs picking us up at our slumboxes in the Village. Danny’s place was the most urbane, to put it politely, of all our abodes, and it was real cute picking him up on Welfare Avenue while he glanced nervously from side to side to make sure no one saw. We were all really poor at this time. I think our take from the band was an individual salary of $150 a week. It was embarrassing to get caught by our contemporaries in the limo, ’cause it was contrary to our image (De Blues Project Gets Down Wit Da Peoples, Right On). But if anybody stared in the windows at us, they’d find five third-fingers raised skyward for their trouble: the Blues Project salute.

  The first night I rented a limo on my own tab, The Blues Project was headlining at Town Hall in New York City. I was separated from my wife and wanted to celebrate the show afterwards with my new girlfriend, Joan, and damn the cost. My wife had asked for four comp tickets to the show, for her and three friends. I found this quite unusual. After the show, they came backstage, and one of her “friends” served me with a divorce subpoena! I had to let the limo go and return home to call my lawyer. I was furious!

  I remember the destruction of one of the last bastions of our collective sanity; the crack that caused the dam to burst. It was the day that Steve, who wore his hair combed straight back, came to rehearsal with a genuine Beatle haircut. God, we gave him so much shit, but at the same time we were proud of him. He had sacrificed his previous image (which wasn’t shit, anyway) on the Scissored Cross of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Actually, it was his mother who cut his hair. With this one great transformation to her credit, and the fact that she came cheap, Mrs. Katz became the official Blues Project barber. There were no hip barbers or haircutting establishments in those days (1965); even in the Village you took your chances. Naturally, it would soon change. But for then, Steve’s mom was the Vidal Sassoon of our world.

  Steve lived at home but he was unusually tight with his parents; so tight that he even used to bring girls home after gigs. I couldn’t relate to it. I mean, a gal schleps all the way to the suburbs so she can bed this rock star, and next morning wakes up to the mother making pancakes and the father pulling out the family album. If I’d been his date, I couldn’t have handled it. But Steve made out OK, so what did I know? Andy lived with his wife, Phyllis, in a tidy little apartment on Perry Street. Danny, as I implied before, lived in a place that would give any parent nightmares. For a kitchen he had a two-warmer hotplate. That was it, no refrigerator or even a sink. After visiting his apartment once, I never questioned Danny’s right to sing the blues. Roy lived on the Lower East Side in a little pop-art cubbyhole where he collected fabrics and presidential seals. I think I was only there once; we used to room together on the road, but off it Roy kept pretty much to himself.

  I lived in a six-flight walkup on Lexington Avenue at 35th Street. I was living with Joan, a woman-child who was soon to become the next in my procession of marital mishaps. My first marriage had gone bad with all the changes in my life. Judy remained the same person she always had been, while I popped out of the Dylan cocoon a completely new person. This new butterfly barely knew his wife and all our little differences widened into an irreconcilable chasm. I knew it was over but couldn’t find the right moment to confront the situation. She became accidentally pregnant and refused to have an abortion, which was illegal and slightly dangerous at the time. I saw myself in the near future, trapped in a marriage with our new baby as the jailer. My twenty-two-year-old mind decided to bail before that cute baby-face snared me in for the next eighteen years. We split early in her pregnancy. It was an ugly confrontation and I’m not proud of it. Fortunately, at the age of eight, our son came back into my life where he remains today, close to my heart. But my abandonment of Judy during her pregnancy was perceived by her as an act of selfishness on my part for which I may never have been forgiven.

  Everyone was a serious pothead by this time except Danny. In 1965, I’d had a Thanksgiving party at my apartment in Queens and Danny got loaded with us and we loved it. He confessed that the only other time he’d gotten high was during the Cuban Missile Crisis, because he thought we all were gonna die and he
wanted a headstart to heaven. But I was high all the time. Before I went to sleep I’d stash a joint under my pillow so I could get loaded before my feet touched the ground in the morning (which they seldom did). And, of course, we were influenced by the sensibility of the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night. Our movie, which was never realized, had some fabulous footage in it. I’ll recount to you a random scene from our true-life screenplay:

  In mid-1966 there was this huge one-night blues festival at the State University of New York at Stonybrook, on Long Island. We were the headliners. This is where The Blues Project Live at Town Hall was actually recorded, but Town Hall sounds much better than SUNY at Stonybrook, so don’t tell anyone, and I won’t either.

  Anyhow, it was an important night to us. We went out there early in the afternoon to check the recording balances and make sure everything was A-OK. It took all day, and we finished just as they let the people in to take their seats. The line-up was Chuck Berry, Muddy Waters, Richie Havens, John Lee Hooker, Dave Van Ronk, David Blue, and us. While the rest of the band watched the show, I escaped with a newly acquired female “special friend” in search of a place to get better acquainted. We ended up consummating our mutual feelings for each other on the indoor handball court. Just as we were concluding, our roadie burst in. “All Where the fuck have you been? Everyone’s looking for you,” he shouted, glancing at his watch.“Holy shit! You got forty-five seconds before we’re announced!”

  Blues Project ’67 in its final throes; on the Upbeat TV show, Cleveland, Ohio. (Left to right) Roy, Andy, AI, Danny, Steve. (Photo: George Shuba—courtesy of David Spero Collection.)

  Well, you know the bit where you’re running and pulling your pants on at the same time. I mean no time for a fond farewell or even a kiss goodbye. I made it backstage just as they’re announcing the band. In full gallop I leapt onstage half-dressed. Danny was already into the intro to our opener, “Goin’ Down Louisiana” (I had been Goin’ Down Linda myself). I had pants and a white tee shirt on, that’s it. No sox, no shoes. (Usually, I took the opportunity of appearing onstage to indulge my taste in sartorial splendor. There were kids who’d come to see us just to laugh at my clothes.) So when the spotlight hit me for my solo and the band saw me for the first time in just a tee shirt with a huge hickey on my neck (which I, of course, hadn’t seen), they could barely keep playing, they were laughing so hard. It was wonderful.

  The time came to complete Projections, our second album, and to get it out as soon as possible. Pressure again. It was always rush time when we were supposed to record. In those days (’66) the artists did not have anywhere near the control they do today. They had no say in what studio was used, had no concept of the stereo mixing processes, and were seldom consulted regarding the cover art. Sometimes (as with the Byrds on “Mr. Tambourine Man”) they didn’t even play on their own records. We just played and prayed. At least we got to play on our records (maybe that’s what our problem was).

  We used to get the spare time The Animals weren’t using. Verve would call us the day before and say, “OK, tomorrow from one to six you’re at Regent Studios and we need to get three tracks cut.” Tom Wilson would be there. Since he produced both us and the Animals, I’m sure he didn’t know who was gonna walk in the door at one o‘clock; he just sat there and ground ’em out. They’d set us up and we’d play our little hearts out. Three takes a tune was all we were allowed, due to time restrictions. But we didn’t know any better. I was always amazed when I heard other records that were so precise; I thought everyone made records the way we did.

  One day we were recording “Two Trains Running,” which was ten minutes long and one of our live cornerstones. There were many tempo changes and subtleties in it. We were halfway through it and no one could even see anyone else ’cause they had all these partitions and isolation screens up, yet we were playing it better than we ever had. Danny was singing it live and doing an incredible job and I was ecstatic. We got to a real quiet spot in the song and suddenly Danny’s saying, “Stop the tape. Hold it. I can’t go on!” We put down our instruments and looked at each other. I could see in everyone’s eyes that, yes, everyone thought it was the best we’d ever played it.

  Not Danny. I guess the isolation and the fact that he was having trouble hearing his guitar and keeping it in tune threw him. So we took a break for awhile and then started from the beginning again. And we lost that whole take. Nowadays, they would keep it and have us start where it broke down, finish it and splice it all together; we could’ve been heroes, but it was not to be on that day in 1966. So we were playing it again and all of a sudden magic happened: We got to the same spot, a place where the band just stops cold for four beats. One of Danny’s strings slipped a half-tone out of tune, and he used that space to play a riff incorporating the necessary tuning back up of the string. Clever. We all kept going and finished the take. When we played it back, the one lick was so incredible that it warranted keeping that take for the album. Listen for it.

  Two of my new songs, the first I had ever written all by myself A.D. (after drugs), were included on the new album. “Fly Away” was a transition song; like a lyrical bridge between my two marriages. The other was “Flute Thing,” the song that changed Andy’s life. Andy was primarily a flautist, but aside from a lick here or there he had no vehicle to showcase that skill in our band. One night in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the floor of Jill Henderson’s apartment, while Danny was cooking beef stroganoff for everyone (God, what a stickler for detail that Kooper is!), I composed a little instrumental on Danny’s acoustic guitar. It was based on a cadenza played by Barney Kessell at the conclusion of some jazz tune.

  In those days, Andy carried his flute everywhere. Not that he would play it all the time, but it was his last link with the classical world, and I guess he needed some reassurance. Well, out it came and he quickly digested this bit of pap I had dashed off. Soon we were rolling all over Jill’s apartment with our new song. Two days later we were playing it on stage with extended solos by everyone except poor Steve, who was relegated to playing the bass in order to free Andy up to play the flute. Later on, Andy, frustrated at not being able to be heard over our OV (oppressive volume), surprised us by matter-of-factly drilling a hole in his precious flute and installing an electric pickup. There was no looking back now; the Buffalo Philharmonic would not have stood for any of this tomfoolery. Andy’s flute, along with Steve’s slicked-back hair, both were now casualties of the rock ‘n’ roll revolution.

  The electrification of the flute was added, unfortunately, after we’d hastily recorded “Flute Thing.” However, this was just the beginning for Andy, who appears to have been, chronologically, the first electric flautist of note. Not satisfied with that distinction, he concocted a complex and expensive set of pedals and effects for his instrument, which he was always primping and improving in his spare time. It used to sound incredible (he incorporated time delay, fuzz tone, wah-wah, and echo effects), but it pissed the rest of us off because we ended up spending more money on that one damn song than for anything else on stage. Not to be outdone, I started collecting weird percussion instruments (Pakistani bells and toy pianos, styrofoam blocks, and Indian clappers) and integrating them into the freer sections of the song just to bust Andy’s balls.

  Projections was released in mid-1966. Its initial sales surge was almost three times that of our first album. We were movin’ on up. This time out I’d written four of the nine songs on the album and was becoming more than the “piano player in the corner” that I’d initially envisioned myself as. I was being consumed by an inner drive to do more than that.

  This, of course, caused tremendous conflict in the band. The group, once entirely Kalb-driven, was now up for grabs. And it was a knock-down, drag-out battle for control, to say the least. Danny was, is, and always will be a traditional bluesman. I was, am, and always will be a rock ‘n’ roller. It was a battle between the purist and the bastardizer.

  I used to carry around a cane “for effec
t” until one day, in an argument, I realized I was capable of bashing Danny’s head in with it, and threw it away. But I don’t wish to mislead you. It was all of us. We had nothing in common other than music and being Jewish and maybe that is why the band was so strident and energy-filled. It certainly didn’t do much for our mutual communication. But, as I mentioned before, somewhere down there was the deep love we had for each other and the musical Frankenstein we had created together. Once, in an effort to confront all the inner demons, we sat down together in a psychiatrist’s office and had what was probably the first rock group therapy session. It was like an emotional Fourth of July. Everybody got their deep-seated animosities out and the air was charged with discontent and the psychiatrist’s fee. We realized that if we had one more session, we could grow closer as people, but the band would have to die. That was the finale of rock group therapy. Everybody came out of the hostility closet all at once, and the fur began to fly. Danny didn’t like this about Roy, Steve didn’t like that about me, etc. One session.

  It was around this time that we made a shift in management. We had outgrown Jeff Chase, who was basically Danny’s and Roy’s high school chum. When Jeff was handed his pink slip, he ran to the attorneys. We ended up negotiating a $20,000 settlement with him. This financial setback eventually killed us. We were never able to overcome it.

  At any rate, we went manager shopping and, let me tell you, I’d rather comparison shop for diarrhea. Only rodeos have more bullshit than we encountered in our quest for our next career guide. After a month of eeny-meeny-miny-mo, the burden of our future success fell into the soft hands of one-time concert promoter Sid Bernstein. Sid, who was a serio-jolly fellow and claimed to believe in the blues crusade, also managed The Rascals, who were doing quite well at the time. Our performing price soon doubled, but our salaries remained the same due to Jeff’s management settlement and our increased overhead. In retrospect, I figure that getting any richer might’ve corrupted the music, so maybe it was just as well.