Backstage Passes and Backstabbing Bastards

by Al Kooper

  Well, here goes, I thought.

  We mounted the stage (show business is so sexual) and tuned up. Just as Bill Graham was about to introduce us Michael grabbed the mike away from him and delivered his own introduction (and I quote):Uhhh ... listen here now, here’s the thing of this gig and here’s ... I’ll tell you about it now. Uh, awhile ago my friend Alan Kooper [AK: It always struck me as weird that Bloomfield always referred to me as Alan, and I referred to him as Michael, as we were commonly known as Mike and Al.] called me on the phone and said, “Let’s make this gig, an LP in Los Angeles, and we’ll jam together and we’ll see what will happen!” So we went and I played, and I played one day in the studio with Alan and I went back to San Francisco where I live [AK: Very good, Michael!] and the other day Stephen Stills played ... and they put out an album called Super Session. [AK: I wish it had been that easy.] And then Alan said, “OK, that’s a groovy thing, let’s play a super session, you know, let’s do a session and play somewhere!” [AK: Yeah, those were my exact words.] So I said, “Awright man!” Now this is exactly what’s gone into this thing, I’ll tell ya about it now—Now we played together once on the LP session, that was the one time, and then we practiced together the three days, the four of us: that’s John Kahn, and Skip Prokop, and Alan. Now, I’ve jammed with John a few times, never with Skip. Alan, I guess, has played with Skip, never with John. [AK: Okay, so now you guess—who fucked the boss’s daughter?] And altogether we’ve played four days and so it’s half a session, you know, half a session because we’re gonna jam because WHAT THE HELL—HOW MUCH DO WE KNOW, and the other half is numbers. But I want you to know this is the truth of where we’re playing. See? Now you know where it’s at ... OK!” [AK: If Bloomfield had written George Bush’s speeches, he’d still be President!]

  That little monologue reduced me to gales of laughter, and I relaxed and played a real comfortable set. Everyone in the band was calm, and it worked. This is not to say that we didn’t make mistakes and fuck up every now and then, but like the man said: “WHAT THE HELL—HOW MUCH DO WE KNOW?” and after all, it’s nice to let people know you’re human beings and not preprogrammed machines vomiting out somebody else’s music. Right? That was our whole concept. We were the anti-band band. We felt anybody had the right to play with anybody for as long as they wanted to, no commitments, no image, just music.

  Anyway, the first two nights went smoothly enough, and I had roughly enough material for an album already. The third morning I got a call from Michael’s wife, Susie, saying, “He’s in the hospital being sedated to sleep; he couldn’t stand it anymore.” (I presume she was talking about not sleeping as opposed to the gig.) Well, he’d done it to me again. So I moseyed on down to the Fillmore office to tell Uncle Bill Graham the good news. I think I’d rather cut my dick off than tell Bill Graham half his show ain’t gonna be there that night. As expected, he went ballistic, screaming as if I’d murdered his best friend. “What the fuck do you want from me?” I responded. “I’m not in the fucking hospital! I’m in your office at noon offering to call everyone in town and you’re chastising me. I’m here ready to play. And the other guy ain’t runnin’ out on your contract. It’s just that he hasn’t slept in a week.”

  All Bill knew was that it said Mike Bloomfield on the poster, and Mike Bloomfield wasn’t gonna be there. He called up Michael’s house and started screaming at Susie; telling her how unprofessional her old man was. She’d just got back from taking Mike to the hospital, and she let go with a barrage that leveled him. He was screaming and she was screaming and ... sometimes I truly hate show business.

  I got on the phone and called Carlos Santana (a local hero not known outside San Francisco at the time), Elvin Bishop, Steve Miller, Jerry Garcia, and others. Once again San Francisco responded, and every musician in town showed up and offered his/her services. It was a helluva show that night. Steve, Carlos, and Elvin all came up and did three or four songs apiece, and we ended playing way past closing time. The audience was happy. Graham was happy. Columbia Records was happy.

  And I was confused. Should we include the playing of the “guest artists” on the album? I mean, it was the essence of the whole concept and it would certainly spice up the record. It would also make it a double album, however, which was not nearly as marketable because of the cost factor.

  Somehow, I was able to convince CBS to release the album under its KGP prefix (two records for only a dollar above the price of one). I think the money boys must have thought long and hard because they were narrowing their profit margin by cost-cutting the follow-up to a Top Twenty album. We were not able to get Capitol Records’ permission to include Steve Miller’s performances (he played great; I still have the tapes!); but Elektra gave us permission to use Elvin Bishop’s stuff, and Carlos, who was a year from releasing his first album, was unsigned at the time and available to be included on the album.

  I must tell you what kind of a guy Elvin Bishop is, because I love him dearly to this day. The track that is included on the album with him is sort of a contest between me, trying to end the song because of curfew, and Elvin, lost in some blues half-dream playing through at least five obvious endings. I thought it added a great touch to the record, and I even explained what was happening in the liner notes so folks could enjoy it.

  Well, late one night after the album had been out a month, I ran into Elvin in a bar. “Hey, Kooper, how ya doin’? By the way I hate you for putting that piece of shit out on your album. It’s terrible and embarrassing and [before I can reply] ah, fuck it! It’s out anyway, nothin’ we can do about it, lemme buy ya a drink!” And off he goes laughing into the night. Now that is a guy at peace with himself.

  After looking through twenty rolls of film shot at the gigs, I couldn’t find anything suitable for a cover. We considered a shot that would be doctored up to look like me and Michael jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, but that got tired fast. One Sunday, I was lying in bed watching Joe Namath and the New York Jets sock it to the Denver Broncos. I’m thinkin’ to myself: “Yeah, ya got long hair—Yeah, ya play rock music for a living—But on Sunday afternoon, just like every other average Joe in America, you’re chillin’ and watchin’ the football game, aren’t ya? Like a Norman Rockwell painting!” All of a sudden it hit me. Norman Rockwell! Let’s get Norman Rockwell to paint a portrait of me and Michael. Is that fucking beautiful or what? I raced for the phone and called Bob Cato, the CBS art director, at home. Is it possible? Can it be done? He said there was actually a good chance and he’d check it out first thing in the morning.

  A rare photo of the “Norman Rockwell Experience, ” a power trio from Nutley, New Jersey, who made one album and then mysteriously vanished off the face of the earth. (Photo: Al Kooper Collection.)

  A week later Michael and I were sitting in a photo studio at CBS waiting for Norman to photograph us so he could paint our portrait. In he strolled, right on time, and Bloomfield, a closet-Rockwell-groupie, just gushed all over him. As it turned out, Michael was wearing his brother’s coat, found a pill in the pocket, and popped it. It was STP (superacid) and he gooned out all over Norman: “Oh man, you’re the best. You should come to San Francisco though, man, you would see such sights there to paint. You wouldn’t believe it. People in robes in the street, mothers suckling their young, I tell you it’s just like Jerusalem, Norman, so whaddaya think?”

  Norman, who was listening intently, just puffed on his pipe and was ... together. He took our pictures and chatted amiably with Michael, thanked everyone, and then was gone like a cool breeze.

  Two weeks later, after Michael had returned home to Marin County, Norman sent me an invitation to his opening at a ritzy New York gallery. First one he’d had in years; I was honored. The missus and I dressed up in the finest rock-star regalia 1968 had to offer (satin pants, Nehru shirt, two-thousand-bead necklaces, embroidered jackets with fur cuffs, etc.) and we trucked on down to the gallery.

  Now, we were about as out of place as Beavis and Butthead would’
ve been at a New Age convention. Rock stars at this time did not mingle with society, and these folks, well, they weren’t shy about looking down their noses as we perused Norman’s great works. And I must say he had an impressive collection of art there. Just when it was getting really uncomfortable, Norman and his great wife came flying in the door, and who did he come over and hug? Not the Vanderbilts, the Rockefellers, or the Von Furstenbergs, but Mr. and Mrs. Beavis Butthead, which caused the black sheep of the party to become the “Who-is-that???” of the evening.

  He yanked us off to the office, where he relaxed and said, “I hate this stuff. I can’t wait to get back home. It’s so nice to see you again. I’m glad you could find the time to attend.” His wife was mostly silent but she had that Norman-is-a-dear-old-guy-isn’ t-he look on her face, and this lady was obviously so much in love and God knows how long they’d been married. Did my heart good, I tell ya. My last words to him that night were, “Paint me a little heavier. It’ll make my parents happy.”

  The painting arrived at CBS seven weeks later (Rockwell was painting Nixon’s portrait at the same time, and it threw him off schedule, not to mention point of reference) in a cheap frame with this note: “Here is The Blues Singers. These boys were the most interesting looking people I’ve ever painted. Thank you. Norman.” Well, except for his portrait of Bertrand Russell, I think he was probably right. If you notice, my face was a little fuller than in real life at that time. My parents were thrilled.

  The painting hung in art director John Berg’s office at CBS for many years. I must confess I tried to steal it on a number of occasions, but only half-heartedly. Now, I regret it. For some reason that has nothing to do with justice, John Berg kept the painting with him when he left CBS. I once found his home number and called him up: “Don’t you think Michael or I deserve that painting? How can you justify keeping it?” His answer was quick: “I’ve considered leaving it to you in my will, but then I know you’d just have me killed.” Well, as Joe Walsh is fond of saying, you can’t argue with a sick mind. Five years ago, I did an interview at a radio station and the disc jockey informed me that his brother now owned the painting. He got him on the phone and his brother told me that he didn’t buy the painting from John Berg. So Berg sold it a long time ago and that’s just how life is.

  A photo of Norman Rockwell’s painting of Bloomfield and myself used as the album cover for The Live Adventures of Mike Bloomfield & Al Kooper. Rockwell dubbed us The Blues Singers. (Photo: Al Kooper Collection.)

  Shortly thereafter, Columbia released the double-album set The Live Adventures of Mike Bloomfield & Al Kooper with the Rockwell portrait on the cover. It began with a version of Paul Simon’s “Feelin’ Groovy,” featuring Paul singing overdubbed harmony with me on the third verse. Included within was an instrumental of The Band’s “The Weight,” Booker T.’s “Green Onions,” Traffic’s “Dear Mr. Fantasy,” and the usual assortment of blues tunes. Guest appearances were credited to Carlos Santana (still unknown) and Elvin Bishop. The record made a handsome profit but never did duplicate the phenomenal success of Super Session. It covered me for awhile, though, as I finally began work on my first solo album.

  Around the time I finished the Live Adventures album (as it came to be called), I was feeling overworked and was sick of being in a studio day after day. Live Adventures was the fourth album in a row I had worked on, and I was burned out. I called my close friend, Denny Cordell, producer of Joe Cocker, Procol Harum, and the legendary Move, who lived in London. “I wanna come over for awhile with Joan to rest from the studio. Please pick us up at the airport and don’t tell a soul that we’re coming. It’s escape time!”

  Denny was an incredible character and deserves a chapter all his own, but that’s for another book at another time. He picked us up at the airport and informed us that The Stones’ office had called him and “did I feel like playing on a few sessions with them?” Oh, no. Not the studio again! I mean it was really an honor and all that, but why did Claudia Schiffer wait until I slept with every woman in town before she slipped her room key into my hand, if you catch my drift.

  We got dropped at our hotel and we just crashed from the flight the whole first day. How did The Stones know I was coming to town? I lay in bed and wondered. The next day we were shopping on Kings Road, and we bumped into Brian Jones in a shirt store: “Are you gonna play the session, Al?” he asked. How can you say no to these people?

  The Stones wanted me for two sessions. I decided to do one and if it was really fun, rock on; if it wasn’t I’d get an ulcer attack the next night and beg off. I think the reason they called me was that their regular keyboard player (Nicky Hopkins) was in the States at the time.

  As usual, I got to the studio early. Charlie and Bill arrived next. I had met them before with Dylan. First-rate, no-nonsense guys. It was good to see them again. I was sitting at the organ sort of nervously doodling around ’til everyone was there but Mick and Keith. Jimmy Miller, an American, was the producer. We exchanged amenities.

  Just then Mick and Keith came exploding in through the door. Mick was wearing a gorilla coat, and Keith had on this sort of Tyrolean hat with a real long feather in it. It was gonna be party time, and they were the party from the moment they arrived. Everyone sat around on the floor with either an acoustic guitar or a percussion instrument, and Mick and Keith played the song they wanted to record until everyone had the chord changes and the rhythm accents. There was a conga player there who could play congas and roll huge hash joints without missing a lick. It was decided I would play piano on the basic track and overdub organ later.

  I got into this groove I had heard on an Etta James cover version of “I Got You Babe” (of all things!). It really fit their song well. Keith picked up on it right away and played a nice guitar part that meshed right with my piano part. While they were getting the sounds they wanted on the instruments, Jimmy Miller was showing Charlie a certain accent he thought would work well on the drums. Charlie just couldn’t seem to get the part and stepped down unhappily to take a break. Jimmy Miller sat down at the drums and remained there playing drums on the take! Charlie was not happy, but remained graceful about it. Mick and Keith played acoustic guitars, I played piano, Bill was on bass, and Brian Jones lay on his stomach in the comer reading an article on botany through the entire proceedings.

  When a proper take was gotten, Keith overdubbed an electric part and I overdubbed the organ. After about four hours of recording, two men showed up with long folding tables and set up a veritable beggars’ banquet of racks of lamb, curries, vegetables, rices, salads, a large selection of wines, and lots of different desserts. Quite a change from a cheeseburger break in the States. I was so full after all that, I almost fucked up the organ part. I had a great time playing, and I was treated regally, so I was actually looking forward to the next evening’s session.

  The song we recorded the first night was “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” which later appeared on the Let It Bleed album and was also the flipside of the single, “Honky Tonk Woman.” I told Jagger that if he ever wanted to put horns on it to call me ’cause I had a great part for it. Almost nine months after that session, an eight-track master of the song arrived at my office one day at CBS. There was a note which said: “Dear Al, you once mentioned you could put some great horn parts on this. Well, go ahead and do it and send us the tape back. Love, Mick.”

  What a memory that Jagger had. I wrote out a horn chart, leaving a spot in the intro where I could play a French horn solo. The intro itself took me three hours to get ’cause I’m not the world’s greatest French horn player, and I wanted to sound like I was. I could never have done it at all without the coaching of one of the best horn players in the country, Ray Alonge. Thank you, Ray. Then I put the rest of the horns on with a studio section. It was a bad night in the studio for me, and the part didn’t come out nearly as good as I thought it might. I crossed my fingers and sent Jagger back his tape. A year later it came out, and they had ditched al
l the horn parts except my little French horn intro. It sounded fantastic on the radio. You could hear the piano and the organ, and they actually gave me credit on the single. Nice guys.

  Back in London, the next night as I was getting ready to leave the hotel for the studio, the phone rang. It was Mick. He and Keith were down in the lobby. They came to pick me up! That night we cut a track from the film Jagger was currently working on, Performance. The song was called “Memo from Turner,” but was not the version used in the film or on the soundtrack album. I believe it was issued on a later album of outtakes. I played guitar with Keith on that one.

  I played one other time with The Stones a few years later at a birthday party for Keith at Olympic Studios in London. They were working on the Sticky Fingers album. After the party, they cleared away the debris and set up to record. They cajoled Eric Clapton, myself, and Bobby Keys to join them in a previously unheard tune called “Brown Sugar.” George Harrison, who was among the partygoers, was invited to play but declined. I read somewhere in an interview with Keith that it came out great and that they would release it someday, but the version on Sticky Fingers is another one entirely.

  I must take this opportunity to say that, over the years, The Stones have always been honorable, great people to hang out with, and the best people to play after-hours music with.

  Before I started my first solo album, I ended up waiting out Blood, Sweat & Tears to see what tunes they were going to do so there would be no duplication. From my original set, they kept “You Made Me So Very Happy,” “Smiling Phases,” “More & More,” and the jam portion of “Somethin’ Going On,” now called “Blues Part IV.” I wrote some new tunes, chose a few others, and took one we had been doing with BS&T that they had opted not to record. While I was working on other projects for Columbia, I would chip away at my solo album in spare moments. I also experimented profusely by using Columbia’s recording facilities in Nashville and Los Angeles as well as in New York.