Now he had me laughing, so I was really helpless. Within minutes my head was spinning. The rap went something like “Sure, Jimmy, go ahead with the book—you can always do the unauthorized if the authorized doesn’t work out … but if you do a book like that, we will have to sue you, of course.” It was classic Elliot—making me feel good and bad without really telling me anything at all.
At times Elliot acted like this book was a threat to his client, but in the end it was Elliot Roberts who got me the most crucial interviews with Neil. I could never figure him out. Period.
There have been other infamous artist/manager teams in rock and roll: Dylan and Albert Grossman. Ray Charles and Joe Adams, Bruce Springsteen and Jon Landau—and, of course, Elvis and Colonel Tom Parker. Elliot Roberts definitely resides in that hall of infamy—and is the only human capable of guiding Neil Young’s career.
HARLAN GOODMAN, Geffen-Roberts employee: I’m on the road with America. I’m in New York, Carnegie Hall. I’m standing by the side of the stage—I’m on stage right, Elliot’s on stage left. All of a sudden a bottle comes out of the crowd, hits the stage. As I look over to Elliot, he’s gone. I grab two security guys. We get into the hallway and I see Elliot moving up the stairs. We get to the top of the stairs just as I see a door close to a private box. I throw open the door and Elliot’s got a chair raised up over his head, screaming, “I’m gonna kill you, you motherfuckers!” These kids are in tears, I say to security, “Take ’em into custody.” Elliot turns to me and goes, “Pretty good, huh?”
WILLIE B. HINDS, aka BABY JOHN, former Geffen-Roberts employee: Filmmaker Robert Downey was about to make Greaser’s Palace. Elliot was handling Jack Nitzsche at the time and Downey wanted Jack to do the music. He comes into Elliot’s office. Elliot wasn’t there yet, so he went into the office to wait. When Elliot walked in, Downey was bent over the desk with his pants down and he said, “Go ahead, Elliot, get it over with—do it to me now.”
AHMET ERTEGUN: Elliot is one of the most soulful managers. He’s not just a manager, he’s a very music-oriented person. He has great regard for whoever he represents and he’s also very financially savvy, so he protects his artists and does what he thinks is best for them. But he’s also a person who cares. A humane person.
GERALD V. CASALE, member of Devo, former client: Elliot can tell ten people ten stories in one hour and they’ll all believe them. It’s amazing—he could pass a lie-detector test. He could be a murderer and absolutely convince the judge he was home with his wife. Elliot was well aware of what his talents were, and he used to let me witness it—sit in the office and watch him tell some guy at the record company, “Neil’s livid, he doesn’t even wanna fucking talk to you,” then call up some agent and go, “Look, I’ll get Neil in line.” Elliot knew if I ever said anything, he’d just deny it. He’s the best liar I ever met, and I don’t say that with any judgment, because to be in this business you have to be an incredibly creative liar.
JOHN HARTMANN, former Geffen-Roberts employee: Once I came down on him. I said, “Elliot, you tell too many unnecessary lies. You don’t have to tell these lies.” Elliot said, “No, man—they want ya to lie for ’em.” So I learned that from Elliot. I would never lie. Now I’ll lie if it’s good business.
DAVID BRIGGS, producer: Elliot’s a great manager—not for me or for Crazy Horse, but for Neil.
Neil is the boss, Elliot is his henchman. That’s all. Everybody tries to blame Elliot for all the problems they have dealing with Neil. Elliot doesn’t make Neil’s decisions for him. Neil makes his own decisions and Elliot carries them out. That’s the way it goes.
GARY BURDEN, art director: Elliot’s a frustrated actor. He’s driven because he always wanted to be Neil, he wanted to be Joni—and in a way, he was. He’s a very endearing character, even though he would cut your throat in a minute. No, let me amend that—five seconds. When Elliot was being a prick, I always used to say, “Elliot, you should just stay funny. You’re really good as a funny guy. You aren’t worth a shit being a prick.”
LESLIE MORRIS, former Geffen-Roberts employee: Elliot’s got such a great sense of humor—if it wasn’t for that, this man would be dead … any of us would’ve killed him.
DEAN STOCKWELL, actor: I love Elliot. I’ve always felt a good thing with Elliot. Why? Does he hate me?
JIM JARMUSCH, director: I used to scream and swear, “Who is this Elliot Roberts? Why can’t I get to Neil?” Now I see what kind of job he has. Elliot doesn’t know either what Neil’s gonna do next. Elliot doesn’t control him. And Elliot’s often put in a position of having to speak for what Neil’s going to do.
JEFF WALD, childhood friend, fellow manager: Elliot’s had a longer marriage with Neil than with any of his wives. I keep tellin’ him, “Elliot, don’t ya fuck him and get him pregnant.”
HARLAN GOODMAN: This is a man who loves and worships his children, probably to a fault. That’s all he has to do—invoke one of the names of his kids and I go, “All right, Elliot, I’ll do it. What?”
LESLIE MORRIS: Elliot wastes money like you wouldn’t believe. He didn’t wash socks, he threw them out and bought new ones. He’d leave a rental car running in front of the airport and they’d call three days later. He doesn’t care. He just doesn’t care. That was always the thing about him.
WILLIE B. HINDS: Elliot doesn’t tell you how he feels, he doesn’t say what’s on his mind. Nobody knows what he’s thinkin’. And he prides himself on that. He doesn’t crack. You could beat this guy over the fuckin’ head, he does not crack. And it’s killing him.
RON STONE, childhood friend, former Geffen-Roberts employee, fellow manager: Somehow Elliot made Neil’s agenda work. He took Neil’s most insane moments and he made it work. Five years later, everybody thought Tonight’s the Night was a great idea.
You don’t really manage Neil—you help Neil do what he’s decided to do. I think one of the reasons that relationship has lasted so long is because Elliot gets it. He understands what Neil is trying to do.
ELLIOT ROBERTS: You need a vision. You gotta see what’s different about this guy playing from everyone else that’s playing, because everyone else has the same instrument in their hands. Is this someone unique, special, one of a kind? That’s all I try to get involved in. Because it’s a long-term thing. You don’t make any money in managing for the first two, three, years of an act. You put in more than you get out. There aren’t that many people who are willing to take the time to let it happen and not sell it out.
You need a great artist. I can’t just do it with everybody. I’ve done it with a lot of people, I’ve failed a lot of people … it’s the artist, ultimately. I couldn’t write all those great fuckin’ albums for Neil, or have the pain that he has so he could get those emotions out. I can protect him, I can showcase him, I can make sure when it’s special, everyone knows. It’s not all “This is great, everything outta this guy’s mouth is the best.” I don’t hype every album.
Neil has the privilege of doing things and creating without any governor at all. And that’s somethin’ I give him, that’s not somethin’ anyone else gets. Took us a long time to get that—and we fight for that every day still.
You gotta always be very honest, ’cause the only thing you have in your relationship is honesty. In a manager/artist relationship, he’s gotta count on that—that this is important, that it is happening, this is how it’s perceived, that is what’s going on. You really have to have that belief, that bond. That whatever else, his best interest is at heart—win or lose, good or bad, mistake or failure, that’s your intent. His best interest is your first thought. Success and failure will happen—you will fail, you will succeed, you will make mistakes, but you can’t live a lie, because that always brings the relationship into question. It’s like the first time you get caught cheating by your girlfriend or your wife. It’s just never, ever the same again.
I think of myself as this mad-professor kind of manager. I don’t like managers who are very together, because
they tend to really suck. Because that’s not what managing’s about. You can get an accountant or a bookkeeper to keep you in order, but that doesn’t help you break an act. That doesn’t help you maintain a record. The secret to really good management most of the time is to do nothing. It’s got nothing to do with neatness or your portfolio or your briefcase or how many phone numbers you’ve got. It’s circumstance, stroke-of-luck. It’s about seeing an opportunity and taking advantage of it.
I’m a tough negotiator. Everyone has to negotiate through me. I make everybody’s deal. I make David Briggs’s deal. So when he wants more money or thinks he deserves more and I say no, we clash. Then there’ll be a period of two or three years where he’ll hold a grudge. That’s just a fact of life … but I do that with every musician we play with.
That’s what makes you a tough negotiator—when you don’t give a shit. If you can just say, “No, I’m sorry, thank you very much for coming,” you’re gonna get what you want more often than not. I was always willing to pass. And Neil is always willing to pass. Always, from the beginning.
I think I’m tough. Have you ever met a guy in my position who thought he was a pussy? I’m tough, but I’m fair…. No—I think I’m way tough, and I don’t think I’m fair at all. Fairness comes into the equation sometimes, but when I deal with Neil for Neil, I don’t care what’s fair—I only care what Neil wants. Not what’s fair.
I’m too nice. I am. I’m too artist-oriented. My artists own everything and always have. All the other managers own all the continuing participation in their artists and took their publishing and did all that shit and at least are partners. I’ve never ever done any of that. Grossman probably defined what managers are. Albert was a great manager. Beat all his clients, though.
Has Neil ever let me down? Are you kidding? I could’ve got off the hook this summer with the IRS if that cocksucker would be touring. As a friend he’s always been there, every time I’ve ever asked anything of him or needed him to be my friend—on a my-relationships-are-falling-apart-divorces-my-life’s-in-shambles level, he’s never let me down.
Neil’s let me down professionally sometimes when he’s committed to things and I’ve made plans and he changes his mind—and I look like an idiot. Where I’ve given my word that we’ll do this, ’cause he’s told me to do it. He’s done that about thirty times. As a matter of fact, thirty would be undercutting it. Nine hundred.
You never know which Neil you’re dealing with. Some Neils give me great latitude, some Neils want to see each and every thing that goes out. You learn over the years. I know when I can push him … or can’t.
It’s funny. Neil and I used to have this joke—whenever we were asked to do anything, a commercial, even a TV show—I would say to Neil, “What would Bob Dylan do?” From, like, the very beginning. That’s how we made our decision. And years later I’m managing Bob, and some decision came up, he turns to me and goes, “What would Neil do?”
Now I’m an elder statesman. I’ve lived one of the great lives, I’m one of the luckiest motherfuckers that ever lived, so I don’t lie awake goin’, “I wonder what sales will be like tomorrow? Will KROQ add the record?” None of it can get to me at this point.
Elliot Roberts was born Elliot Rabinowitz in the Bronx on February 25, 1943. His father was a waiter at the Waldorf-Astoria, president of the local union and active in civil rights; his mother was a homemaker who seldom strayed from the Bronx half-block that was home to so many other Jewish refugees. Both parents fled the Nazis, and eleven of Elliot’s relatives died in Auschwitz. “Leo and Mitzi, they were tough,” said his friend Jeff Wald. “You didn’t come from where they came from in Eastern Europe, in the era they came here, without being tough. Elliot’s mother never understood his involvement in show business. After Elliot became a millionaire, she’d say, ‘Tell him to quit this stuff with the long hair—he should go to the garment center.’” Added Roberts, “Rassy and my mother were very much the same. She was real dominating.”
Roberts attended DeWitt Clinton High School, where he was the only white kid on both the track and basketball teams and learned to use humor as a defense. “I was gawky. My nose was broken eight times ’cause I played basketball with guys who hurt you. I was never like this great-looking guy, and I wasn’t a tough guy. So I was funny.”
As a teenager Elliot was in a gang called the Fordham Daggers (“Back then being in a gang meant you carried an antenna”) and sang in an a cappella group, the Crestones. After a brief, fruitless tenure at Bradley University (attained via a basketball scholarship), Roberts returned to New York. He decided to study acting and began hanging out at the Cafe Au Go-Go in hopes of becoming a stand-up comic.
While working as an NBC page and dealing pot on the side to augment his income, Roberts was asked to represent a fellow page and aspiring singer. Not having a clue as to what an agent did, he turned to the owner of the Au Go-Go, Howard Solomon. “Howard told me that the guys he respected were not agents—they’re all slime, they have to sell shit—but managers, they’re the clever guys, they get the money. Managing is where it’s at—you get control, you tell people, ‘Fuck you!’ Agents can’t, because they gotta deal with the guy again. Managers can say ‘Fuck you!’ I always remembered that. Now I wanted to be a manager.”
While peddling the singer’s demo tape, Roberts met Hal Ray, a William Morris agent who got Elliot, now turning twenty, a $65-a-week job in the agency’s highly competitive mail room. It was there that Elliot encountered David Geffen.
“All these other William Morris guys were like dorks, unbelievably square. Everyone was afraid of Geffen except me—he thought I was funny. His vibe, even then … David was beyond. The very first time I ever went over to David’s house, he played me a Buffy Sainte-Marie album, Now That the Buffalo’s Gone. By the second song he’s in tears. Literally. Tears are running down his face and I had to hold him.”
Roberts’s pot-smoking—and general lax behavior—drove Geffen crazy. “I couldn’t smoke in front of David. I would have to go out, even when I was over at his house. It freaked him out. He was incredibly straight—no one knew he was gay, nor was he very into guys. David wasn’t into anything. He was into planning and thinking and seeing who was out there that he could get.”
Geffen took the rather green Roberts under his wing. “David taught me shit from the first day. He told me, ‘Elliot, first—this coming in at eight o’clock! You meet me here at five-thirty, we’ll have coffee, we’ll be in the office at six, and I’ll show you how you use the mail room.’ David Geffen would get in at six in the morning and steam open everybody’s mail.”
Roberts was present for an infamous episode in Geffen’s climb to the top: He had lied on his application, claiming to have graduated from UCLA with honors, and when UCLA wrote back to William Morris informing them Geffen’s credentials were false, Geffen intercepted the letter. “We went to Forty-second Street together. He had the stationery duplicated, typed in what a great student he was, put it back in and delivered it himself—to the head of personnel.”
Roberts was stunned. “It never entered my mind that you could do that—do it—never mind that it was, like, the thing to do. To David it was the way to go. And I went, ‘Wow, this man’s awesome.’ David instinctively knew he wasn’t gonna be anybody’s patsy. He was no one’s chick, as they say.”
Geffen set a record at William Morris by getting out of the mail room in six months; a feat he pulled off, once again, by steaming open mail and finding out that Danny Thomas wanted a new agent. Posing as just the William Morris agent Thomas needed, Geffen nabbed the star, then used his new clout to get promoted to head of TV packaging. Roberts was right behind him.
Bob Chartoff and Irwin Winkler were managers heading out to Hollywood and looking for someone to run their talent stable, which consisted of a bunch of stand-up comics and folksinger Buffy Sainte-Marie. Roberts got the gig and in the process got close to Sainte-Marie, who turned him on to a tape of a folksinger named Joni Mit
chell, whose “Song to a Seagull” Sainte-Marie had just covered. A maverick talent, complicated beyond belief, Mitchell would be a galvanizing force in Roberts’s life as well as the California rock scene.
Mitchell was appearing at the Cafe Au Go-Go, so Roberts went to check her out, “and she blows me away. I stay for two sets, and after that I go back to Joan and say, ‘You kill me. I think I’m in love with you. I’d do anything to manage you.’” Mitchell, who had just split from her manager/husband, Chuck, was booking all her own gigs at the time and, as she recalls, “I said, ‘Why should I cut you in? I’m doing quite nicely.’” The next day Mitchell had to head out for a show at the Checkmate club in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She invited Roberts to tag along—if he paid his own way.
In Michigan, both got high in their respective rooms before the gig, without telling each other. “We all smoked pot back then, but nobody told each other,” said Mitchell. The club was directly across from where the pair were staying, but Elliot, a manager for only about seven days and stoned out of his brain, proceeded to get his artist lost—inside the hotel. “We couldn’t find our way out,” said Mitchell. “We went through soup kitchens—and all the time Elliot was makin’ these jokes. He had me in stitches.”
Arriving at the gig forty-five minutes late, Mitchell got a standing ovation after the first number, and “I grinned so wide that my upper lip stuck to my gums. My mouth was dry from pot, and Elliot was the first one to pick up on it. He started doing shtick in the audience and made me laugh all the more. So I said, ‘Okay—I’ll cut ya in. Just for the jokes, y’know.’ I was his first racehorse.”
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