Shakey

by Jimmy McDonough

  He was well aware. “Almost everybody thinks I’m not happy. Must be the look on my face … I don’t know what the fuck it is. Everybody says that about me.”

  Young maintained he was searching for balance, for a way to do all the things he wanted yet still have a life. “Be efficient without being consumed, but still get it done. There’s a way to do it. Most people, by the time they figure it out they’re so old they can hardly do it. Somewhere … it’s in there somewhere.”

  He took a sip from a glass of cabernet. “If I can do that, I’ll be okay…. To have the intensity I have and still be able to pull back—I’ve been able to do it before, but I’ve gotten more intense.”

  No question about that. I told him sometimes I thought he might end up like Rassy, holed up alone in some beachfront pad, ranting at the world.

  “Yeah. And go completely nuts!” He grinned. “I can see how it could happen. But my dad … that’s the other side of me, see? He’s consumed by his writing—but he goes out to the farm and writes, then he walks around, seasons change, got his friends, likes to hang out with ’em. That’s half me. I can draw on that.”

  I stared hard at the guy. For five years he’d been my obsession. Day and night. It never stopped. I had hounded Young. Interrogation after interrogation, pummeling him with questions. But what did it all add up to? Neil had no more idea why he’d written “Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing” than I did.

  “In the end, life is a private act,” writes Lola Scobey. “We do not know what another man feels when he thinks his thoughts. We see what we see, hear what we hear, read what we read, and are puzzled by the rest.”

  As banal as this is going to sound, it was actually beginning to poke through my thick skull that Young wasn’t his music or his persona—he was a human being. But did he want the world to see him as an album cover or as a person? Innaresting question.

  It would be a few months before I’d see Young, along with Briggs and the Horse, again. I’d heard a lot about how Shakey changed direction, but now I’d witness the brutality of it firsthand, and it would take place during the most surreal circus of all: Neil Young’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

  vampire blues

  “If they’re big, they’re here. Even if they’re sick, they have to show. For players and hustlers, tonight’s the night,” said Waterface, standing in the lobby of that swankiest of swank hotels, the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City, where, on January 12, 1995, his old pal Neil Young was to be inducted into the 4,716th annual Roque & Rolle Hall of Fame. Yes, all the glamour and glitz that was rock music in the nineties, and you could reach out and TOUCH it. Stick out your nose and smell it all around you.

  I saw a Tears for Fears guy in the hallway, pouting under his big black hair, and somebody mumbled that Don Johnson and Melanie Griffith were there. Otherwise it was aging rock critics, music-hating record execs and a sea of MTV cameras. Squint and you might hallucinate somebody under thirty. There was no way Neil Young was gonna make good music here. There was nothing at stake.

  “Nobody should be playing rock and roll anymore—no exceptions,” wrote Richard Meltzer in 1998. “It’s about as urgently needed—as opposed to socially, culturally compulsory—as making papier-mâché frog masks. It was possibly once needed, but that was before it was everywhere—when you didn’t hear it in supermarkets or coming out of every Mercedes at a stoplight—before ‘rock-surround.’ What we need now is to turn it off. What was once liberating has become irredeemably oppressive. It exists to make you stupid—like sitcoms or the news or college football or your parents, for crying out loud.”

  Sitting in the balcony of the Waldorf, eating multi-colored curlicues off a thousand-dollar plate, I couldn’t argue.

  “The first thing I think is, what about Billy and Ralph and Poncho? Why isn’t Crazy Horse there?” Young had said in regard to the Hall of Fame induction the previous November. “They’re gonna be hurt. Some part of them is gonna say, ‘Shit, I was there, I did all that. Why am I not there?’” Young’s solution was to fly them in, along with Briggs, Ben Keith and their mates.

  Since recording Sleeps with Angels, Young and the Horse had played four gigs, all of them benefits. They were unique shows, with a remarkable “Down by the River” at Farm Aid and a rare “Helpless” during a Sedona, Arizona, benefit for the Native American Scholarship Fund on October 22, 1994. But Poncho felt energy flagging during ranch rehearsals just prior to the Hall of Fame ceremony. Young had already told the band he was going to use them for the Lollapalooza festival the next summer. Perhaps the Horse was getting too comfortable.

  The plan was to go to the Hall of Fame induction, then leave the next day for Washington, D.C., for a two-day Voters for Choice benefit Pearl Jam had asked Young to play. The afternoon of the induction, I stopped by a Times Square rehearsal hall where Young was to prep the Horse for a possible performance that evening. He hadn’t shown up and energy was low. A sullen Briggs stretched out on an equipment case and slept.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Young arrived, and the band began to play a melancholy, note-perfect “Trans Am.” Then they tried a couple of new songs. Young said the then untitled “Song X” was melodically inspired by “Teddy Bear’s Picnic.” “Act of Love,” spurred by the upcoming D.C. benefit, was a murky rocker touching on the different sides of the abortion debate without offering any answers. “The connotations of an act of love are deep, multilevel,” Young told me. “You can say that over and over again and it’ll give you a different idea every time.”

  Working out “Act of Love” seemed particularly frustrating for Young, who was determined to get Billy Talbot to ease into the song instead of attacking it from the first note. “This’ll never be on the radio, Billy, so it doesn’t matter how long it is. We can build it.” Young seemed antsy. Change was in the air.

  Earlier in the day at the Waldorf, Elliot Roberts had been on the phone with Danny Goldberg, the momentary new head of Warner’s.

  Roberts was ecstatic. He’d scored big. A corporate shake-up had forced out Warner Bros.’ beloved head, Mo Ostin, with Lenny Waronker soon to follow. The matter was handled badly, resulting in a ton of bad press for the company. In the midst of all this, Young was renegotiating his contract, and the timing couldn’t have been better. In the heat of his comeback, the musician was the biggest symbol of what the label traditionally stood for, and it was of paramount importance to keep him. Goldberg had been appointed CEO, but following Ostin was a thankless task, and many artists were grumbling. “I personally like Danny; I think he’s very talented,” Roberts told Newsweek. “But Neil has no idea who he is.” (That quip alone, producer Lorne Michaels told Elliot, jacked up Young’s staying price more than a few bucks.)

  This was the sort of situation Roberts thrived on. He met with a couple of other labels, then, following the outline of a dream he’d had, informed Goldberg that he was messengering over a one-page outline of terms and that there were to be no negotiations. Warner Bros. had one day to decide whether they were accepting or rejecting the terms. “Danny called me back the next day and said, ‘It’s a done deal.’”

  The five-album contract was reportedly for $3 million an album, plus a $10-million signing bonus. In addition, Roberts had accomplished the unheard of: regaining control of publishing assigned to Atlantic’s Cotillion Music back in the Springfield days. The pact covered all of Young’s songs from 1966 to 1970 and included such hits as “Helpless,” “Only Love Can Break Your Heart” and “Cinnamon Girl.” Roberts estimated the whole deal was worth $40 million.

  “I guess integrity finally paid off,” said Young when Elliot gave him the good news.

  From my perch on the balcony at the Waldorf, I eyeballed Neil and Pegi down below, sitting at a table with Elliot Roberts; Young’s lawyer, Irwin Osher; and their wives. David Briggs and Bettina arrived fashionably late, David decked out in a metallic-gray silk suit, and the Horse was at a table not far away. Young’s brother, Bob, was there,
too, along with half sister, Astrid. Scott Young did not attend. *

  Young had been an active supporter of the Hall of Fame; in past ceremonies, he had inducted Jimi Hendrix, the Everly Brothers and Woody Guthrie. He’d whooped it up in the all-star closing jamborees. Precious few had declined induction-night invitations—namely Joni Mitchell and Van Morrison, who sent a telegram the night of his ceremony claiming he had a gig to do. In the course of interviews for this book, both Chrissie Hynde and James Taylor expressed their displeasure. “There is something very un-Neil Young about a monument to the rock and roll industry,” said Taylor.

  But the pull of such an event was inexorable, even for its critics. Hynde joined the all-star lineup at the grand opening of the museum in 1996—playing “The Needle and the Damage Done,” no less—and in 1997, Taylor was present to perform “Woodstock” in place of Mitchell. It was hard to say no to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

  The music Neil Young made on induction night was a bore. “Fuckin’ Up” was an all-star mudbath with members of both Crazy Horse and Pearl Jam. It was sad to see the Horse dragged into it. Total crap, and broadcast around the world to boot. It seemed depressingly ironic that Young, such a critic of television, was going to be a star of the Hall of Fame’s first MTV broadcast.

  Young jammed with Led Zeppelin on a pointless “When the Levee Breaks,” which climaxed with Robert Plant shrieking out a curious choice of tribute—“For What It’s Worth.” Young’s only interesting moment was “Act of Love” with the Horse. Only he would have the balls to perform a new song at an event like this (Young reportedly told the apprehensive staff it was a number he’d written “back in ’62”). But since there were no guest stars to puff up the screen, it was dumped from the broadcast.

  Young’s acceptance speech was a different matter. “You might not even need a tape recorder,” Young had warned me in November. “It might be mime.” Everybody was expecting him to go off, so he didn’t. “Just didn’t have the heart for it,” Young told me a few days later. “It’s not worth wasting a lot of time on.”

  And yet his remarks were riveting, even revelatory. After some heartfelt tributes by Ahmet Ertegun and the ubiquitous Eddie Vedder, Young ambled out. He seemed genuinely surprised by the standing ovation—and so vulnerable under the glare of television lights that it was strangely moving. Ever the wisenheimer, Young mentioned how cool Dickie Betts had looked in his acceptance with the Allman Brothers. “I wish I had a bunch of people up here with me … it’s a solo thing, though.” A solo thing: three words that spoke volumes.

  He thanked Rassy, then paused, growing visibly emotional. He thanked Crazy Horse and Briggs and had them take a bow. He spoke warmly of Ahmet Ertegun. Then came thanks to Mo Ostin, and Elliot—audibly coaching him from off-stage. “Elliot’s tellin’ me who to thank … he’s managing this speech,” cracked Young, who went on to acknowledge one other: “I’d like to thank Kurt Cobain for giving me the inspiration to renew my commitments.” Then, gazing out into the audience, he murmured, “And most of all—I love you, Pegi.” It was over. The omissions were obvious and significant.

  Watching Young standing there with his award, I wondered how he felt. A Western hero, big money in his hand. He looked restless.

  The next day, I joined the Horse for the train ride down to D.C. The mode of transportation was Young’s idea, but he was nowhere in sight.

  At rehearsal the following day, Briggs and the Horse waited. And waited some more. Intent on keeping spirits up, Briggs finally conducted the band through “Western Hero” himself, but they were suffering Young’s absence.

  That night, between L7 and Pearl Jam, Young led the Horse through a weird, disorganized six-song set that began with “Song X” as a feedback-ridden mess and fell apart from there. Out in the house, Dave McFarlin witnessed the most tepid reaction to the Horse ever. For all the Godfather of Grunge brouhaha, this crowd was there for Eddie Vedder.

  During one of the new songs, the band stumbled as Billy tuned up through half a verse. “He was tuning during the song,” an exasperated Young moaned later. “Billy said, ‘Yeah, but I was tuning on the right note.’”

  Toward the end of Pearl Jam’s set, I noticed Billy wandering around unhappily. Why wasn’t the Horse’s equipment onstage? Weren’t they going to join Pearl Jam for the encore? The Horse wasn’t, but Neil certainly was. He walked out, and the band dove into a blistering “Act of Love.” Somehow they already knew the song.

  With Vedder relegated to backing vocals, the band was no longer pulling in two different directions and fit Young like a glove. Huffing and puffing, Neil had to struggle to keep up. “It was fuckin’ great,” Young exclaimed. “I was sailin’ along. It was like floating on a cloud … so effortless. After the first couple of changes, those guys were fuckin’ there. When Eddie and Jeff sang the choruses, ‘Act of Love’ just sounded right.”

  Backstage, Young was giddy with excitement, backslapping Pearl Jam as a dejected Horse made their way out.

  On the ride back to the hotel, Billy was uncharacteristically silent, the van like a coffin on wheels. Shuffling through the lobby, he asked what I’d thought of the Horseless “Act of Love.” “It was good,” I said, downplaying in an effort at kindness. “No,” said Billy ruefully, shaking his head. “It was great. Great.”

  The next night went a little better, but Young didn’t play the encore with Pearl Jam—he had to leave for Lionel business in Detroit as soon as his set ended. I was joining him.

  After the set, I snuck out to the bus, suitcase in hand. There was Joe McKenna, with Pocahontas all fired up and ready to go. Next to the bus stood Briggs, smiling wanly when he saw me. “Just like Elvis,” he said. “Out of the gig and on to the next.” I felt for David. His job was to push Neil, but lately, maybe he’d pushed too hard. I shook his hand, and he gave me a wink and wished me luck. It was the last time I’d see Briggs alive.

  At the airport, we found the barren corner of the parking lot where Young’s Learjet awaited. I bullshitted with Joe, helping him transfer the luggage from bus compartment to plane while the pilot bitched about the unruly hard-rock band he’d just finished with. “Mr. Young doesn’t seem like that type,” he said to me earnestly. No, I assured him, Mr. Young certainly wasn’t. After a while, Neil emerged from the bus, his leather and bamboo case in hand, a familiar old hat perched atop his head.

  We made our way to the rear of the plane, Elliot crumpled into a seat in front of us. A huge moon skirted by candy-floss clouds flooded the cabin. Neil was jazzed. The first batch of handheld controllers—featured in Lionel’s Christmas catalog—had sold out in two weeks.

  Young was also still high from playing with Pearl Jam the night before, and proceeded to tell me something I didn’t know about the last few days. The day we pulled into Washington, Young had snuck over to Pearl Jam’s rehearsal. “They got ‘Fuckin’ Up’ down cold,” he said. Then Vedder asked Young the chords to his new song, “Act of Love.” It turned out Vedder had his DAT recorder with him at the Hall of Fame and had made a little bootleg. So Young did the song with the Horse in the first set knowing full well he was going to do it again with Pearl Jam at the end of the night. Not that he told anybody any of it.

  Looking back on the Hall of Fame event, Young seemed predictably ambivalent: “Just another hash house on the road to success.” He described the surreal party following the ceremony, which closed with Young and Phil Spector sitting at a piano, as Spector’s bodyguard hovered over them. Young sang and Spector pounded out the chords. “God Bless America.” “Silent Night.” “Be My Baby.” “You Cheated, You Lied.” “He loved the way I sang that,” said Young proudly. “Spector’s life is like a spy movie, okay? Everybody’s out to get him—he’s like Maxwell Smart. If you look at him in that light, everything’s fine. He hasn’t forgotten who he is …”

  Ideas for the next album were flying through his head. Working with Spector. With Zeppelin. With the remains of Nirvana. “It’s been a while since I made a r
ecord where there was no plan.” His thoughts returned to “Act of Love” with Pearl Jam. Young had wanted to record the live show, but Briggs couldn’t get his favorite remote truck and passed the request down to crew member Tim Foster. The end result was that nothing happened.

  “They didn’t get it together. They had twenty-four hours to get a truck—from Nashville or somewhere. They coulda done it if they’d taken it really seriously.

  “There comes a point when the people around you have gotta take you seriously—if they don’t, jumping around and screaming and yelling isn’t gonna make any difference. The only thing they’re gonna understand is that I didn’t do it—and now I’m not doing anything. So the next time I work with them, they realize when I ask them to do something, it’s gonna happen.

  “But things happen for a reason, so … gotta let it go. But I’m gonna get another one. I wanna wait, do it again when the equipment’s there, under the right circumstances …”

  A paranoid look crossed Young’s face. “Only you know this,” he said, staring at me. The cat was out of the bag. Young was going to Seattle to record with Pearl Jam. The dates were already set, January 26 and 27, just a week and a half away. “They got their whole trip together, I’m not gonna fuck with it. I’m just gonna go in and use their trip completely … it’s like you have a new thing you can paint with. I know I have the sound to work with in my head.

  “Seattle’s basically over now. So it’s time for me to go. Cleanup man. Heh heh. I might go completely alone … that would be the purest way to do it. Go into another musical world. That’s when you really get your eyes opened up to what’s possible. I’m goin’ to where they live. I’m gonna use their producer. I’m gonna use their whole scene. I want what they got—I don’t want what I got. What I got brought me down.”