Hour Glass played their first show in Los Angeles at the Hullabaloo, a late-night set after the Doors. Movies rolled in a darkened back room and girls danced around a circular stage that spun like a turntable. The Doors’ keyboard player, Ray Manzarek, built a long, moody groove, jingling and jangling, old-timey and slow, chased by the piercing whine of a loopy guitar and the swoosh of drums, a dark carnival of sound. The singer was still backstage, leaning against a wall with a girl. If Jim Morrison was choosing his moment, you couldn’t tell; he looked like he’d forgotten why he was there. The band was lost in a careening round, playing with their faces bent down out of the lights, waiting for Jim to jump in. He finally strolled into the spotlight and pulled the microphone stand to him, bent his head over it, and breathed a low moaning note that sent a ripple of lust through every girl in the room. It couldn’t have been further musically from what Duane was doing, but the Doors’ odd power was undeniable. They put on a blurry, sexy, compelling set.
When the Doors came offstage, Gregg walked over to Jim and rested a hand on his shoulder, leaned in, and asked him something. They stepped outside together smiling while Duane watched. Duane kept his eye on Gregg with a sternness that hid his heart. He knew Los Angeles would see the value of his brother shining like a star. Every girl and many guys, too, looked hungrily at his baby brother. Gregg didn’t seem to realize his own power yet and Duane worried for the day he would. He’d have to knock him down to keep his feet on the ground. And he’d better get back in there before they had to play.
Paul noticed Gregg’s legs shaking when he started singing their first song, but as they rolled through tunes by the Byrds and the Beatles, he loosened up, and by the time they rolled out “Dimples,” a raunchy blues number they had been polishing up, they were smoking. They were tighter and stronger than most bands playing around town and people really dug them, but Duane could see that playing other people’s songs in a town where the original artists were potentially playing down the block was a whole different scene.
Working in the studio on their first album was what they all had looked forward to most, but it was an alien experience. Sound Recorders Studios was nice enough, but they were paired with producer Dallas Smith, who had his own ideas about the direction they should take. They were asked to learn songs from a selection of demos they didn’t like, so their live set and their album would bear no relation to each other. To Duane’s mind, Dallas was a button pusher and a naysayer. The tension building in Duane’s jaw was visible when Dallas would interrupt him to make suggestions.
Johnny had worked in studios since he was sixteen years old, playing guitar and drums, but this arrangement felt different. In the studios back home, you jammed until everyone clicked into a groove. The way the room sounded and how comfortable everyone felt was important. But in L.A., it wasn’t about working until you knew it was right. Time felt limited and you had to rush through one song to get to the next, with no hanging out or exploring ideas. Dallas was so off base, Johnny started thinking about what it would take to be a good producer, and he knew he could do a better job himself.
It didn’t seem to be about their band at all. They had been cast in the role of “Psychedelic Rock Band”—Liberty Records’ attempt to jump on the Summer of Love train—and they were expected to play to type. They found the pseudo-experimental tracks embarrassing, but they tried to find the best of the possibilities, songs by Jackson Browne and Curtis Mayfield, and played them with all the strength and energy they could.
Duane’s restlessness kicked into a higher gear when he realized he had no control over the songs on their album, or when and where they played live. Duane had worked steadily, traveling to chase opportunities all over the South and up the East Coast for two solid years, and now he was being benched while their label chose only a handful of key gigs, hoping to build a buzz. How was that freedom? How was that anything but jive?
Now that they were managed, Duane lost his sense of control over his own time. They should have been playing every night. Los Angeles was packed with clubs, and great music was happening everywhere. They needed to show everyone who they really were.
He had brought them here and it would be on him if it didn’t pan out.
Duane asked the owner of the Troubadour if they could practice there during the day, and that helped him get into a better head. Beyond the well-worn bar, reminiscent of a western saloon, through a door marked with a lit sign that read SHOWROOM, was a cavernous space with wooden walls pieced together like a quilt. The walls radiated a great vibe laid down by hundreds of players who’d passed through. Being together there and running through songs set them back on their path.
In the studio, Duane would rant about Dallas Smith the moment he left the room.
“I am at the top of my game! I deserve a producer at the top of his game and he is not it!” His guitar was being lost in the muddied production under layers of horns, keyboards, and background singers. The rest of the band didn’t disagree with him, but it was still shocking to hear him take apart the guy who was in charge. Dallas was in a position to help them; they needed him to change their fortunes.
Duane prided himself on cutting through bullshit with a clear head but this power struggle got under his skin and he started leaning harder on chemical assistance to keep his spirits up. Pills, grass, acid, anything you wanted was easily had and you didn’t have to wander into the wrong side of town to get it; you could just nod to the right friend at the bar at night. Pills took hold of Duane, cheap speed from Mexico pressed into powdery white tablets, and blackbirds—glossy capsules that bloomed into a perfect feeling of being in command. Duane preferred the thrill of speed to being lost in a hazy dream. When the jitters kicked in, whisky smoothed them out and brought a taste of distant home to warm him. Duane got tickets for breaking the speed limit and ended up in the drunk tank a time or two. He’d been sleeping late, something he had never done in his whole damn life, and then woke up on his couch with ashtrays on the tables overflowing and empty bottles breaking the afternoon light into green streaks on the floor, his guitar resting on top of him like a lover.
In the incomplete darkness of a city steeped in electric light, Duane climbed down beyond the edge of the road across from their apartment complex to get a clear view of the back of the Hollywood Bowl. On nights with performances, the white shell above the stage launched flurries of notes into the wind, an orchestra of string and brass harmonizing in the breeze, everything happening at once, and he let the music wash over him. The view and the growing orchestral crescendo lured him there, overlooking the canyon and then the city in the distance. He’d smoke a joint and try to will his mind to stay empty. He’d pick up a postcard tomorrow and write to Jo Jane about the music.
In October 1967, the first Hour Glass album came out, and Duane wasn’t sure how to feel. He had worked toward this moment, imagining the pride of holding his first record in his hands, but he was only happy with a few songs. The record’s release was a nonevent and it didn’t change anything. He held the cover: The picture of them dressed up in clashing costumes had been flipped upside down, surrounded by wavy type and swirling colors, some corporate notion of hip creativity. It seemed like a bad metaphor. All the great music being played around town, his band one of the best, and they were being held back. Everything was upside down. They were sitting hungry at the banquet table.
Playing live was the only place he could find optimism anymore.
They could set a crowd on fire. Duane would wave up musicians out of the crowd and get them to jam, a rare thing in Los Angeles. One night at the Whisky, Janis Joplin, in blue jeans, with a sweaty forehead and unbuttoned blouse, climbed onstage smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and smiling shyly at a young blond guy down in front. Eric Burdon in a shiny embroidered shirt sang beside her and shifted over to make room for Paul Butterfield, taking up his guitar to tuck into “Stormy Monday.” There was a thriving community of players in Hollywood, known and unknown, all passing time toge
ther, sharing music.
Although Hour Glass didn’t play out as often as they would have liked, they were booked onto some great bills. They played a big pop festival in Sacramento with Jefferson Airplane and opened for Buffalo Springfield and Big Brother and the Holding Company at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Neil Young and Stephen Stills invited Duane to sit in with them after hearing him play. It felt great to see Northern California. The vibe up there was laid-back and the audiences were warm and responsive. It wasn’t all about business.
Gregg was beginning to explore songwriting, and hanging out with other musicians, like Stephen Stills and Jackson Browne, who were dedicated writers, was inspiring. Gregg started walking around with a different perspective; he’d hear a turn of phrase or a name that struck him and write it down. He had written a few tunes in his time, but now the desire really grabbed him. He felt like he had opened up a new side of his mind, where moments grew into patterns, and when they finally fell into place, he wrote them down. By the end of the year, he had the beginnings of twenty songs in his notebook, though he wasn’t ready to share them.
Sometimes a moment would bring into focus the contrast between where they were coming from and where they had found themselves. While playing a show at Cheetah, a garish dance club on Lick Pier in Venice Beach, they got word that Otis Redding had died in a plane crash. Hour Glass played “I Can’t Turn You Loose” in tribute while strobe lights blinded them. They tried to tap into a little of their hero’s fire, but home had never felt farther away. After the gig, Duane stood on the pier for a moment and looked out over the dark sea. He remembered seeing Otis as a kid in Nashville, that massive man dancing light and scatting wild with the horns blasting at his back. How could someone so young and strong just disappear like that?
Twiggs Lyndon, a young man who worked for Otis’s management company, went with Zelma Redding to Lake Monona in Madison, Wisconsin, to where Otis’s plane was lost. He had to be dissuaded from jumping into the icy water himself to search the submerged wreckage. When the authorities recovered Otis the next day, Twiggs accompanied Zelma to identify the body of her beloved and together they brought him home to Macon, Georgia.
Otis Redding’s memorial service took place at Macon’s City Auditorium. Nearly five thousand mourners gathered in the space built for three thousand. Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records gave his eulogy. Phil Walden had grown up with Otis and managed his remarkable career; his heart was broken. He told himself he would never take on another artist and give his heart and soul to building a career.
Then he met Duane Allman.
Mabron was getting into strange new interests that were becoming a distraction. He would mention seeing lights in the sky, and sought out lectures by experts on UFOs and alternate realities. He would take time at practice to explain elaborate conspiracy theories and doomsday prophecies in a calm, earnest manner that was worrying. He was less interested in playing bass, so they let him go.
Bob Keller, who had played bass in the Allman Joys, replaced Mabron but not for very long. After a couple of good months, Bob simply didn’t show up for a gig. They were pissed off for days, and then they began looking for him. They even searched behind the Hollywood sign where they hung out, thinking he might have gone up there alone and slipped, or even jumped. He disappeared without a word.
When he finally called Johnny several months later, he acted like nothing had happened, and didn’t explain. Between Mabron and Keller, a bad vibe was building around the band.
They had moved to funky apartments on Lash Lane in a bid to keep costs down and it was a definite downgrade. The first day they were there, Gregg passed police in the hallway and looked through an open door in time to see them covering a corpse with a sheet. It really shook him up.
Pete Carr, a friend of Duane and Gregg’s from Daytona, happened to be visiting when Keller took off, and he picked up the slack on bass. Pete was only about seventeen and so fresh-faced, they called him the Beaver, but he was a great guitar player. He had never played bass before, but they threw him into the deep end and he swam like a champ. He learned their songs literally overnight and jumped right in to recording their second album.
Duane was so happy to have Pete around. He just had good energy and made Duane laugh. He walked around wide-eyed and amazed by everything he saw. During Pete’s first few weeks in L.A., they went to see Taj Mahal. They stood in the crowded club in front of Jesse Ed Davis and watched him play slide. He was a young Native American cat with a constant smile and black hair framing his face in a hip shag. His hands moved with a light, confident ease and he kept his eyes turned down toward his guitar like he was meditating. He pulled startling sounds so coolly out of his Fender with a bottleneck slide on his finger. Duane was mesmerized by it; he had never gotten such a good close look at the technique before.
Taj sat on a stool wearing a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face and a red kerchief tied in a knot around his neck. His voice was so rich and warm, a pure blast of home, a shout rooted deep in the ground, real and raw. Taj blew his harp like a train swaying, and not a body in the room stood still. It struck Duane hard like a punch to his chest: This is it. This is the sound of no bullshit, of sweat and fire and home. This was church, a thunderclap, a call to arms.
As soon as he got home, Duane sat down with a water glass and his guitar and tried to find those sounds. Then Gregg gave Duane a bottle of Coricidin cold medicine while Duane was laid up in bed sick as an old dog. Duane dumped out the pills and rested the small, perfectly formed bottle over his ring finger. He soaked the label off the bottle in the bathroom sink, put on Taj Mahal’s record, and got to work on “Statesboro Blues,” learning Jesse Ed Davis’s licks note for note.
The first time I ever called Johnny Sandlin, the sweetness of his southern drawl saying my name brought tears to my eyes. I felt like I was hearing my father’s voice sounding out the soft syllables of the name he had given me, for the first time. We felt like family from the first moment. I traveled to Alabama and stayed with Johnny and we spent hours in his studio, talking and listening to music.
Duck Tape Music studio is a cocoon of peacefulness, warm and clean with covered windows and foam tacked on the walls as soundproofing. Incense and candles burn and decades’ worth of gear is everywhere. I love the way the place feels suspended in time, a night world where music is king. The main room is dominated by a large mixing board—a panel of dials and faders, inputs, outputs, and wires, and a large leather chair, Johnny’s catbird seat. The small kitchen and bathroom look much like they must have in the sixties when Johnny lived here, when it was the in-law apartment to his parents’ home.
Johnny plays some tapes I found at Granny’s house and listens with his eyes closed, smiling. When Duane really starts to fly, you can see the changes pass across Johnny’s face, his hands and feet keeping time unconsciously, a drummer’s deep habit.
“It’s funny to think about it now, but when your dad was first learning to play slide, it sounded just awful. Paul Hornsby and I used to look at each other with dread. ‘Oh no! Here he goes again!’ And I’d try to call out another song before he could get going. He had tuning issues. But once he got that straight, he just got so good so fast, it didn’t seem possible.
“There was a Murphy bed in here,” he says, motioning to a closet door. “And if there wasn’t anything going on to hold his attention, Duane would just take a cat nap. We listened to the White Album for the first time in this room. Duane brought it straight over when he got it.”
He can see Duane, sitting on the rug with his head tossed back on the edge of the bed, with his eyes closed, engrossed in the eerie new music.
“Duane, are you asleep?” Johnny says.
“I’m just resting my eyes.”
I turn my head and try to see him, too, his fingers laced together on his chest, his mouth falling open in a sudden snort that wakes him from a split second of sleep.
“Johnny, did you ever meet Patti, Duane’s first wife?” I ask
.
“I don’t think I ever did.”
I know Patti showed up in Los Angeles after hitchhiking all the way across the country with a girlfriend. I had originally thought she and Duane had broken up after she got pregnant, but I learned that they saw each other sporadically for several years more.
“There was a time I knocked on Duane’s door to go to the studio,” Johnny says, “and he just stood in the doorway and said he had company.” Johnny thought that girl might have been Patti. The reunion must not have lasted very long, because no one remembers her being there.
“Duane was private about some things.”
Hour Glass started work on their second album shortly after the release of the first. Dallas Smith was producing again, and they were moved to the Liberty Records studio, where they liked the sound even less. They did have the pick of better songs, and Gregg wrote more than half of them, but the experience was even rougher for Duane than the last.
Johnny reluctantly described Duane showing up so high, he couldn’t hold his guitar.
He backed up to the wall and slid down into a slump. A few days later, Duane blew up in the studio over some minor frustration and quit the band. He left the studio in the middle of a song. Everyone thought he would check out for a day or two and cool off, but weeks went by and no one heard a thing.
On January 30, 1967, Patti and Duane got married in South Carolina. Their marriage certificate was among piles of contracts and photographs at the Big House on Vineville Avenue in Macon, the museum in what was once our family home. Canceled checks, handbills and receipts, newspaper clippings and old postcards—all manner of documents have found their way back to Macon to become part of the growing Allman Brothers Band Archive. This paper rose up out of the mire of boxes in the attic and spoke to me:
Please Be with Me: A Song for My Father, Duane Allman Page 12
