Please Be with Me: A Song for My Father, Duane Allman

by Galadrielle Allman

  So here we sit, Duane, Gregg, Bob and me and I am yelling “get rid of Bob!” and they say all right. It took about two weeks. Of course all of us were down. I told them I was already so down they would have to keep digging to get to me—of course the disbanding put me further down; but more hopeful. Success comes only with change.

  I guess we had maybe 2 days when there were only 4 of us, until Gregg went to Jacksonville and brought back 2 girls and one boy to wait several days until the other members of their band came back from a break. Well it is hard to explain. There are 3 band members and the bad thing is that to band with Gregg and Duane, Roger’s “Pete” had to be let out of their band and that was a bad day for all, but he is trying to re-enroll in college so maybe it wasn’t too bad a day. The three band members are David and girlfriend Jenny, Butch and Linda (wife), Scott (single). Scott has a friend who lives in Jax and is just back from Vietnam and guess whose floor Barry sleeps on? There are two girls, friends of Linda and Jenny’s who come from Jax every weekend, Cathy and Dotty and they sent me flowers this week thanking me for my hospitality, which was sleeping on my floor.

  The band is practicing and these boys are seasoned musicians. Scott sings and writes, David helps Duane with the mc shit and Butch is a terrific drummer. They are really a great bunch of young people and you would love them and they would you. You would also love Jenny and Linda and as you know I am not girl crazy.

  And as usual Ringo has not quite moved in to sleep and eat, but almost. We have 10 for dinner every nite.

  I still go to therapy (for my back) 3 days a week and feel like hell. I stayed up 3 hours Sat. They left to gig in Ft. Pierce and then shut the front door and I went to bed and stayed in bed almost all weekend.

  Two nights ago, Monday, I cooked a 12 lb. turkey—roasted nice and brown, slow and tender to have turkey and all the trimmings Tuesday nite. Tues when I came from work, there was another 12 lb. turkey raw. Said they ate the other last night. With 3 or 4 hours to cook a turkey, they ate at 10PM. Band was practicing anyway so it didn’t matter. Jenny left today to visit home (NY) and Linda is leaving tomorrow for home (Wachula, Fla, not far) and the band is gigging tonite at the Scene and will gig at either ft. Pierce or Miami over the weekend. As soon as they have enough cash they will be going back to the West Coast. Probably in 2 or 3 weeks.

  To say the least, there is no time to be sick or to get well. I am glad to have Duane and Gregg home, but what a price to pay. They are just fine and wonderful, but too many for this house.

  Marilyn and Mr. Webster have moved and rented Francis house next door to Max—Duane dated Linda instead of Penny this time—Dated Penny once I think. I saw her at the Martinique last Friday nite and she is still real sweet to me. Boys packed the old “Q” and Bill screwed them as usual so that’s it and I’m glad. That bastard deserves any and all misery he ever gets.

  I am sure there is more and I will think of it when I seal this letter but I am so tired it will have to wait.

  Love, Aunt Jerry

  PS–Would you believe I read the Hobbit book in all these goings on?

  After kicking around Florida together for a month or two, Gregg admitted that he was planning to head back to Los Angeles as soon as he could get the money together for a ticket.

  Duane accused him of wanting to hang out with rock stars and shack up with Stacey. He said Gregg was thinking only of himself, imagining life as a solo artist. Duane felt completely betrayed. He was relentless, cutting Gregg down like it was his job, saying “Hey, fuck you, man. Get lost, you fucking traitor. Go make your money, baby.”

  Gregg tried to explain he was doing it for the good of the band. He was working off the Hour Glass debt to Liberty Records by recording for them as a solo artist and he hated having to do it. In fact, he was taking a bullet for Duane, because he knew Duane would never go back there, and someone had to or they would be sued for breaking their contract. But it was suddenly clear to Duane that the label had never valued the rest of them at all. They didn’t care about his guitar playing; they wanted to make Gregg a pop star. The band they had built together was dismissed, but their name was printed on the singles Gregg recorded with studio musicians, “Gregg Allman and the Hour Glass.” That was just an insult.

  Once Gregg was gone, Duane wanted to get out of Daytona, fast. He headed to Jacksonville to see Berry Oakley, the bass player he had met on the last pass Hour Glass made through town. He was not going to sit around feeling bad. He had to get around people and start thinking about his next band. He’d been thinking about Berry Oakley ever since they met and wanted to get to know him.

  The night they met at the Comic Book Club, Berry told Duane about the scene in Jacksonville and his band, the Second Coming. “Man, you have got to come to the park and see my band play. You will not believe the crowds. All those kids were just hungry for some decent music, and we are giving it to them. They show up by the hundreds and we just play whatever we feel,” Berry said.

  “Music can change the world. It is changing this town, I’m telling you, and playing for free is the way. Just giving away all that good energy, it’s different than a paying gig. It’s a pure experience.”

  Duane felt an immediate affinity with him, and his vision of what music was really about. Duane was going to head up to Jacksonville and call him, first thing.

  One night Duane brought his axe and stayed. He and Berry sat and talked and smoked, playing all night in the dining room under the dusty crystal chandelier, furnished with a collection of guitars, amps, and cases.

  Linda had gone up to bed after a while, she was very pregnant and very tired, but she couldn’t sleep. She could not stop listening to the mellow blues wafting up to her bed, directly above them.

  “Melodies Berry had created were intertwined with the beautiful voice of Duane’s strings. I was witnessing magic, like the blossoming of a love affair. I might have had a tiny twinge of jealousy, though I was thrilled for Berry. He’d been touched by that magic,” Linda told me years later in her lovely way.

  Duane sent letters to Donna, sharing the changes he was going through. He wrote to her about the Hour Glass breakup and his trip to Jacksonville. He told her he was running out of money and had made a decision to return to FAME Studios in Muscle Shoals. He was determined to convince the owner, Rick Hall, to hire him as a session player. Duane knew he needed to get his head together. He needed to cut out the speed, let go of the bullshit big-city scene, play some real music, and make a regular paycheck.

  He wrote to Donna steadily through the fall, into the gray winter.

  September 4, 1968

  Daytona Beach, Florida

  Skinny Girl,

  I miss you. The band broke up, that is we got rid of Paul and the Duck. We tried to get the Duck to stay, but he wouldn’t have it without Paul. Paul’s in Tuscaloosa, gigging; the Duck’s in Miami in a studio. Gregg, Pete and I are still together. We hope to get this really cooking spade drummer and start over again. It’ll take a while but it’ll work better than the old group, I think. We’ve all been writing the new material, and some of it is really good. My writing is pretty stoned today. I really miss my tree a lot. I wish I was in it right now. On the way home the damn bus broke down; it hung us up in Birmingham for two days. Interesting, huh?

  Nothing at all is happening here. We’re all wanting to get back to St. Louis. Sorry I haven’t written before now, but I’ve been on a gigantic bummer and couldn’t write.

  Tell Jan, Joe, Bill, Eddie, & drummer hello and tell them about the group. It’s hard for me to put thought on paper, and I haven’t had the $ to call or I would, but I love you and I think of you often. Behave, and I’ll see you when I get there; soon, I hope.

  —D.

  November 10, 1968

  Florence, Alabama

  Dear Skinny,

  I love you.

  This has been a rather slow week here. There were only two sessions, but I’m doing another Sunday. We start on Arthur Conley’s new record Mond
ay. I sure wish you were here. As soon as my money starts arriving from New York, I’ll send you some to come here on. There’s nothing in this place or anyplace I need more than you.

  Tell Doris I love her. Tell Joey and Jan to just go for themselves and eliminate Bill. One person doesn’t make or break a band. He just gets fired! Fuck him.

  There’s not much new here, so I guess I’ll close for now. I’ve been smoking the Outrageous Killer Weed today, and I’m really sleepy. Take care of yourself and think of me a little, because I’m thinking of you. Goodnight—

  Love, Duane

  Last Wednesday

  This Year

  Dear Donna,

  I heard you called my house to talk to me but I wasn’t home, so I figured I’d write you back instead of calling. We’re pretty short of bread nowadays.

  I wish I’d been home because I’ve wanted to talk to you a lot of times but somehow I never did get to call. I’ve missed you, and sometimes I’ve felt that you were thinking about me too, but I don’t guess you can be sure about a feeling that you have, ever.

  I’ve been pretty busy lately; I cut Wilson Pickett’s forthcoming Album two weeks ago, and it went really well. Since then I’ve been doing regular session work (playing guitar on other people’s records when they don’t play or can’t play well enough) at the recording studio in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, and it looks like I’m going to have to move up there soon. If I do, there’s a good chance I’ll be able to cut an album of my own soon.

  Gregg is going back to California in two weeks to fulfill his obligation to Liberty Records, too. Did the Truth ever get their album out? If so, I’d sure like to have one. See if Joey will send one to me. Also if you see him or Jan, tell them I’ll being doing Mike Bloomfield’s new album with him and also that I was on Super Session Vol. II album with Hendrix, Bloomfield, Harvey Brooks, and Barry Goldberg. They’ll probably dig that. I did some bottleneck things over some of Bloomfield’s things that were pretty nice if I do say so.

  They’ve been having these huge gatherings of freaks in Jacksonville, Florida every Sunday for the past few weeks. Millions of bands play and it’s really fun; I wish you could be here to see it, it’s a miracle. The cops that go to them really dig it, so it’s great all round. I’ve been living there for quite a while with friends, and I’ll probably stay until I move to Muscle Shoals.

  Didn’t I tell you that Jeff Beck would be a monster? He’s so fine, I’m glad he’s really making it. I hope you get the chance to see him in St. Louis if you haven’t already. I really miss being in St. Louis, I love it there. I miss the boats, the tree, and the bears more than anything.

  What’s this crap about me getting killed by a train or something? Hearing things like that is really weird.

  I know that it is probably hard for you to write letters, because it is for me, too, but I want you to try because I need to hear from you soon. Take care of yourself and those around you, and think of me once in a while because in my heart I love you very much and I think of you often. I’ll write more later.—D.

  Their correspondence was their courtship. Opening the glass lid of her keepsake box is like opening a time capsule. Each letter has the softened hand of a loved thing, paper folded and refolded so many times they have gone limp. My father’s handwriting is neat and even, and his voice startles me, how clearly it reveals him. I don’t know if my mother would have been able to hang on to the love my father felt for her without them.

  (photo credit 12.1)

  On my trip to Alabama, Johnny Sandlin drove me to Muscle Shoals to visit FAME (Florence Alabama Music Enterprises), the legendary recording studios where my father’s life really started to change. We passed through the marshy flatland that mirrored the vast sky above. Fenced cotton fields and neatly groomed farmland, brick churches every other mile, and a smattering of small houses rested quietly beside our two-lane road. Picturing Duane in this rural, peaceful place after the constant action of Los Angeles wasn’t easy. I figured you had better know how to make your own fun if you move to Muscle Shoals.

  FAME Studios is located in the same building it was in in 1968. Walking inside, you hear the voices of Etta James or Clarence Carter singing through the little speakers above the door as a stream of hits plays all day. FAME has two studios, A and B, each room partially paneled in wood, with high, angled ceilings, acoustic tiles, and curtains to buffer sound. Control rooms are visible through large panes of glass. Rick Hall’s office is upstairs.

  “When I was much younger, much younger,” Hall tells me when we meet, “I was hot as a pistol. I had no time for Duane. I had no time for anybody. I was that guy in Muscle Shoals, Alabama.

  “I cut the first hit record here. It was all black music. It was Arthur Alexander, that was the first one. Then Jimmy Hughes’s ‘Steal Away,’ Joe Tex, Joe Simon, Aretha Franklin, Etta James, Wilson Pickett, Clarence Carter, and Otis Redding. Anybody who was anybody—they were here.

  “Duane had separated from his brother. He considered his brother to be very talented, but somebody you couldn’t deal with. He was tough and he didn’t understand business. He was a kid. Duane from the first was my guy and I was his guy. We loved each other. We cared about each other. He came here and said, ‘I want to become a studio guitar player.’ My ankles bled most of the time, because he was nipping at them. I’d think, ‘Come on! Back off! Don’t breathe on me!’ And then he’d hug my neck and I’d hug his. I cared for him.”

  Rick settled back behind his wide desk and jumped right in at the beginning.

  “ ‘Duane, I have six guitar players. The last thing I need is a guitar player. I’ve got guitar players running out my ears. I don’t have a place for you.’

  “ ‘Would you mind if I just stayed around and kind of worked my way in somewhere? I will set up a pup tent in the parking lot. I want you to use me on something.’

  “ ‘Make yourself at home,’ I said.

  “ ‘I’m gonna burn some ass, you will see!’ Duane shook my hand and winked at me.”

  Duane loved Clarence Carter and when he heard he was coming in, he turned up the heat and Rick told him he could play on the session. They cut a real blues thing called “Road of Love,” and Duane’s playing really shined. Rick was very impressed. In the middle of the song, Carter even sang out, “I like what I’m listening to right now,” after Duane’s slide solo, a blast of passion in the middle of a simple, funky groove. Duane brought that track to life.

  Duane said, “The blues are coming back, Rick. It’s gonna be big and you can be big with it.”

  “I’m tired of that shit,” Rick said.

  Rick was a rhythm-and-blues innovator: horns, funky piano, and an all-important singer out front, bursting with personality to really put a song across. Duane was from another planet, walking in with tight striped pants and bowling shoes, his hair down to his shoulders, looking like it had never met a brush. He played so loud the shingles on the building rattled. Rick would say, “You’re killing me! I’m gonna go deaf!” And Duane would say, “But that’s it, Rick! The strings sound wider when you play loud. It overdrives the speakers in the amplifier and gives you that growl!”

  Duane’s talent was undeniable, and the artists who came through and the guys in the rhythm section respected his ability and enthusiasm right away. Rick signed Duane to a contract, but to Rick’s mind, Duane’s solo project was a mess.

  Duane wanted to sing, play guitar, and do everything on his own, but he didn’t seem to be getting anything accomplished. He bedded down in Studio B and he’d sleep half the day away and smoke pot in the alley for the other half. They were in a dry county, for God’s sake, even alcohol was forbidden, and he’s lighting up without a care in the world.

  Duane convinced Rick to do seven or eight sides of him singing. Some weren’t quite finished when Rick’s close friend Phil Walden came by to check him out. Phil had been Otis Redding’s manager from the beginning of his career, when Otis was playing at school dances in their shared hometown
of Macon, Georgia. Phil was a self-made industry man, a kingpin in Macon who signed promising black artists and worked hard to help them cross the color divide. Phil managed musicians and brought them to Rick to record. He and Rick shared a sense of themselves as Modern Southern Aristocrats and they had found incredible success. Phil saw Duane’s value right away, a white kid who could bring southern music into the rock scene; he was a dream come true.

  “Rick, you’re going to be rich!” Phil told him. “You’ve just got to hang in there. Just go in the studio, light up a cigarette, get you a Coca-Cola, turn the machine on and sit back, and when he gets ready to do something, let him do it, and don’t worry about it.”

  Rick was not built that way. He lived an orderly life and ran an orderly studio. His sessions ran like a well-oiled machine. The rhythm section came in day after day and worked regular hours. They knew those rooms intimately and how to get the best sounds out of them, and they wasted no time fussing with any of it. Then here was this skinny dude, curled up on the floor taking a nap in the afternoon. Rick would wake Duane up and Duane would say, “The stars aren’t lining up.”

  Twiggs Lyndon was one of the first people Phil Walden introduced to Duane. The buzz about the white guitar player who could really play the blues had reached Twiggs in Macon, and he traveled to FAME to check it out. Twiggs was a musical purist, raised on the real shit; he had no interest in rock and roll, and he truly believed black musicians were tapped into a source white players would never find. Twiggs was a tenacious and brilliant guy who worked as a road manager for several of Walden’s artists. He was born and raised in Macon, although he was cut from a different cloth from most of Macon’s upright citizens. He walked with the swagger of a cowboy and dressed the part, too. Twiggs wore a cowboy hat and a long ponytail, a holstered pistol on his belt. He tucked his blue jeans into knee-high boots. To top it off, he raced through town in a beautiful 1929 Ford Opera Coupe, which he treasured. He had bright blue eyes and great white teeth that flashed in a winning smile. He could talk his way into and out of almost any situation.