Duane’s cabin by the Tennessee River was small and very homey. He had painted a winding vine of colorful flowers on the paned windows of the French doors between his bedroom and the living room and hung an Indian tapestry on the wall. Donna leaned against a post of Duane’s four-poster bed and described a passage she had read from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet.
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.
She described how love could be between them, how they could stand beside each other like two pillars, not leaning or overpowering, but together. She could see by the look in his eyes how impressed Duane was by this idea, and she panicked for a moment. She did not completely understand the words she had just said.
Donna was still and quiet; a world of words could be imagined in her silence. Her eyes were guarded, as difficult to read as the flat glass eyes of a doll, but her lips were by turns nervy and tight, occasionally venturing between her teeth, where one cheek would pinch back into a half smile of distress. She wasn’t going to give in to Duane right away; he could tell. She ran the back of her hand against his cheek, like a gorilla preening her mate. He reached toward her and stroked the back of his hand against her cheek, his Gorilla Girl.
So many things went unsaid between them, and it was better that way. He seemed to know her thoughts. They lay quietly, curled around each other, and talked about what they would be like as parents if they had a child someday. Duane joked that he would be so hip, he’d give his daughter’s boyfriend a key to the house. Donna squeezed his cheeks together and said, “Say funny bunny.” Through his squished lips he said “Fuck you,” laughing, and they rolled together on the bed. Their thin bodies wound around each other in light sleep, folded thigh to thigh. His fingers moved even while he slept, pushing the patterns of invisible chords against Donna’s skin as he dreamed, his body spooned around hers.
The next morning, he jumped out of bed and began to write “Happily Married Man,” a mean little early rock-and-roll riff with tough and funny lyrics: “My new old lady is out of sight, loving me every day and night. Oh, I haven’t seen my wife for two or three years, I’m a happily married man.…”
Donna smiled, slipping his blue jeans on. They fit her perfectly.
Berry was traveling back and forth between Muscle Shoals and Jacksonville, returning with stories and tunes they’d been working on for Duane’s solo album. He was especially excited about the jams he and Duane had with Jaimoe. He told Linda about this tall pretty blond girl Duane had there with him and how he really seemed to be into her. He knew she and Linda would love each other.
When Donna got home to St. Louis two weeks later, everything felt empty and small. Then a letter came and she held it against her, ran to her room, and closed the door. A delicious ache suffused her chest and raced in tingling streaks through her arms and legs, as if every place he had ever touched her were suddenly alive in the sight of his words. If she had ever doubted what this was, she was sorry, because of course this was love. Lying on her bed, she read:
February 4, 1969
Muscle Shoals, Alabama
Skinny Gorilla Girl That I Love,
You’ve been gone three hours now, and I’m nice and drunk trying not to remember that you’re gone. I thought about cutting my house in half and sending half to you so at least we’d be under the same roof, but my heart’s aching so bad I don’t think I could pull a saw to do it. Jai Johanny took two of those blackbirds and he’s really flying and doesn’t know it; what a groove. He’s sure a fine friend. I sure do love you and miss you and I just wish that this pen would say what I want to say. Oh mama, I need you so bad this minute I could bust. Don’t ever make me watch you leave me again. I don’t think I could handle it at all. I’d better quit this before I get in my car and come after you.
I’ll Love You Till
There’s No Till,
Duane
Duane sat on the bank of the Tennessee River, high and feeling so at ease. The sun weakened into pale syrup by the water’s reflection, the trees murmured and shimmied, everything was encouraging a sense of completeness. The little bottle on his finger was cool and thick. There was a world of sounds between the known chords, whole realms beyond the clean and distinct notes found by pressing and strumming alone. These fluid cries felt so true and sad and human to him: odd notes, long notes, voices pulled out of his hand’s movements. The river smiled up at him and the trees applauded Duane sliding home.
He grinned and ran his calloused fingers over his mustache and rough cheeks. He needed a shave. He looked over his shoulder to Jai Johanny, who was growing thick roots into the ground around the bend. His small leather hat was over his eyes and the corners of his mouth formed a sleeping frown. Jai Johanny’s fingers were interlaced over his chest and spots of sun flickered over him like blown bubbles on the breeze.
Duane played the opening riff of “Statesboro Blues” as Jesse Ed Davis played it, over and over with the stamina of an athlete and the monomania of an addict, the siren call, then the quick run of notes flowing; every change, at first as jagged as rock, was soon worn smooth by his fingers.
Songs are maps, and once you have traveled the route they describe, you can find your way in daylight or darkness alone, no longer thinking as you point yourself toward home.
Duane found his sound at the water’s edge. It was resting in his hands.
(photo credit 13.1)
Jo Jane sent Duane a Yeats poem that reminded her of him:
THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
He replied from Jacksonville on March 20, 1969:
Dear Jo Jane,
I got your letter a little late because I’m down in Jacksonville and I had to get all my mail shipped here and that’s always a drag because my replies are always late.
That poem was sure nice; I get high every time I read it. Old Aengus must’ve been a guitar picker for sure. I wish I shared his optimism.
I’m down here getting a new band together, as usual. This one is stronger than anything I’ve had so far, and I’ve got some high hopes for it. I have two lead guitarists (me and another guy), two drummers (one is black, he worked with Otis Redding right up till when he got killed), bass, and Gregg playing organ and singing. Sounds good, huh?
I quit my staff position in Muscle Shoals because all these people up there kept telling me how rich I was gonna be in a few years from just kissing the boss’s ass and playing EXACTLY WHAT THE BOSS WANTS. I told the motherfuckers that I was the boss in that department and would they excuse me but I heard the highway calling me. Probably a stupid move. PROBABLY A STUPID THING TO WRITE Poem: I lov
e and miss you everyday more than I could ever say
Hotcha, D
I’ll write more later.
Freed up from the confines of FAME, Duane began focusing on building his gigging band. He didn’t entirely close the door to session work, but he was through living in Alabama now that he had Phil Walden behind him.
He considered almost every talented musician he came across as a potential bandmate. Listening to demos, or seeing a gigging band live, he would say to Jaimoe, “What about that guy?” and Jaimoe would answer, “Duane, that guy isn’t fit to carry your case.”
Duane would be surprised. Jaimoe saw that Duane didn’t entirely realize how remarkable he was. Berry’s talent was equally undeniable; his approach was both powerful and melodic, and emotionally expressive, qualities rare to find in a single bass guitar player. He, Duane, and Jaimoe quickly recognized that they had chemistry, and Berry’s interest was more than piqued.
Playing with Jaimoe and Berry in a power trio modeled after Cream and the Jimi Hendrix Experience seemed like the way to go, although Duane was not sold on being the front man. He knew he had passion and guts as a singer, but he didn’t possess the stability or control he needed vocally. Phil Walden tried to put Duane at ease, pointing out that singing wasn’t the focus of either popular trio he was inspired by; it was more important to showcase his guitar playing and build a vibe.
As far as Duane was concerned, he had found his new band. Jaimoe and Berry were the ones, and he was ready to move forward.
But Berry had already met his match in Jacksonville—a guitar player named Dickey Betts.
Dickey had crossed paths with Duane and Gregg many times in the clubs Duane referred to as “the Garbage Circuit of the South.” Dickey was quiet, well spoken, and totally passionate and knowledgeable about music. He loved everything from Django Reinhardt’s wild and free gypsy jazz to the Grateful Dead’s psychedelic, folksy sound. He was versed in bluegrass and country swing as well as the blues. He had an incredible ear and his touch could go from a gentle melody to pure aggressive fire in an instant. Dickey was raised in central Florida and started playing music as a kid with his family in a road show called the World of Wonder. His father played mandolin. As a teenager, he developed a real wild streak, and got into riding motorcycles wearing a vest with “Eat Shit” emblazoned on the back. His first band, with his childhood friend Joe Dan Petty, was called the Jokers and they worked the clubs. He and Berry met and started jamming, and formed a band of their own called the Blue Messengers. The owner of a Jacksonville nightclub called the Scene took a shine to them and hired them to be his house band. He had poured money into the place, installing an elaborate dance floor and swirling lights, and he wanted them to be his house band, with one change: He thought Berry looked like Jesus Christ, and wanted them to rename the band the Second Coming, which they did.
At first, their gigs at the Scene were sparsely attended. Jacksonville seemed an unlikely home for a long-haired psychedelic rock band. They nicknamed their town Jackass Flats for a reason, for the conservative guys working the naval base and the shipyard and the rednecks living in the backwoods. Berry was confident that there were young people like them hiding out; they just didn’t have a meeting place. He suggested that they play Willowbranch Park for free, saying all the freaks would come out of the woodwork, and sure enough they did. They began to play shows each weekend, and within a couple of months, thousands of kids came to sprawl out on blankets and dance in circles, passing joints openly in the park, and the Scene was packed all week, too.
Jaimoe and Duane traveled back to Jacksonville for longer stretches of time between Duane’s remaining sessions at FAME, and Berry welcomed them into his home and to jam. Jamming with the Second Coming was a gas, turning on all the local kids, riffing on songs like “Hey Joe” and “Hoochie Coochie Man.”
Dickey was a mysterious dude, open and charming at times, then deep within himself and impossible to read at others. He wasn’t as forthcoming as Berry, and it was clear it would take time for Duane to get to know him. Dickey could not help but be a little wary of Duane, this strutting, arrogant guitarist who had appeared in town out of nowhere, clearly hoping to poach his bass player. Dickey could see right away that the band was dialed in. He was trying to be patient, feeling out the situation.
For all the caution, their playing took off from the start. They had chemistry. Dickey’s strengths and style were different than Duane’s. Dickey had a kind of fight in him that set off Duane’s fluidity in a remarkable way. Dickey’s tone and attack drew from a country root, while Duane was digging deeply into the blues. The conversation between their sounds was dynamic and fascinating and the music that unfolded during their Jacksonville jams began to shift the direction Duane thought his band would take.
Duane realized he had been preparing for this band forever. He had gathered ideas about what he wanted it to feel and sound like all along the road. Carlos Santana was coming closest to what Duane could envision. The band could expand into extended, exploratory jams onstage, and tap into different influences. He started to imagine a band that could really open up a song and strive together like the jazz cats did. Jaimoe played John Coltrane and Miles Davis records at their crib all the time, and anything less than that level of ambition and innovation started to seem like a waste of time. Duane also wanted two drummers. If James Brown could do it, so could he. Instead of switching between them like Brown did, Duane could almost hear the interplay in his head, if the drummers riffed with each other the way the guitars did.
His band would be together, man. Duane took Donna to see Procol Harum. When Gary Brooker, the piano player, bent his head over the keys, and the band started in a perfect synchronized moment, Duane leaned in and said with excitement, “That’s just how my band will be—that tight!”
Duane and Gregg met a great drummer named Butch Trucks in 1965 when his folk trio, the Bitter Ind, came to Daytona Beach looking for a gig at the club where the Allman Joys were booked. Duane made a few calls for them and turned them on to a club owner in Jacksonville who Duane knew would love what the Bitter Ind were doing. The Bitter Ind got the gig. By 1968, Butch had moved on to a Byrds-inspired band called the 31st of February, and Duane and Gregg were briefly tempted to join them when Hour Glass ended. They even cut a few songs together. The brothers joined Butch in a studio down in Hialeah, Florida, and recorded “Melissa,” a pretty song Duane particularly liked that Gregg had written just after high school. Butch thought it was sounding great, but soon after, Gregg slipped away, back to L.A. when it was just coming together. Gregg sold the publishing rights to two of his songs, “God Rest His Soul,” about the death of Martin Luther King, Jr., and “Melissa,” to pay for his plane ticket.
Butch had trained as a percussionist at Florida State University. He played drums with amazing power and his timing was perfection. Jaimoe had an uncanny intuitive flow like no one Duane had ever heard. He was truly a jazz drummer at heart, with a unique approach. What common ground could Jaimoe and Butch possibly have? They were from different worlds, literally and musically. But Duane had a strong sense that they would complement each other.
Now that they were all in Jacksonville, Duane headed to Butch Trucks’s house with Jaimoe by his side. Butch opened the door to Duane standing on his porch with a muscle-bound black man wearing a necklace made out of bear claws and a dark pair of shades, as intimidating a person as Butch had ever seen. Butch was raised in a conservative, Southern Baptist family and carried all the racist fears that came with this upbringing.
“Hey, Butch, this is my new drummer, Jai Johanny,” Duane said. “Jai, this is my old drummer, Butch Trucks.” Duane walked through the front door.
Duane liked testing people, liked to watch them cope with being thrown into deep water. Jaimoe was completely silent and sat on the sofa without a word. It was a long afternoon. They could find very little to talk about, but when they finally sat down to play, that didn’t matter at all.
All
of the inspiration Duane had carried for years came to fruition in Butch and Linda Trucks’s living room in Jacksonville, Florida, on March 23, 1969. Duane returned with Dickey and Berry, along with the Second Coming’s keyboard player, Reese Wynans. Once they set up and began playing, everything quickly began to gel.
This is the moment everything that followed flowed from: an afternoon in a living room, furniture pushed to the walls. They tuned their guitars, chords snaking around their boots on the floor, and sipped from cans of beer. They began to jam on a simple twelve-bar blues shuffle. Within the first few turns, it was clear they were communicating. Their eyes locked and they smiled and nodded. They were together in a new sonic space, and it was sprawling. It was as if they had wandered into a field of tall grass together and were lost in dense waves of green until Duane and Dickey together cut it down, revealing a clear view of blue sky for miles ahead. Berry stepped confidently into the breach, fearless and funky, with the power of the drummers at their backs like a gathering wind, and suddenly everything was possible. Even if they wound up in a tight spot, a moment hot with tension, they could turn a tight corner together and the song would open up again. Melodies would build and grow, then pass away. It was a journey.
The minute sensitivity of every note danced across their faces. Dickey’s blackbird-wing hair swung over his face, his eyebrows arched over his closed eyes. With his shoulders grooving, hips shaking, Duane’s mouth formed a silent O, his head shaking no, and then yes. Duane would wander off course and hit a note that at first sounded out of place, then bend it, pull it, and stretch it until he could use the tension in it and suddenly somehow it was right, more right than perfect would have been, because you could feel the wheels shaking beneath him, the danger and fragility, and it was exciting to know he was taking you out on a limb with him. Duane’s tone was incredible, round and warm, full and rich. He turned up his amp until it was fairly straining, a careening brightness he could tease and ride hard.
Please Be with Me: A Song for My Father, Duane Allman Page 17
