by Don Felder
Bernie introduced me to Irving, who was sitting at a desk in the middle of this large open-plan office, with dozens of telephones around him. He had long curly hair, enormous aviator glasses, and a beard. He was our age, from the Midwest, an obvious go-getter and, on first sight, less than impressive. David Geffen was of slight stature, but Irving was even smaller, around five feet. Bernie used to say “put them together and you get a pair of bookends.”
Besides some of the more recognizable names in Geffen’s stable of talent, there was also a young folk-rock artist named David Blue, who looked and sounded a bit like Bob Dylan. He was a friend of Dylan, and of Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell, and he’d just put out a solo album of original songs, Nice Baby and the Angel, on Asylum Records, starring and produced by Graham Nash and featuring Glenn Frey and Jennifer Warnes on backup vocals. The Eagles’ second album, Desperado, based loosely on the story of the Dalton Gang—former marshals turned outlaws—had featured a song called “Outlaw Man,” written by David Blue, which they’d released as a single. After that release, Geffen decided to promote David as the “West Coast Bob Dylan” and push him out on a tour of small clubs.
“So, Bernie tells me you can play guitar,” Irving said, looking me up and down. I could tell instantly he wasn’t the type to take prisoners. “Well, we’ll see about that. You never know, we might have something for you.”
New Yorker Elliot was far less dynamic, with red brown hair, but I liked him all the more for his common-sense, down-to-earth approach. “David Blue,” he told me, “is looking for someone to go on the road with him. David Lindley played all the string instruments on his album, but he’s on the road with Jackson Browne right now, so there might be an opening. Can you play lap slide and mandolin?”
“Sure,” I lied, hardly daring to look across at Bernie, the mandolin king.
“OK,” Elliot said, scribbling my number on a piece of paper. “I’ll get David to give you a call.”
The phone rang a couple of days later, one evening while Bernie was around having dinner with Susan and me. It was David Blue. “Come over and play for me tomorrow,” he told me. “I’ll give you the address. I’m living at Joni Mitchell’s apartment right now.”
Swallowing hard, I took my courage in both hands. “Mr. Blue?” I said.
“David,” he corrected me.
“Could I possibly postpone the audition until Saturday? Only because I’m working full-time until then.”
There was a pause on the phone and Bernie stared at me in astonishment. I think my old friend thought I was crazy.
“OK,” David said, eventually, “Saturday it is. Three o’clock.”
As I put down the telephone, Bernie said, “What are you doing? Postpone the audition to Saturday? Don’t you know what a great chance this is? Surely you can skip out of work for an hour or two.”
“I’m gonna have to take a lot more time off than that,” I replied, scratching my head. “I’ve only got four days to learn how to play lap slide and mandolin.”
Bernie took me to an amazing store on Westwood Boulevard called Westwood Music, run by one of the friendliest people I’d ever met in the music business, a man named Fred Walecki. He reminded me a little of a younger version of Buster Lipham. Fred was a wannabe musician, the same age as me, who could hardly play a note, but who inadvertently found himself at the heart of the rock and roll industry. What began as a store that sold rare harps, Stradivarius violins, and orchestral instruments soon became the hub of the West Coast music scene when nineteen-year-old Fred took over from his ailing father in 1966 and gradually phased out the classical instruments in favor of the new sounds of the sixties.
He particularly enjoyed helping struggling young musicians like me. It was vicarious enjoyment for him. He’d take personal calls at his home from anyone in desperate need of an instrument or a part and would turn up at rehearsal halls with some “new toys” for his friends to play with. He wasn’t in it for the money; often he’d just lend instruments out, to his own financial detriment. He simply loved music but didn’t have the skills or the dexterity himself. His friends included the Rolling Stones, Stephen Stills, Joni Mitchell, Emmylou Harris, Jackson Browne, David Lindley, and Linda Ronstadt. He lent me a C-quality mandolin and a lap slide guitar for three days, so that I could practice on them and take them along to the audition.
“Go ahead,” he told me, “take them, if you have the chance for a job.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. And good luck,” he added with a grin, as I walked out the door.
“Thanks,” I replied, half to myself, “I’ll need it.”
Geffen-Roberts Management sent me a tape of David Blue’s album, so I could listen to the parts I’d be required to play, and—in a throwback to my Voice of Music days in my parents’ living room—I plucked away at those instruments religiously, note by note, until I had the whole album note perfect. Closing my eyes, I was transported back to the time of Chet Atkins and that annoying “Yankee Doodle”/“Dixieland” number I’d been so determined to learn. Once again, it was Bernie who’d given me the courage to even try.
Joni Mitchell lived in an old Spanish-style building off Highland and Sunset in Hollywood. It was a five-story block structure and her apartment was on the top floor. There was even an elevator straight to her door. Joni was a giant in my eyes—a pioneer in the folk music scene, a poet, and a true star. Sadly, she was on tour and wouldn’t be walking in to say hello.
David Blue was quite a character. He’d been around the New York music scene for quite a while and felt it was his turn for success. Dylan and Joni were doing great, the other Geffen stars were in the ascendant, and now he wanted some of it. He had a considerable chip on his shoulder, but at the same time had commitment, a good sense of humor, and a willingness to lend a hand to a naïve newcomer like me.
I started out by playing some guitar for him, sitting cross-legged on the stripped wood floor of this huge, bright apartment. Then, we went through his album, number by number, and I played the mandolin and lap slide parts that multi-instrumentalist David Lindley had played. Between us, we worked out what I should play live to sound most like the record. There would only be the two of us onstage, so he’d have to decide which instruments he wanted for which parts, as I clearly couldn’t play them simultaneously. At the end of the audition, he shook my hand and said, “Okay, Don, you’re in. Let’s get started right away.”
I nearly collapsed with the shock. Someone actually thought that I had talent after all. Bernie was right all along, great opportunities were waiting for me in California, and now I was going to be on the road with someone who knew real stars in the business. Better still, they were going to pay me. The money on offer seemed like a lottery windfall compared with what I was getting at IBM and the accounting company. I quit both jobs without a second thought.
My first gig with David Blue was in September 1973 at the opening night of a brand-new club on the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Hammond Street, which was partly owned by Geffen-Roberts. It was called the Roxy Theater, and it featured state-of-the-art acoustics. Neil Young was the main act, halfway through his Tonight’s the Night tour with the Santa Monica Flyers, and we were supporting him. David sat up at the front of the stage, playing guitar and singing in that half-speaking flat voice of his, and I sat beside him, playing guitar, mandolin, and slide, and singing harmonies. I was more nervous than I’d ever been in my life, even standing on the stage of the high school talent contest as a shy teenager.
David deliberately adopted a Western look for his Outlaw Man image, with tailored boot-cut jeans, cowboy boots, a Western belt, a shirt with pockets, and a cowboy hat. He smoked cigarettes all the time, even onstage, blue smoke spiralling permanently from the tip he held between his nicotine-stained fingers. I knew people wouldn’t want to hear him play his original acoustic version of “Outlaw Man,” since the Eagles version was being played so much on the radio, so I plugged him into a Stratocaster and a nasty a
mp and made him play an electric rendition, with me providing the background guitar and vocals. The combination worked, and we were well received. When Neil Young took the stage after us with his band, David and I sat in the wings and were completely blown away. That guy had such an incredible voice and such a laid-back approach to playing music, he was a pleasure to listen to.
One of our next gigs was at the Troubadour, the place where the Eagles had first met. There was an Italian restaurant next door called Dan Tana’s, where we’d eat great platefuls of spaghetti before the show. The Troubadour remained a beacon for new talent. Everyone from Jim Morrison to Van Morrison hung out there, having a few drinks while listening to that night’s turn, or getting up to join in. Don Henley and Glenn Frey still spent most of their evenings there, drinking single longneck Buds, playing music, and working the babes at the bar. Bernie and Randy were regulars too.
Joni Mitchell sometimes used to come in to hear David Blue play. I was childishly starstruck every time I met her, but I didn’t hang around long enough to get to know the person beneath the megastar veneer. As I kept reminding myself, I was only at the club for the gigs. My marriage wasn’t going to work if I did anything else. I’d either go straight home to Susan and Kilo, or she’d come to the venue and wait for me. I wasn’t cat-tin’ around town. That was never the plan.
Joni asked me to play some guitar in a session for one of her records, which was like a dream come true. I went along to the studio and sat there with her and David and played my beloved sunburst Les Paul for them. Halfway through the session, I placed the guitar on a stand and took a short break. I was so nervous, I hadn’t put it down carefully enough, and, to my horror, I watched it topple over and break at the neck. I fixed it myself with some wood glue and a clamp, but it never really played the same way after that. I don’t know if Joni ever used what I laid down, but—despite busting my guitar—I was happy just to have been asked.
David and I traveled to places like Denver and Phoenix for a few weekend club gigs. Drugs were a frequent feature for everyone on the road and, for the first time, I came into contact with cocaine. It wasn’t something I indulged in often, because I couldn’t afford it—a hundred dollars for a gram of blow was way out of my league. Moreover, when your body isn’t used to it, a little bit of that stuff goes a long way. One night, David gave me a bottle that had a quarter of a gram in the bottom of it, which was very generous. I snorted a little and flew to the ceiling. One of the truck drivers, who’d become a good friend, had a long night’s drive ahead of him after the show, so when I’d taken what I wanted, I gave him the rest. “Hey, buddy, maybe this’ll help,” I told him. He was very happy to accept.
The next day, someone was chopping out some cocaine in a dressing room, and I took a snort. David watched me from the other side of the room. “Hey, Don,” he said, “what happened to the blow you had yesterday?”
“I gave it to the truck driver.”
David nearly fell off his chair. “You did what?” He never quite understood my camaraderie with the “hired help,” as he called them.
The tour continued to go well, and Geffen-Roberts Management seemed pleased. They gave us the green light to expand and put a four-man band together, with bass and drums, using other songs that lent themselves to the same format. “You can open for the Eagles for a couple of local gigs,” Elliot told us. “They’re going on a nationwide tour for their new album, Desperado.”
Within a few weeks, I was standing on the stage at the Santa Monica Civic Center with David Blue, playing accompaniment, with my old buddy Bernie Leadon standing in the wings watching me, ready to go on with his own band. It felt like a dream come true, Bernie and me on the road together at last, each one of us doing OK. Every night after the gig, we’d hang together like the old days, drinking a few beers. The more I saw of the Eagles, the more they seemed like a really nice bunch of guys. I was happy Bernie had found himself a good group.
Our next act was opening for Crosby & Nash. The legendary Graham Nash had stood on the stage in front of me in Gainesville and sung “Bus Stop” for the Hollies. Then he’d belted it out at Woodstock with Stephen Stills, the kid I’d played with in Florida. He’d even lived with Joni Mitchell for a while. Now I was going on tour with him and David Crosby. I could hardly believe my luck. Meeting Graham for the first time did nothing to disappoint. He was a true English gentleman, charming, genuine, and sincere. He personified the ideals of Woodstock. He’d always greet you with a smile, even if he was sometimes a little high on pot. He seemed to be delighted with me musically and with what I’d been able to add to David’s act. He’d often sit in on our rehearsals and make useful suggestions about the house mix and how it was sounding, always in an extremely diplomatic and gentle way. I had the utmost respect for him musically and when I came to know him as a person, I added several tiers of admiration. He was a timeless, wise soul, whom I felt to be several thousand years ahead of me.
I was still very naïve when I started working on that nationwide tour in the fall of 1973. Our opening gig was at the Fillmore West in San Francisco. Susan had flown up with us to see the show and wave me off on tour. She was going back to L.A. and her secretarial job the following morning. We were both childishly excited.
“Wow, Don, you’re really going on the road,” she said, her eyes brighter than I’d seen them in years. “This is all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I told her, my own stomach doing a somersault at the thought. I needn’t have worried. We went onstage and performed very well. The fans really seemed to like our stuff. I played guitar and sang harmonies and stood in front of a club packed to the hilt with adoring fans, relishing every second. I felt so exhilarated, because I knew this was the start of something really big. Crosby & Nash came on after us and blew the crowd away with some of their best numbers, like “Woodstock,” “Teach Your Children,” “Love the One You’re With” and “Marrakesh Express.” They were awesome with their hypnotic harmonies, and the crowd loved their music.
We spent that night at the Miyako Hotel in San Francisco, a five-star Japanese fantasyland, with sushi, hot tubs, and shiatsu massage. Susan and I went back to our room after the gig, took a shower, made love, and lay side by side on the bed in the darkness, the glow of the city lights illuminating our room.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I whispered. “It all seems so unreal.”
“I know,” Susan replied, her body pressed hard against mine. “It’s really cool.”
“I feel like we’re on the brink of something here. Like this could really be the beginning, you know?” I reached down and kissed the top of her head.
“We are on the brink of something, Don,” she told me, pulling herself up onto one elbow and staring at me in the half-light. There was a pause. “I’m going to have a baby.”
I lay staring at her in stunned, unblinking silence for what seemed like an eternity. It was such unexpected news. Susan was the steady breadwinner, we were living in a crappy little rented apartment, and I was about to go on the road. I thought to myself: “I’m just a long-haired, rock-and-roll hippie, a guitar player, not someone’s dad.”
Susan sat up even more and stared down at me. “Don?” she said. “Are you all right? Did you hear me? We’re having a baby.”
I had a sudden stupid desire to cry. Grabbing her, I pulled her to me. “A baby? Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She grinned. “Certain. Are you pleased?”
“Pleased? I’m thrilled! I feel like everything I touch at the moment turns to gold. I couldn’t be happier, Susan. Really.”
While I let the idea of being a father filter through, the tour continued, taking in most of the West Coast’s hockey and sports arenas, theaters, university campuses, and college venues. Most nights, before the gig, we’d sit and jam with Crosby & Nash and their backup band in their dressing room. We had some good laughs, playing music together. Then, one night, guitarist David Lindley—whom I’d stepped in for
with David Blue—took sick with the flu while the band was staying at the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C. He was so ill, he had to be flown back to L.A. Graham Nash came to my hotel room and asked me if I could play David’s parts.
“W-w-what do you mean?” I stammered.
“You know all the songs, Don. You know us. It’d just be for a while, until David gets better.”
I played with them that night at the Capitol Theater, and it worked really well. Graham liked my playing so much that he came to see me after the show. “You know, I don’t think we’re gonna have David back,” he said. “We’d like you to stay with the tour. Do you think you can handle it?”
