by Don Felder
Joe was blue in the face from rage. He stormed out of the office in disgust.
Irving was incandescent with anger. “Did you see that fucking lunatic? He’s so fucking unstable. There’s no way he’s ever gonna be in this band.”
I was shocked. I’d never seen Joe so angry, not even when he was destroying hotel rooms with chainsaws. The last time I’d seen anyone treat Irving like that was when the mild-mannered Jimmy Pankow lost it with him in a hotel room in Honolulu in the late seventies during the Long Run tour.
Realizing after this incident that our new band wouldn’t work with either Joe or Terry Reid, Timothy and I scouted around for another singer. We tried a couple, including Paul Carrack, another Englishman, a singersongwriter who’d been involved with Nick Lowe and the bands Ace, Mike + the Mechanics, and Squeeze. I wanted one other singer who could play and write, and we eventually settled on Paul and another great guy named Max Carl from the bands .38 Special and Big Dance.
Now that we had our lineup, we recorded six or eight songs together, including a great track written by Paul with Jim Capaldi and Peter Vale called “Love Will Keep Us Alive.” It was a joy for Timothy and me to work with these guys, compared to some of the experiences of recent years. Based at my little studio in Malibu, we laughed and had a good time and played really well together. We put the songs we’d completed on a demo and took them to Irving, who jumped up and down with excitement.
“Hey, Fingers, these are really good!” he said, with obvious surprise. “I think you might have something here. What’s the band called?”
We’d toyed with a couple of names like Big Sky or Big Party, but nothing seemed to fit. We couldn’t think of anything that really worked, so we gave ourselves a temporary name. “Malibu Men’s Choir,” I told Irving. Seeing the expression on his face, I added, “Not really, Irv. We just made that up for a laugh. We’ll come up with something else, don’t worry.”
A week later, a fax came rolling off my machine at home. There was no preparatory phone call, no attempt at a proper explanation, just two sentences from Irving’s office: “We will not be entering into a recording contract with the Malibu Men’s Choir. We thank you for your input, but the material you submitted wasn’t strong enough.”
I felt sick to my stomach.
Still hopeful of an Eagles reunion, Irving set up more talks after he’d heard that Don and Glenn had spent a rare evening together at the Carlyle Hotel in New York, drinking Cristal champagne and reminiscing.
In the summer of 1989, Don produced a stunning third album, The End of the Innocence, which went on to sell over six million copies and swept the Grammy awards. I sent him a bottle of champagne and a telegram that said, “Congratulations on your broad sweep of the music industry. Attaboy, Guano.” His response was both warm and humble. Although I’d sometimes found him too obsessive and critical, he’d always had the capacity to be charming when he wanted to be, and he and I had never really had a problem.
The following year, Irving again broached the subject of what he called a possible “resumption” tour. The reactions from Don and Glenn were finally favorable, and the rest of us agreed. As before, my response was unequivocal: “Book it, Irv.”
In November, Irving called to tell me “We’re on” and give me details of where I had to be and when. I was more than a little anxious at seeing Glenn again for the first time in ten years, but I figured that if he’d agreed to the reunion, then he must have put our spat at Long Beach behind him. I arrived at a little rehearsal hall in North Hollywood, next to Burbank Airport, called the Third Encore, named in fond memory of our legendary tour parties by the guy who owned it, who’d been on the road with us as a keyboard tech and was soon given the nickname Norton.
Don had hired Danny “Kootch” Kortchmar to produce our new project. Danny was a guitarist and songwriter turned producer, who knew Don from the Troubadour days and who’d also worked with Glenn. Danny had coproduced all of Don’s solo albums, and Don wanted him on board now. Glenn’s suggestion had been Elliot Scheiner, who’d produced his solo records, but Don didn’t rate him as high. Our old friend Bill Szymczyk was semiretired and had been out of the loop for a while, and “The Gods” decided that he wasn’t up to the job.
A guitar player Don sometimes worked with named Frank Simes showed up, and Joe was due any moment. We had no idea when Glenn would show his face. Days passed, and there was still no sign of Joe or Glenn, so we puttered about, setting everything up, and we waited. Joe was pretty intoxicated most of the time by then and kept sending excuses. Glenn was supposed to fly in from Aspen any day with two or three songs he’d written, but he never showed. He supposedly sent a message through Irving instead saying that he had his songs already written and would meet us in the studio.
We carried on, rehearsing a couple of numbers Don was going to sing and one great ballad called “People Can Change,” which Don wrote for Timothy to sing. We all believed it was aimed at Glenn. “Let’s hope people can change,” I told Don. “It would be great if that could be the theme of this whole resumption.” He nodded and smiled. We played with the tracks and worked out a couple of licks, but still there was no sign of Joe or Glenn. After a few more days of waiting, we booked the A&M Studio at La Cienega and La Brea in Hollywood.
Irving told us that Glenn had said he wouldn’t be there the first day and would come later.
OK, we thought. At least we don’t have to go through the hair-pulling, writing stage. Don has a couple of things, there’s something for Timothy to sing, Glenn has a couple of songs, and we were certain Joe would bring in a song or two. “We’re gold, we’re good,” we told each other, not really believing it. “This will be easy.”
We spent the first couple of days in the studio setting up the drums, bass, and guitars so that they didn’t buzz or hum and sounded just right. It takes a while to get comfortable in a new studio, and we were still waiting. When Joe hadn’t shown up on the second day, we put in a call to his house.
His English roadie answered. “Joe was up really late working on something last night and he can’t come in today, but he’ll be there tomorrow by two,” he said. The next day we were all there at one o’clock, hoping for the best. Two o’clock came and went and there was no Joe. Then three o’clock, four o’clock, five o’clock.
We finally called the roadie, and he said, “Oh yeah, Joe’s just getting out of the shower now. He’ll be down in an hour.” By six o’clock, we called again and were told that Joe was so tired, he’d gone back to sleep. On the fourth day, Joe finally showed up, reeking and carrying a little black shoulder bag clutched to his side, which he took into the bathroom frequently. It was uncertain exactly what the poison of the day was, probably copious amounts of Jack Daniel’s or gin combined with cocaine, but his breath could probably have propelled a small aircraft. We were heavily disappointed that he was in such a state of disrepair, but late in the morning, when he was so inebriated that I thought he’d fall off his stool, he plugged in his amp for his “Layla”type guitar solo on one of the tracks and played one of the meanest licks I’d ever heard.
“OK,” we said, looking at each other in surprise. “Joe can still play. Cool. This could really work.”
Over the next day or two, we started recording tracks that Don would sing, convincing ourselves that Glenn could come in later and play his guitar or add whatever he felt they needed. He kept putting us off until finally Irving arrived, stone-faced.
“Glenn’s not coming to the party,” he said, his dismay evident. “He’s decided not to do it. It’s over.”
For a split second I wondered if Glenn had ever really agreed to do this in the first place, or whether Irving had been yanking our chains. Maybe he thought that if he told us Glenn would do it, and we all got together and started, then Glenn would actually agree. Whatever his plan, it wasn’t going to work.
We looked at each other and shook our heads in disbelief. Someone said, “Well, if he doesn’t want to do it, let’s just g
o ahead without him.”
No one really wanted that. Our hearts weren’t in it, especially not after my failed attempt with Timothy and Joe. If it wasn’t all of us, it wouldn’t be the Eagles. Maybe Glenn was right. Maybe he was the leader of the band after all. None of us felt like we should do it without him.
Don summed it up. “Without Glenn on board, it would just be like Don Henley and his backing band.”
Glenn threatened to go to the press and say we weren’t the Eagles without him. He said he’d even file a lawsuit to stop us from going ahead. He issued a series of increasingly angry statements, enough for us to say, “OK, maybe we really shouldn’t do it.”
The saddest thing is that we had some great songs. One was by Frank Simes, on which Joe and I had a rocking guitar track. It was an outline for a song, sort of a ZZ Top, straight up, rock-and-roll number. It would have been fun, but we had to shelve the whole project. I guess those songs will be lost forever now. All I have to remember the experience by is a short videotape of those of us who showed up fooling around in the studio, having fun, and hoping for the best. I’d wanted it to record a little bit of music history, the regrouping of a great band. Instead, it became its video epitaph. I filed it away on a shelf and called it “Almost the Eagles.”
Being rich and famous is fantastic. You get to live in a fabulous house, drive fancy cars, own boats, take great vacations, and buy yourself or your loved ones whatever you like. Trust me, it’s worth all the effort it takes to get there, especially when you happen to be anonymous. Because of my “reclusive” tag, I’ve never been easily recognized, not like a movie star. I’ve been out socially with friends whose faces are far better known, and they get stopped on the sidewalk or approached in restaurants and asked for their autographs, while I sit there silently smiling to myself and thanking the Lord that nobody knows who I am.
The minute someone discovers my connection with the Eagles, their attitude changes instantly. From being vaguely polite and interested, they suddenly become my new best friend. Everybody seems to have a daughter or a brother or a cousin who wants to make it in the music business and has a CD they want me to hear. More often than not, I do listen to them, because you never know when the next John Mayer or Beyoncé is going to pop up. I don’t mind using my celebrity status to help people along the way, to lend some extra influence to a charity event, or to further somebody else’s cause.
But in modern-day America, there is another, more sinister, element to celebrity that has to be considered, even for those of us who are anonymous—personal safety. By just living in a particular area or being in this industry, you can inadvertently lay yourself open to those who begrudge you or feel they own a part of you.
When we were on the road, we were always being asked to sign autographs. Young women would scream at stage doors to take the pen they offered and write your name across their breasts. Hopeful young guitar players would hold up their tattered Stratocasters or their personal copies of Hotel California and ask the same. I never minded signing whatever they wanted me to, and I never once knowingly refused an autograph to a genuine fan. More often than not, however, the people at the door were professional autograph hunters, people who made a great deal of money by selling signed memorabilia to Eagles fans. The professionals were usually pretty easy to spot: They carried stacks of LPs instead of just one, or they had four guitars at their feet. They could get a lot of money for an Eagles black-and-white photo with all our signatures on it, and thousands for a guitar. Without my name added to the others in ink, the same item was only worth fifty bucks.
We learned how to spot them by asking, “What’s your name?” A genuine fan always wants the record, photograph, or T-shirt signed to themselves, and I’d duly write: “To Marcie, with love, Don Felder.” Autographs are worth far less when they’re signed to a person, and the professionals jump down your throat if you try it. “No, man, don’t write anything, just sign your damn name!” After that, they’d get one signature from me and I’d move on to try to find a genuine fan.
To professional autograph hunters, I’ve been a pain in the ass. For no reason other than where and how I lived, I was often not with the other Eagles when it came to collecting signatures. They might have all the other guys’ names on a stack of LPs or guitars, but not mine. When the band split up in 1980, the price for Eagles memorabilia skyrocketed. Likewise, when someone dies, their back catalog suddenly becomes worth so much more. Without all five signatures on their precious cache of goods, their haul was almost worthless.
I was well accustomed to people contacting me through the record company and Irving’s office, asking me to sign something for them. If I felt they were true fans, I’d always invite them to send me their LP or whatever and I’d gladly sign it and send it back. I was happy to. If not for our devoted fans, we’d be nothing, and I have always been grateful for their support. When “Almost the Eagles” happened, the venue was meant to be secret, because nobody wanted the press or anyone to know, in case it ended as it did. Word somehow got out, however, and on the second day, there was suddenly a barrage of professional autograph hunters at the door of the Third Encore. It still astounds me how thorough people are at getting information from those who rent rehearsal halls, drive limousines, or deliver cable or beverages to somewhere like that. They knew more than I did—where it was taking place and what time we’d be coming and going. There were dozens of “fans” waiting to pounce. Once again, I tried to find the genuine article among the professionals, although I think most of them went away happy.
When that project sadly ended and I returned to my home and my privacy, I suddenly became unavailable again. Most autograph hunters accepted that and approached me for signatures through the usual channels. One, however, was more determined. I began to receive letters from him at my house in Malibu, begging me to sign all his stuff. He must have run a title search for my name on all the property I owned and driven out to the various addresses until he figured out which one I lived in. A little unnerving, to say the least.
At first, he was extremely polite: “Dear Mr. Felder, I’m a huge Eagles fan and I have a massive collection of memorabilia signed by everyone but you. I’d be honored if you’d meet me somewhere to sign it. Thank you.”
I wrote back to him, via Irving’s office, telling him, “Thanks for your letter. I’m sure you understand that I wouldn’t feel comfortable arranging a meeting with a complete stranger, especially not after you contacted me directly, but if you want to send me a bunch of your stuff, I’ll gladly sign them and send them back.”
His response was angry. “That wouldn’t be acceptable,” he wrote, tersely. “There’s too much and anyway these things are very precious to me and I’d be afraid I wouldn’t get them back. We have to meet, face to face.” In the six or seven exchanges that followed, my same calm response was followed by his angry reply.
Our home in Malibu sat on six acres and was surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence and specially planted prickly privacy hedge. I had two Labradors and a German shepherd named Emma, who’d been trained as a Schutzhund 3 attack/guard dog. I’d acquired her after another incident, a few years earlier, when a complete stranger, wearing odd clothes and with straggly hair, suddenly appeared at the French windows of our house. I don’t even know how he got in, but he asked me where a wedding was and placed three .45-caliber bullets in my hands with the words, “These will protect you.”
I ran inside, locked the doors, and dialed 911. As I did so, I saw Susan coming up the garden path right behind him.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? Get off my property!” she shrieked, waving her arms at him. The kids were just a few hundred yards away in the pool, when he raced back down the driveway, looking spooked.
I ran out and pulled Susan and the kids inside and told the police to get to my house urgently. We watched from the window as the guy went down to his car, which was inexplicably parked in our drive, and opened the trunk. I honestly thought he was g
oing to get a gun out and come back up to the house to kill us all. I didn’t even have a weapon on the property, and all I could think of to do was grab a kitchen knife. As we watched, he stripped off all his clothes and put on a woman’s dress. I had visions of him, as in a horror movie, coming up and massacring us all, wearing this dress. Instead, he took some more bullets out of his pocket, threw them around on the ground like he was blessing us with them, got into his car, drove to the gate, and disappeared. The police eventually picked him up in my neighbor’s garden. He was from an insane asylum in Camarillo. Somehow he’d escaped his guards and gotten hold of a gun and some ammunition. The officers told us we’d had a very lucky escape. He was arrested while in the process of trying to convince a lady who lived down the street to look at something in the trunk of his car. She said she thought he was going to shove her in the trunk and take off.
That incident really spooked me. Susan and the kids were my chief concern, so I bought a .357 Magnum pistol, and she and I took shooting lessons at a local range. I updated my security and bought Emma. The Labradors, which I’d owned for years, had just thumped their tails in greeting at the lunatic.
