Heaven and Hell

by Don Felder

  “My wife makes jewelry and sells it instead of buying it,” I’d tell my friends, proudly. “How bad can that be?”

  Now when I was away on tour for months on end, Susan was busy running her own company, making and designing beautiful one-of-a-kind gemstone pieces, and selling them through Neiman Marcus stores. Within a very short time, she became one of Neiman Marcus’s largest jewelry vendors and was able to take on full-time staff. My only complaint was that I could never reach Susan when I wanted to talk to her. She was transformed almost overnight from being a housewife, always there when I called, to traveling all over the States to gemstone conventions, living out of hotel rooms like me, and wearing power suits. My little blue-eyed blonde Susan was suddenly Ivana Trump. The transformation was more than a little unsettling.

  Being back on the road brought its usual sexual temptations—tenfold, in fact, because of our new “rock legend” status. Fortunately, everyone was now married with kids, and the baseline had been moved. Don and Glenn had issued various commandments, sent down from the mountains: For this very high-profile tour, there was to be no drink or drugs, so as not to tempt Joe. And there was to be no womanizing, because wives and children were now traveling with us. No more Third Encores. However, sometimes when I’d pass Glenn’s room, food service trays of red wine would be evident, or there’d be a telltale pungent aroma in the hallway.

  All of us were faced with an ongoing daily opportunity to be unfaithful. The video crew even put together a film called The Eagles’ Greatest Tits, which showed the astonishing array of breasts revealed nightly for our delectation by women in the audience. There was always some chick, up on her boyfriend’s shoulders, dancing and singing along, who was happy to show us her finest assets then and later. Those sort of offers weren’t confined to the fans, nor to the groupies who hung around, ever hopeful. They were also forthcoming from the stewardesses, waitresses, bar staff, and various hangers-on who became our camp followers, even at the affluent, high-end level.

  I knew what beasts lurked out there with women, and I knew the battles I was going to be facing. I had burdened myself, quite deservedly, with massive amounts of guilt in the eighties for my earlier bad behavior. I wanted to prove, not only to Susan and to the band but also to myself, that I wasn’t the same guy anymore. I’d grown through, out, and beyond that stuff. I made a conscious decision to take things along with me that I could use to transcend those temptations. I really tried to find a way to face the same challenges and prove my own merit to myself.

  Using a technique I employed when I quit smoking, I told myself, “I’ve fallen victim to this before, I have tasted all of its delights, I know what it is, and I also know the damage it causes, so I’m not going to taste it again.” I read spiritually enlightening books, having discovered that it is really hard for an animal, such as raw sexual desire, to exist in the presence of something high and spiritual. It dwindles and slithers back into the darkness. I used to leave books lying around in my hotel or dressing room, on the plane, or backstage, and whenever I was presented with temptation, I’d pick one up and start reading it. I even handed one at the end of the tour to a young stewardess on our private plane who was particularly persistent and from whom, I’m proud to say, I rejected all advances.

  “Read this and have a happy life,” I told her with a smile.

  Another technique I employed was to practice my guitar playing in the dead time between gigs and sound checks. There’d often be up to twenty hours a day to fill, and I’d make a point of playing six or seven hours every day. Concentrating on my finger work really diverted my attention from what else my hands could have been doing. I also spent a lot of time e-mailing the kids, faxing, making calls—keeping busy. Most of all, for nine glorious months beginning in January 1995, I had O. J. Simpson to thank. His televised trial on CNN gripped the entire nation. It also served as a wonderful device against temptation. One of our tour jokes became: “Sorry, honey, I can’t screw you right now. O.J.’s about to take the stand.” Employing these various techniques, I managed to keep my hands clean and Susan happy.

  There were some unexpected experiences too—like meeting the President of the United States. Don had been a big supporter of Bill Clinton when he was a governor, and he arranged a benefit concert in Beverly Hills for his reelection campaign. Susan, my mother, Jesse, and Rebecca all came with me and met Bill and Hillary, both of whom were extremely charismatic. Barbra Streisand sang, and I met Sharon Stone, which was a personal high. David Geffen was there, now a film mogul through his partnership with Steven Spielberg. I was pleased to see him. In the short time David’s company had managed us, before we moved with Irving to Front Line, he’d always been extremely gracious to me. I longed for a return to such integrity.

  In gratitude for our election support, when our tour came to Washington, we were invited to the White House to see the Oval Office and have lunch with the First Lady. It was a great honor, and protocol dictated that we should give the Clintons something to express our thanks. The gift “The Gods” selected, however, was not quite what I might have chosen. Glenn had an endorsement deal with Takamine, the Japanese guitar makers, which meant that every year we were given scores of guitars to autograph and give away for promotional auctions or charity events. One of these was now destined for Bill Clinton.

  At various times I suggested we try and make a deal with Martin, Fender, or Gibson instead. “We’re an all-American band. We’re meant to be the quintessential all-American band.” I thought we shouldn’t be handing out cheap Japanese guitars, least of all to the President of the United States. It should be a special, handmade commemorative American Gibson with the Eagles logo inlaid into it.

  No matter what I said, the deal remained. Glenn was even featured on their Web site endorsing their products, complete with a photo of him holding one and smiling inanely.

  When we arrived at the White House, Irving had a Takamine guitar that we all had signed. As we neared the Oval Office, it was handed to me to present it to the President. Normally, Don and Glenn would have been only too happy to step into the limelight.

  I was highly embarrassed by the nature of our gift. I didn’t even really know what we were doing there. I wasn’t a particular fan of the Clintons, and other than playing a few benefits for him, I’d had nothing to do with supporting them. Now suddenly they wanted me to step up to the plate. “Bill Clinton is given the most elegant paintings and furniture, jewelry, china, and ornaments, which end up in the Smithsonian for posterity, and all we could manage was this?”

  I found myself, red-faced and tongue-tied, standing in the Oval Office, in front of JFK’s very own desk, having the dishonor of telling Bill Clinton how much the Eagles would like to give him this special signed guitar. I wanted to say, “Hey, Bill, we heard you play saxophone, so we thought you might like to try a guitar instead,” but after the Cranston incident, I hardly dared open my mouth.

  We did so many benefit gigs, it sometimes seemed like almost all the concerts we did were for free. If it wasn’t for some politician or other, it was Glenn’s golf charity, Don’s Walden Woods Project, or his campaign to preserve the land beneath his Santa Monica home, a project Joe and I dubbed “Save Henley’s View.” A great deal of money was being taken out of every ticket each night to go to their personal charities, and after a while, I came up with an idea that I thought everyone would jump at.

  In my opinion, who better to benefit from the sort of generosity we had been showing people we hardly knew than the people who had worked for us so loyally for so long? We could do one night’s gig for the crew and give them a million dollars or so to split between them by way of a thank-you. That sort of money would allow them to take care of themselves in their old age. We could make these guys happy for the rest of their lives.

  Instead of helping our boys, we continued to raise millions for the band’s various pet causes, which gave us maximum publicity and some undoubted tax advantages, while our hardworking crew continue
d slogging it.

  EIGHTEEN

  decided to focus on the music, to make sure we were providing the best possible service to our fans. At least if that was pure, then the crap would be worthwhile. But I wasn’t sure it was. We were playing OK. In fact, as the tour continued, I think we improved daily. It was more that we didn’t have the backup we needed.

  We’d used the engineer who mixed the “house” sounds in the venues for many years, a guy named Richard Erwin. Glenn, deciding that he looked like Larry of the Three Stooges because he was balding on top, nicknamed him Larry. For some reason, Glenn suddenly decided he didn’t like Larry anymore and brought in his own guy, someone he’d used on his solo tours, who knew his songs. Don didn’t say a word, and the rest of us had no say.

  Personally, I didn’t care who mixed the music, as long as they could do the job. The new guy came from Gainesville, and we had some fun chatting about our memories of growing up in Florida, of high school, of Lipham’s, and of driving up to Daytona to see bands. His elder brother was a buddy of my brother, Jerry, and we had several mutual friends. Regardless of those connections, though, I wanted to assess whether the new guy was as good as Larry, because I knew he didn’t have nearly as much experience. I asked him to make me some DATs (digital audio tapes) of the house mix for every show so I could take them back to my room and listen to them to see how he was doing. To help me decide, I asked some of the other musicians to listen in too. The idea was that if we felt a particular instrument wasn’t being turned up enough or was being played too loud, we’d be able to offer the new guy some advice on how to make it sound as it did on the record.

  “You might want to turn up the sax solo on “New York Minute,” I suggested, as diplomatically as I could, after hearing the first couple of mixes. “It’s hard to hear over the drums and vocal.” My hope was that when that solo next came along, he’d remember what I said and crank it up. It was not loud enough to even notice that someone was playing. It just wasn’t there.

  After about three weeks of listening to the house mixes and noticing little, if any, difference, I was at a loss what to do. I got an opinion from Bill Szymczyk, who came to a couple of our shows, and from Elliot Scheiner, who’d produced Hell Freezes Over, and they concurred with me every time. But still this house mixer didn’t seem to understand what I was telling him.

  Finally, I approached Don. “Hey, man,” I said, “I’ve been listening to the house tapes for a month now, and they’re not even picking up the trumpet solo. The lead vocal and the drums are really loud, but everything else is sort of at the same level. I’ve spoken to the mixer, but I don’t seem to be getting through. Maybe you should listen to the tapes and see what you think.”

  This was the same guy who’d kept us in studios for months on end, worrying about a note out of place or a lick too loud. Suddenly, his perfectionism was forgotten when it came to stepping on Glenn’s toes.

  When Glenn heard what I’d been saying, he came and found me in my dressing room. “Mind your own damn business, Fingers,” he told me, his eyes burning. “The house mixer’s doing a good job and he stays.” And so he did.

  For the previous couple of tours, we’d used Joe Vitale as a backup drummer. Joe was a great guy who’d also helped me with my solo album. We sounded great with two drummers. The Allman Brothers always had two, and it really cranked up the volume and the pace. I was all for it, but Don always resented Joe, who was a far better drummer and also a talented keyboard player and flautist. With his connections to Joe Walsh and me, Joe Vitale was very clearly in the guitar camp, which was somehow seen as a threat.

  Needless to say, for Hell Freezes Over, Joe Vitale wasn’t asked to join us. Instead Don hired his own man, a drummer named Scott Crago, who used to be the percussionist in his solo band. When Don stepped off the drum riser and came to the front of the stage to sing “Boys of Summer” or “Dirty Laundry,” Scott would step off the percussion riser and take his place at the drums. He was good, and the band really rocked when Scott played drums. It was like someone cranked us up three notches. We were solid. Then Don would go back to the drums and play in his distinctive, behind-the-beat way, and we’d be the good ol’ Eagles again. It might not have been the best sound we could achieve as a band, but it was what “The Gods” decreed.

  During Hell Freezes Over,I ran into an old friend, a guy we always called Bummer Bob because he always had such bad news. Bob was a bass player from Florida I’d known since my teens. He’d moved to New York around the time I went there with Flow, and he used to hang out with us a lot.

  “Hey, man, how you doin?” I said, when one of the security guards took me to him after he’d asked for me at the stage door. “Come in.”

  We chatted about old times and caught up with the news of a few old faces from the past. Pretty soon, we’d run out of things to say. “Well, Bob,” I said, getting to my feet. “Good to see you, man. Thanks for dropping by.”

  We shook hands, but just as he was leaving, he said, “Oh, I suppose you heard about Mike?”

  “No,” I said, my ears pricking up for news of Flow’s leading light. I would never forget the intricate ink drawings Mike worked on so fastidiously in Dover Plains, or the zucchini sandwiches we’d devour together when stoned.

  “He’s been living in Woodstock for years, man, and he took a massive drug overdose. They didn’t find him for ages, and when they did, his brain had been starved of oxygen for too long. He’s in a wheelchair now.”

  I stared at Bob, speechless at the news. Poor Mike. I wondered if I still had a number for his family and could contact them and see if there was anything I could do. Stupidly, all I could think of to say was, “Bummer.”

  In Nashville, where we played to sellout crowds, another old friend surfaced. An hour before we were due to go on, Bernie Leadon’s face appeared at the open door of my dressing room.

  “Bernie!” I cried, jumping up delightedly. “Great to see you! I really hoped you’d be in town. Come and sit down. Have a beer.” Even after all these years, he still had that ability to light up a room with his grin and to put everyone completely at ease. Man, I missed that smile.

  We hadn’t spoken for a long, long time, and I caught up on what he’d been doing since leaving the band. He’d moved to Hawaii before relocating to Nashville, where he’d had a busy career as a player, songwriter, session musician, and producer. He’d set up a number of successful projects, including a spoof country/rap/bluegrass band, called Run C&W, and a period working as a staff writer for a music publishing company. He’d played banjo on Bruce Hornsby’s Grammy-winning version of “The Valley Road”; he’d coproduced works by Crosby & Nash and by Michelle Shocked; and he’d designed music Web sites. He produced a group called Restless Heart, which had had a bestselling album called Big Iron Horses, with Eagles-style hits. That record had preceded Common Thread, which, through the Travis Tritt video, brought about the Eagles reunion. Even at this distance, Bernie had inadvertently affected the path of my life.

  Since moving to Nashville, marrying, and having a son, he’d pretty much withdrawn from my life, which saddened me greatly, as he’d taught me so much and had been the one who’d persuaded me to come to California in the first place. I guess he’d felt there was no place for anyone connected with Glenn and Don in the new career he’d carved for himself.

  “Have you seen Glenn?” I asked, somewhat nervously.

  “Yeah, I just bumped into him in the hallway,” Bernie beamed. “He was fine.”

  “And Don?”

  “Yup, him too. But it was getting a little crowded out there, which is why I ducked in here.” There wasn’t a hint of animosity or resentment in his voice.

  “How you doin’, man?” I asked, slapping him affectionately on the thigh as he took a seat opposite me.

  “Great,” he said, and I could tell from the sparkle in his eyes that he wasn’t lying.

  “I’m really pleased, Bernie,” I said, genuinely.

  Looking across at
him, I was suddenly filled with envy. Bernie had escaped the treadmill the Eagles had become. He had stood up for what he believed in and walked away from all the crap to do what he wanted. With Run C&W he’d injected some of his unique humor into the country music scene and was clearly never going to take the industry too seriously again. If there was one thing I’d learned from Bernie—and there was so much—it was that his kind of music originates in a very selfless place. There are no egos in bluegrass, which comes from Sunday revivals down by the river and a shared sense of fun and community spirit.

  His final few months with the band had been an agony of recrimination and hostility, but his contribution had been enormous and his humor desperately needed. Still, until I saw him again, sitting across from me, forgiveness and love in his eyes, I hadn’t realized quite how much I’d missed it. Wishing we had more time before we went onstage, I’d have given anything just to sit and jam with him, like the old days. Worse, I suddenly felt anxious about how he’d perceive my performance that night. Bernie was one of the most gifted musicians I’d ever met and when he left, I took over his pedal steel and mandolin and B-string bender guitar parts, which he’d never heard me play.