by Chris Price
'Then you've seen them somewhere before.'
He pointed out the key landmarks: the Police Headquarters, the business district and nearby rooftops where state troopers had settled with sniper rifles during the Rodney King riots. I'm pretty sure you don't get that depth of information from a commercial guide.
'OK – let's go watch the junkies at Venice.'
You don't get that from a commercial guide either.
We freewheeled down from Bill Botts Field and hit the pedal towards Venice Beach. Mike pointed out the enormous white frontage of 9336 Washington Boulevard, instantly recognisable as the house from Gone with the Wind, even to those who, like me, have never been arsed to sit through the film.
Nearby is the Culver Hotel. Countless Hollywood stars stayed here in the classic era and the rooms have names like 'The John Wayne Suite' in their honour. But even the Duke's visit is overshadowed by the Culver's most infamous guests. In 1938, while filming The Wizard of Oz, MGM studios announced, with no hint of irony, that they were 'short of midgets'. And you can't take a trip to Munchkinland without munchkins. So 'little people' from across the country were bussed in to take their place on the yellow brick road. And they all stayed at the Culver.
It was, at that time, probably the largest gathering of little people the world had ever seen, and with the added excitement of movie-making it seems that many got a little carried away. In fact the stories of what went on in the hotel during their four-week stay have long since passed into legend. My favourite was regularly told by David Niven, who recalled walking past the Culver one evening when the police were called. He asked one of the attending officers as to the nature of the incident, to be told that several munchkins had become drunk and disorderly and were currently resisting arrest. With hands too small for cuffs and no restraints of a suitable size, the hotel laundry had been called on to help. Niven watched as nine policemen emerged from the foyer, each holding a wriggling, writhing and rather heavy... pillowcase.
We sluggishly stop-started our way across the gridlocked LA sprawl to Venice Beach, the Camden of the coast. We parked the car and I feigned sunny nonchalance, leaving the roof down as we wandered off and casually bibbing the car lock over my shoulder.
'Dude, you gonna leave your car like that?'
'Yeah, Mike. This is Venice Beach. It'd be square to put the roof up, no?'
'No.'
'Really?'
'Really not square. Square is coming back to find a Chrysler-sized hole in the parking lot and a car-sized hole in your insurance claim.'
Evidently Venice Beach was the Camden of California in every sense. Roof up, doors firmly locked, we continued the tour.
First we reached Muscle Beach, which of course is not actually a beach but an open-air gym. An open-air gym designed not so much for working out as for a very particular brand of muscle-bound, homoerotic exhibitionism. Rollerbladers and skateboarders, henna tattooists and hair braiders, basketballers and basket cases all played out their roles in this pantomime. But despite the temptation of a temporary tour tattoo, we walked down to the sea to dip our toes in the Pacific and mark the true beginning of our coast-to-coast undertaking.
'Don't take your shoes off until you have to. There are needles and drugs and shit everywhere round here.'
'Mike – you're not imbuing the moment with appropriate road-trip romance.'
'Just being realistic.'
'You come here often Mike?'
'Nope. Only with tourists.'
'Thanks.'
'Though I used to go to school just a ways down the coast there. They used to film Baywatch on the beach by our school. Early mornings were the only time they could have the beach, so my bus would pull up just in front of where Pamela and Yasmin were wrapped in towels freezing their asses off.'
The Pacific Ocean rolled in, sinking our feet into the sand. We tried hard to savour the moment, gazing meaningfully at the horizon while simultaneously scanning the surf for hypodermics.
That evening, Mike treated us to dinner courtesy of Culver's finest Mexican food outlet, Tito's Tacos. We ate by the pool in his garden, watched by a flotilla of hummingbirds. Their anxious buzzing was a reminder that we needed to move on. LA had been good to us, but now was the time to clock up some miles. We bade our host goodbye and pointed the car towards the Mojave Desert.
On 14 July 1973, Byrds guitarist Clarence White was killed by a drunk driver while loading gear into his car for a gig. Following the funeral, his friend and band mate Gram Parsons got drunk, as he was wont to do. He had been deeply affected by the burial of his close friend and told his tour manager Phil 'Road Mangler' Kaufman that when he died, instead of a conventional funeral he wanted to be cremated at his favourite place in the world, Joshua Tree in the Mojave Desert. Kaufman promised that if he was still around when it happened, he would do right by his man.
Two months later, Gram took a trip out to Joshua Tree to hang out with friends, sing songs and take drugs, as he was wont to do. He checked into room eight of the Joshua Tree Inn with his girlfriend and two days later 'checked out', having overdosed on booze and either heroin or morphine depending on whose account you believe. His body was taken to Los Angeles International Airport to be prepared for shipping to Louisiana for burial. If the story had ended there, then Parsons' infamy probably would have ended with it. It didn't, because at this point in the tale things got weird.
Kaufman, who by his own admission was twisted with a heady mix of grief and alcohol, resolved that he would honour his friend's wishes. He borrowed a hearse, drove it onto the tarmac at LAX and persuaded the ground crew that they should give the body to him. Convinced by his wheels if not by his unusual appearance, they handed it over and Kaufman headed east. He drove as fast as his little legs would allow and screeched to a halt at Cap Rock, a massive outcrop in the middle of the desert all of fifty yards from the road. Unable to lift out the coffin, he drove off the road and tipped it onto the scrub. Then he doused Gram in petrol and set fire to him.
As with all legends, there is of course so much more to Gram's story than that. There's a man called Coon Dog, a millionaire orange farmer, Charles Manson, a suicide, an alcoholic mother, and – because it wouldn't be a proper rock and roll story without him – ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Keith Richards.
The first time I ever heard the name Joshua Tree was, I think, when Roger Scott talked about the new U2 album on Radio 1. Great album, crap name. As a result I have always associated the place with the Larry Mullen Band more than anyone else. When you are actually in the Joshua Tree National Park however, the only obvious musical connection you can see is at Cap Rock. This is where the 'Grampires' come to pay their respects, down a shot and share in a bit of rock and roll history. Keep on driving through the desert and you reach a rocky escarpment from which you can look across a twenty-mile-wide valley that marks the exact point at which California is trying to break away from the mainland. One day the faultline will give way, the ocean will rush in, and we'll be left, as Bill Hicks put it, with the natural beauty of 'Arizona Bay'.
As we headed out of LA along Interstate 10 it occurred to me that, other than the tale of his drunken DIY cremation, I knew very little about the man whose birthday we were supposed to be celebrating. When I say 'very little' I actually mean 'pretty much nothing other than his name'. So with the strains of his second solo album Grievous Angel quietly plink-plonking on the stereo, I flipped through a Parsons biography in the hope of learning a thing or two. The salient points, from where I was sitting, looked like this:
1946: Ingram Cecil Connor III is born.
1957: Sees Elvis in concert and resolves to become a rock and roller just like him.
1958: His father, 'Coon Dog' Connor, commits suicide two days before Christmas. That's right, 'Coon Dog'.
1959: Gram's mother Avis marries Bob Parsons.
1963: Joins first professional outfit, the Shilos.
1965: Attends Harvard University to study theology. Drops out
after one semester.
1966: He and friends from the Boston folk scene form the International Submarine Band. His daughter, Polly, is born.
1968: Relocates to Los Angeles and releases the album Safe at Home. Leaves the band before release and joins The Byrds, at that point one of the biggest bands in America. Gram instigates a new vision for the band, taking them in a country direction for the album Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Refuses to tour South Africa with The Byrds, ostensibly because of apartheid. Many speculate it is actually because he would prefer to hang out with his new friend Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones. He is fired from the band. Starts visiting Joshua Tree.
1969: Forms new band The Flying Burrito Brothers with Chris Etheridge and pedal steel player 'Sneaky' Pete Kleinow. Releases The Gilded Palace of Sin. It is a fine album but not a commercial success.
1970: Releases second Burritos album on a very tight budget, comprising of swiftly penned numbers, rushed recordings and a couple of Gilded out-takes. It's called Burrito Deluxe. It tanks.
1972: Now fat from too much drink and Southern food, Gram is signed to Reprise Records.
1973: Releases first solo album, GP. Accidentally burns down his Topanga Canyon home. Starts dating Margaret Fisher. Dies from an overdose in room eight of the Joshua Tree Inn on 19 September, despite Margaret's attempts at resuscitation by putting ice cubes up his bum.
1974: His second solo album, Grievous Angel, is posthumously released.
As we drove toward the fabled Joshua Tree National Park I started to think about where we were going. And I realised that everything I know of the place is based on a 'Classic Album' documentary I once made about the U2 album of the same name. Sadly these memories told me nothing of topography, geography or climate. In fact, all it told me was why the album is so called:
'What are those things over there?' Bono asked the driver as they scouted for locations to shoot the album cover.
'Those? Oh, those are Joshua trees.'
'I know that look in his eye,' thought Edge as Bono continued to look out the window at the gnarled cacti waving their fists in the air. 'So that's what the album's going to be called, isn't it?'
And that is how Joshua trees entered the popular music conscience. Not because of any mystical, hippy, Stones-tinged majesty. Not because of runes or ouija boards or wizardry. No magic involved at all, unless like some you think Bono is the Messiah.
At least that's how Edge tells the story. They had recorded an album that everyone was telling them was the best thing they'd ever made, and it was untitled – until they went to do the photo shoot for it, and in the landscape around them Bono found his inspiration. Chances are if you've heard of Joshua Tree before, it's because of that album.
We arrived in the dark with a scuff of tyres on dusty forecourt. Joe rolled camera as I approached the office to pick up the keys. A brief introductory conversation with innkeeper Yvo Kwee and we were in possession of the key to room eight of the Joshua Tree Inn, the place where it had all gone horribly wrong on 19 September 1973.
The room itself was smaller than the one I had held in my head for the past fifteen years. Even as I sat scanning it, the mental image of the 'original' room eight was hard to shake off. If I closed my eyes I still saw that imagined room and not the one we now occupied. It felt prefabricated, built quickly and cheaply without ostentation save for a nod to the Spanish in style. The walls were painted salmon pink, which looked uncomfortable on exposed brick, which in turn jarred with the chintz of the tasselled curtains and wrought-iron lampshades either side of the double bed. In all it had the feel of a tiny scout hut decked out by a fussy housewife.
At the foot of the bed were two doorways, one with no door which opened onto a space about the size of a walk in wardrobe, but which contained nothing but an empty fridge. To the left of that was the bathroom, spartan but with neatly arranged towels and showy net curtains above the toilet. It crossed my mind that this bathroom must have been where Gram took the dose of morphine that finally finished him off. (Then again maybe not: if you choose to rent a motel room in the middle of the desert for the express purpose of taking drugs, perhaps you wouldn't feel the need to retire to the bathroom to do it. Unless junkie etiquette dictates that the actual doing be done behind closed doors or whilst sat on the toilet. He did have company after all.)
Above the bed hung a black and white photo of Gram in a grand wooden chair – a section of the same picture on the sleeve of GP – flanked by two posters for Byrds gigs, one with Fleetwood Mac, the other with Joe Cocker, both at the Fillmore West. A guest book sat on the dresser, filled with touching tributes from other weirdos who had gone before us. Flipping through I felt a little pathetic; just another sad 'Grampire' among thousands that pass through, eager to leave a message for 'Brother Gram' and thank him for the music. But stumbling across a message from the Charlatans' Tim Burgess we began to feel as though we were among much more auspicious company.
It didn't feel at all weird being there. Not ghoulish or macabre or morose, not 'like staying in a mausoleum' as Joe put it. To know that Gram lay dying on this floor just feet from where ours were now didn't feel in the least morbid or sinister. But it must have been strange for Joe, whose connection to him goes no further than tolerating my unusual obsession and tireless evangelism.
A word or two about Joe then: if it were possible to like him more than I do already then he'd given me every reason in the last few days. Here are some of them:
One: I have closer friends who actually like Gram's music, but they weren't with me now, nor did they suggest the trip, as Joe did, on the grounds that, well, you're my mate, you love this guy Gram Parsons, so why don't we throw him a proper party and see a thing or two on the way? Two: he'd separated himself from his wife and child for three-and-a-bit weeks in order to be here, missed them like a hole in the ozone layer and hadn't moaned once beyond a brief 'homesick moment' as we left LA. Three: he indulges an obsession in me which borders on the compulsive, even though he still doesn't understand it. Four: anyone prepared to embark on a month-long journey across America just because they don't understand something deserves a medal. I don't understand Sudoku but I'm not about to go to Japan to find out what the fuss is all about.
But he snores like a congested hippo.
21 OCTOBER
MISSING PARSONS REPORT
Body clock still running fast, I woke up at 5.30 a.m. for the third day in a row despite a concerted effort the previous evening to give myself a fighting chance of sleep – by staying up late and getting drunk on the Coronas we'd bought at the Canyon Country Store. I should have known better. Here of all places I was never going to get more than a few snatched hours. After all, this was no ordinary motel room. It was room eight of the legendary Joshua Tree Inn, the very same room where Gram had his last fix, put one last notch on the bedpost (possibly not in that order), and then drew his last breath. Sleeping wasn't why Gram came out here, and it wasn't what brought me here either.
Aside from all of that, Joe and I were sharing a bed. We had agreed in advance that, despite there being only one queen-size double in room eight, it would be better for the project (and for our wallets) if we 'shared the experience' in every possible sense. We had done this once before when I found myself without a hotel room or tent to doss down in at Reading Festival. We were sure we could manage it again. So after much manly posturing and strategic placement of pillows, Joe nodded off as usual and left me to contemplate the spirit of Gram Parsons wafting through the rafters.
Next day, instead of wasting the dawn lying awake in bed next to the perpetually slumbering Joe – technically a lie-in and therefore definitely a little weird with someone you're not shagging – I chose to get up and photograph the motel in the gentle light of the desert at daybreak. It was a treat to have the place to myself for an hour or two and take my time overwriting the version which had occupied my head for the past fifteen years. The creeping morning light made for a beautiful photo of a silhouetted Joshua
tree by the pool, another showing a warm glow through the window diffused by the fading orange curtains, and a very cheesy shot of Joe waking up underneath a picture of Gram looking dazed, confused and faintly stupid with his new cockduster moustache.
Breakfast was cereal and muffins in the reception area of the inn, a cosy dining space hung with maps of the National Park, local artwork and leaflet displays. Pictures of Gram competed for space alongside photographs of Bono and friends, but despite the colossal profile of the latter compared to his lesser-known wallmate, this place, for the hundreds of fans who pass through each year, will always be linked to Gram and Gram alone. Margo the matronly innkeeper gave us directions to Cap Rock, Gram's favourite spot in the desert for getting high with friends (Keith Richards among them) and the place where his manager Phil 'Road Mangler' Kaufman had whisked and then flambéed the body, having stolen it from the airport hours before.
The approach to the Joshua Tree National Park is littered with drooping, ramshackle cabins that desert dwellers apparently call home. Cacti, the like of which I had seen only in Road Runner cartoons, line the roadside like Venice Beach muscle-men flexing their biceps for an all-over tan. Anxious not to miss anything, I jumped in the back of the now topless Sebring and shot some film of the junkyard of rusty rock formations and Joshua trees that scatter the Mojave landscape. This was our first taste of the in-through-the-nose-and relaaax kind of driving we had envisaged before we arrived, a welcome decongestant spin after the asphyxiating rush hour choke of LA the day before. We shot endless reels of passing roadside, figuring they would make great general views (or 'GVs' in telly parlance, daaahling) should we ever need voice-over material for a proper programme.
