Time Between

by Chris Hillman

  Though it has since become something of a “cult classic,” when Sweetheart was released, it was met with critical acclaim and terrible sales. It’s not one of my favorite Byrds albums, but it did open the gates for all future “country rock” bands. The Byrds were credited with “creating a new style of music,” whatever that meant. We thought the influences had been there all along, so Roger and I weren’t entirely comfortable with that characterization at first. Over time, however, we learned to accept our “country rock” label.

  With Gram gone, I suggested we hire Clarence White as a new addition to the band. He was an incredible guitarist and singer who’d already recorded with us several times, and I knew he would enhance the sound of the group even further. Within a few weeks of hiring Clarence, we knew we needed to make a change in the rhythm section. My cousin Kevin Kelley was a decent drummer, but he didn’t really fit the group. He’d originally been hired as a stopgap measure when Michael Clarke departed, but I think Roger and I knew he was more of a last-minute necessity than a long-term solution. Kevin just wasn’t the right fit, and it wasn’t really working out for him or for us, so I broke the news to him that we were letting him go. In his place, we chose Clarence’s friend Gene Parsons, no relation to Gram; same last name, but a more reliable person. Gene was a good drummer and a good singer—plus he played both guitar and banjo, too. With the new lineup, we had four good singers and a lot more ammunition in the instrumental department.

  Maybe a week or two into the new lineup, The Byrds were booked at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California, as part of a one-day festival—billed as The American Music Show—that included everyone from Joan Baez to The Everly Brothers. Shortly before the gig I’d discovered that our manager, Larry Spector, had renegotiated our contract with Columbia Records. He gave up a significant amount of our free recording time in exchange for a large advance payment against our future record royalties. That put a hefty commission in his pocket, but it put me and Roger in the position where we’d be in the red with the label for years. Spector completely blew it in terms of protecting us as his clients, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. As I dug further, I found out enough information that could’ve gotten Spector locked up for fraud for a very long time.

  After our set at the Rose Bowl, I saw Larry backstage and confronted him. Tensions escalated quickly and I had a major meltdown, throwing my bass to the ground in a fit of anger. I let Spector know that I was leaving the group and wanted him out of my life forever. Right then and there, I quit the best band I had ever been involved with. Of course, in hindsight (aren’t we all so much wiser when looking back?), I could have handled this in a more sophisticated manner. The band was finally right where it should be, and having Clarence and Gene onboard was the perfect recipe for bigger and better things. I really enjoyed playing with them. Maybe I should have stayed on for the music, but I was too angry at Larry at that point. For me, it was over.

  I believe everything happens for a reason, according to God’s will. There’s a time to every purpose, as we sang, and God knew it was time for that era of my life to come to a close. I’ve never discounted how fortunate I was to have been a part of the whole experience of The Byrds—both good and bad. We were encouraged early on to choose material that would stand the test of time, and I think we listened. We left a lasting legacy by introducing jazz, psychedelic, and country elements to rock music. In our short time together, we made a major artistic statement and paved a path for many musicians to follow in the years to come. I will always count it as a blessing to have been a member of The Byrds along with Roger, David, Gene, and Mike. The Byrds—one of the greatest bands ever.

  As for Larry Spector, he later left the music business and, with his management commission and other monies he’d taken from his clients, he opened up the famous Ventana Hotel in Big Sur. The only good that came from my association with him is that he served as the inspiration for the song “Sin City,” which I would soon write with Gram Parsons. You would think I would’ve left Gram behind by this point, but—as I said—he could be very charming. Shortly after my insanity-fueled exit from The Byrds we made contact, and I forgave him for leaving us high and dry in South Africa. I was about to fall under Gram’s spell once again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SIN CITY

  Just before leaving The Byrds I had sold my house in Topanga Canyon and bought fifty-five acres of beautiful pristine land in northern New Mexico, near the town of Amalia. The Sangre de Cristo River ran through most of the property and the land was part of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. I had hopes of someday building a little ranch house there but, for now, music was my priority. I rented a three-bedroom ranch house on De Soto Avenue in Reseda, down in the San Fernando Valley. After we made peace, Gram moved in as my roommate in the fall of 1968. In some ways it was like the odd couple. I serious and focused, with a disciplined work ethic, while Gram was charismatic and completely disorganized. I wanted to make great music; Gram wanted to be a star. Despite our differences, it was the start of a period that I will always look back on fondly. Gram and I shared a similar warped sense of humor and a bond over our mutual love for country music. Not many people in our world thought country was particularly cool at the time, but we both understood its simple beauty.

  We also both had a shared sadness. Gram’s father, like mine, had taken his own life when Gram was just about to start his teenage years. His extended family was something to behold. Though Gram came from money, the rampant alcoholism, infidelity, and backstabbing was like something out of an over-the-top Southern Gothic novel. During our time together, Gram would receive at least $50,000 a year from the family estate, which I think ultimately did him more harm than good. I didn’t have a trust fund like Gram had, but we had a connection. It’s not a topic we spoke much about, but there’s something about facing the loss of a parent at a young age that leaves a mark on you. Neither one of us could have articulated it at the time, but there was a dull mix of anger and sadness that perhaps we recognized in one another on a subconscious level. Whatever it was, we had a real connection, and for a time, we were like brothers.

  I usually woke up early in those days and, one morning, I got up and started writing a song: “This old town’s filled with sin, it’ll swallow you in / If you’ve got some money to burn….” I sketched out a couple of verses and a chorus and decided I’d better get Gram out of bed to see if he thought there was something to the idea. He woke up, grabbed a cup of coffee, and added a second verse that concluded with the strange lines, “’Cause we’ve got our recruits and our green mohair suits / So please show your ID at the door.” I wasn’t sure where the old boy was going with that line, but after I came up with the last verse about Bobby Kennedy (“A friend came around, tried to clean up this town”), it all came together.

  Built on a foundation of country music and Southern Baptist gospel, each verse was a little vignette about the culture of 1968. From Vietnam to Bobby Kennedy’s assassination to California’s seismic shifts, each section was wrapped around the chorus, “This old earthquake’s gonna leave me in the poor house / It seems like this whole town’s insane / On the thirty-first floor, a gold-plated door / Won’t keep out the Lord’s burning rain.” Larry Spector actually lived behind a gold-plated door in a condo on the thirty-first floor of a building on the Sunset Strip, so he provided the inspiration for “Sin City.” At least he gave me something after robbing me blind.

  Gram and I finished the song in about thirty-five minutes. He was really on his game during that time and we inspired each other in what soon became our daily songwriting sessions. In a two-week period, we wrote “Sin City,” “Devil in Disguise,” “Juanita,” and “Wheels”—some of the best collaborations either of us were ever involved with. We could practically finish one another’s thoughts while writing or singing. Gram and I were very different people, but we made a good team. The timing was right, as we were both looking for our next musical outlet.

  When Roger an
d I hired Gram and made the Sweetheart of the Rodeo album, it was never intended as a permanent change of direction for The Byrds. Roger and I always viewed it as a one-off Byrds album in country music, but it was a genre I wanted to continue to explore. Traditional bluegrass music was my first love, and from that first day at Bill Smith’s house in 1961, that music had only become more ingrained in me as a player, singer, and songwriter. Since Gram and I shared a common vision to bring real country music to a rock audience with a hip sensibility, we agreed it would make sense for us to join forces and carry on from where Sweetheart left off. With that common vision, we had forged an instant partnership. We just needed a band and a record deal.

  Gram knew a bass player named Chris Ethridge who he liked, which was fine with me. After playing bass in The Byrds for several years, I was eager to return to playing guitar in the new lineup, which would give me the chance to expand on both acoustic and electric. Ethridge was from Meridian, Mississippi, and was a very soulful, slow-talking southern gentleman who moved to the West coast to work in Johnny Rivers’s band. He eventually started doing session work alongside Leon Russell, Delaney Bramlett, and other musically gifted transplants. Chris was a great R&B musician, and what he played worked very well with what Gram and I were planning.

  After Chris came on board, we identified our next suspect. “Sneaky” Pete Kleinow previously sat in with The Byrds a few times and was one of the strangest steel guitar players I’d ever heard—plus, one of the more interesting people I ever crossed paths with. Sneaky’s other line of work was stop-motion animation, which he excelled at. He worked on shows like The Outer Limits, 7 Faces of Dr. Lao, and Gumby, while also playing clubs with Smokey Rogers and the Western Caravan. It was Smokey who gave him the name Sneaky Pete. Considering he was several years older than me, Sneaky could very well have been working with Smokey at his Bostonia Ballroom the day I met Tex Ritter when playing there with the Squirrel Barkers back when I was a teenager. Pete played single-neck steel, as opposed to the double-neck that was the choice of most steel guitarists. He used a strange tuning and had a unique tone that made him a brilliant player. Sneaky could be absolutely orchestral in his approach. Other times he could be coming at you from a whacked-out Spike Jones solar system. Most steel players are very precise in their playing because of the complexity of the instrument, but Sneaky threw out all the rules and came at it from a different angle. He was loose with the steel, sometimes not even bothering to tune it until halfway into a set. And that’s what made him perfect for us.

  With Chris and Sneaky in the fold, we were on our way to becoming the consummate “outlaw band.” Gram and I discussed a few ideas about what to call our new project. The Alabama Sheiks came in among the top contenders. I liked the name a lot, but it screamed “blues band,” so I lobbied strongly for one of the other options. That’s when we officially became The Flying Burrito Brothers. For me, especially because it was reminiscent of The Notorious Byrd Brothers album title, I decided it would fit us perfectly.

  The Flying Burrito Brothers. You couldn’t have assembled a finer bunch of criminals! The players, the band name, and the songs we were writing were the perfect ingredients for something either truly grand or totally insane. Over the next year we’d drift back and forth between the two, but at that point, with the puzzle pieces of the band mostly in place, it was time to find that record deal. My former neighbor in Topanga Canyon, Tom Wilkes, was the Art Director at A&M Records—the label created by Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss. Tom was aware that I had left The Byrds and thought A&M would be a great place for my new venture. Although Warner Bros. was interested, we ended up signing with A&M. We were the only country act on the label, and I don’t think Jerry Moss or Herb Albert knew what to expect. They based their decision to sign us on the success I had as a founding member of The Byrds. It’s possible they didn’t even hear any of our music before agreeing to sign us.

  My new attorney, Rosalie Morton, began the negotiations. She was a wonderful lawyer and the perfect fit for the Burritos. With her leopard-print briefcase, she took on A&M’s legal team with full force. We were doing quite well until the subject of our song publishing came up. I’d already given away my Byrds publishing to Tickner and Dickson for pennies and thought I’d learned my lesson. During my last year with the band, Roger, David and I had enough sense to form our own publishing company, McHillby Music. Gram and I should have just left it to Rosalie to negotiate our deal with A&M, but we went to the meeting for some unknown reason. Not being businessmen, we grew bored and impatient. Wanting to get out the door and get home, we agreed to let A&M’s publishing company, Irving Music, acquire half ownership of our songs. So stupid and short-sighted on my part. Rosalie was furious that we undermined her tactic of getting A&M to negotiate a recording contract with no publishing component. Her last words to us that day were, “You idiots will regret this the rest of your lives.” So true.

  In late 1968, Gram, Chris, Sneaky, and I began recording our debut album, The Gilded Palace of Sin, at the A&M studios, which were housed in the former Charlie Chaplin film studio complex. Larry Marks and Henry Lewy produced and engineered the sessions. Henry’s true love was jazz, but he was open to working with the Burritos and our unusual musical blend. Larry had a better understanding of who we were and really liked the songs we were bringing into the project. Along with the material Gram and I had written, Chris Ethridge came up with two beautiful songs that Gram helped him finish in the studio: “Hot Burrito #1” and “Hot Burrito #2.” Terrible titles, but fantastic tunes—possibly the best two lead vocals ever recorded by Gram, who poured every ounce of soul into those performances. Truly magical. Years later, Elvis Costello recorded “Hot Burrito #1” and wisely changed the title to “I’m Your Toy.” Overall, the album was really good on a performance level, but sonically, it wasn’t quite there.

  The one thing we seemed to have problems with at first was keeping a drummer. We went through three or four different guys during the making of that first record. But, other than that, we kept our circle tight-knit. We were focused on making a great album, and there wasn’t much of a party atmosphere in the studio at all. The only “outside” performer to appear was David Crosby, who came in to add his high harmony to the Chips Moman/Dan Penn classic “Do Right Woman.” Despite the fact that Roger and I had fired him from The Byrds a year earlier, I always considered David a friend and a true talent.

  With our A&M deal in place and our album completed, it was time to fine tune our stage presentation. Growing up watching the country music shows broadcast live out of Los Angeles in the late ’50s and early ’60s, I was always drawn to the clothes the performers wore. Their rhinestones and exaggerated embroidery made for an unforgettably multidimensional musical and visual experience. There were two main western tailors in LA back then: Nathan Turk and Nudie Cohn. I think Turk may have been around before Nudie, but each possessed his own individual style. Eventually, the striking “Nudie suits” became even better known than Turk’s creations and—with the advance money from our new recording and publishing deals freshly in hand—Gram and I decided to recruit Nudie to outfit the group. To me, real country music included rhinestone suits, so I was really excited the day that Sneaky, Chris, Gram, and I drove over to Nudie’s shop on Lankershim Boulevard in North Hollywood to order our own.

  Every band member’s true personality shone through with his own signature design. Manuel Cuevas, who was Nudie’s son-in-law at the time, helped with the designs and did all the tailoring. Manuel remains a dear friend, as does his former assistant, Jaime Castandea, who continues to design and create wonderful stage clothes for me to this day. Sneaky, who loved dinosaurs, ordered an image of a pterodactyl on the front of his black velvet top. For whatever reason, he wanted a pullover with no buttons or pockets, very baggy sleeves, and a crew neck collar—plus big, wide, baggy pants. A strange man, but I loved the guy. Chris Ethridge opted for a long southern-style coat, all white with red and yellow roses on the coat and pants.
His classy look reminded me of a modern-day version of something out of Gone with the Wind. Gram had the vision that fit him perfectly: a white suit with a short jacket, on which was embroidered marijuana leaves and pills. Two naked ladies, sort of like you would see on the mud flaps of a truck, were embroidered on the lapels. On the back of Gram’s coat was a huge red Latino-style cross that tied in with the flames on his pants. Me, I was all over the place with my design. I couldn’t quite settle on one look, so I somehow included all manner of strange embroidered pictures—from a huge sun with a face like an Aztec god on the back, to peacocks on each side of my jacket, to the Greek god Poseidon on my sleeves, and red flames running down the legs of my pants.