Barry Feinstein, another member of The Byrds’ extended family, photographed the cover for The Gilded Palace of Sin. Barry had shot the cover of the first Byrds album in 1965 and had attempted to shoot our ill-fated music video on the beach in Malibu. After staying up all night, we drove out to the desert, arriving at dawn. We were feeling ragged, but it actually made for a great shoot. With two beautiful models in tow and a worn-out shack in the background, the title and the look of the album suggested all kinds of devious play. It was a great cover and will always be one of my favorites.
A&M was supportive of the album and planned a preview concert at their studios. All their employees, along with other music business people from around town, were invited to our “stepping out party,” which they dubbed “the Burrito Barn Dance.” Of course, if we were going to introduce ourselves to the world, we needed to settle on a permanent drummer. Who better than my old brother from The Byrds, Michael Clarke, who had recently returned from his self-imposed exile in Hawaii? He’d been playing with Doug Dillard and Gene Clark in The Dillard & Clark Expedition, a group that also included Bernie Leadon at that time. With the group on hiatus after a particularly disastrous performance at the Troubadour, Michael was happy to join the Burritos. The event was quite a set-up, with the label having set the stage for an unbelievable party. We shined brightly in our rhinestones, but, unfortunately, we played poorly that night. Gram was wasted, and we were way too loud and completely disorganized. I remember coming off stage and knowing that we’d dropped the ball big time.
The Gilded Palace of Sin was released in February of 1969, and A&M planned our first promotional tour across the country. We hired Frank Blanco and Robert Firks to handle the equipment. Frank, who grew up in the barrio in East LA, and Robert, recently paroled from San Quentin prison, were ex-paratroopers who were a bit older and more seasoned than the rest of us. Phil Kaufman signed on as our road manager. Phil had previously worked for The Rolling Stones as a personal assistant—or their “executive nanny” as he referred to himself—while they were in LA. Keith Richards introduced Phil to Gram, which is how Phil ended up in our orbit. I found these new characters interesting, to say the least. They proved to be loyal and always dedicated to the band members’ protection.
Gram Parsons was so smooth he could charm anyone—man, woman, or child—out of the gold in their teeth. I think he developed this gift as a survival mechanism, growing up in a Southern family of eccentric characters whose love of money and deceitful ways were right out of a Tennessee Williams story. Gram went to work convincing A&M to send us by train on this, our first tour of the Midwest and East Coast. I was to blame in the political maneuvering too. I loved trains, and I was on the Santa Fe Super Chief to Albuquerque on a regular basis whenever I had a little time to get away. It’s truly amazing the label eventually relented and actually agreed to send us that way. Phil Kaufman booked the tickets from Union Station in Los Angeles to Chicago—with stops in Albuquerque, Dodge City, and all manner of interesting places.
When the day came, we had our big send-off from Union Station, with friends waving as if they were saying goodbye to the troops heading off to fight the Great War. A&M sent their head of publicity, Michael Vosse, along with his credit card, to chaperone us, which we certainly needed. We were assigned our own Pullman sleeper car on the train and, with Michael and Gram along, trouble was always brewing. We passed the time on the two-day train ride to Chicago with lots of poker games and all manner of hedonistic pursuits. Touring by train was totally crazy and way too expensive, but we figured the label was paying for everything, so why worry about it? It wasn’t until later that we wised up and realized they were paying for everything with our money.
We finally rolled into Chicago on an early morning and prepared to play our first show that night. Most people didn’t know who we were, other than our past association with The Byrds, but, after struggling through “The Burrito Barn Dance” debacle, we began finding our footing. There were some off nights, but, musically, it turned out to be a strong tour. Gram was at his best during that first year with the Burritos, and sometimes I would just sit back and shake my head in wonder. He was so funny and bright, and nothing seemed beyond his reach. Rhinestone suits! A train tour! Turbans!
Turbans? Yes, turbans—the kind worn by Sikhs or suspect magicians. Gram was out shopping one day in Philadelphia and happened upon a store that sold turbans. He quickly bought a handful of choice models for the band and brought them back to the hotel. That night, those of us who dared wore our brand-new turbans on stage, along with our Nudie suits. I even had a blue one to match my blue suit. I felt like the 1950s R&B star Chuck Willis. It wasn’t until later in my life that the great record producer Jerry Wexler explained to me why black performers sometimes wore turbans in the old days. It was a way for African Americans to try to pass as East Indian during the era of legal segregation and blatant racial intolerance in the deep South.
One of the more memorable stops on the train tour was at a club called the Boston Tea Party where we were booked on the same bill as The Byrds. It was wild being there with Roger, Michael, Gram, Clarence White, and Gene Parsons. On the final night of shows, our bands played together. That night has since become legendary, but at the time it was just a fun and mildly chaotic attempt to make some music together. For me, it was just nice to revisit with old friends. Our lives and music were already intertwined—as they would remain for many decades into the future.
A couple of months before leaving on the train tour, Gram and I had moved from the house in Reseda to yet another ranch-style home in Nicholas Canyon, just above Hollywood. We had left that house just prior to our departure from Union Station, so when the tour was over, we staggered back to LA to the new house that Phil found for us at the end of Beverly Glen Boulevard. Mike, Gram, and I moved into Burrito Manor, which was decorated with all sorts of strange furniture that Phil and his band of minions managed to purloin along the way. We started working steady gigs at the Palomino Club in North Hollywood on Monday nights and at the Topanga Corral in Topanga Canyon on Tuesday nights, and you never knew who might follow us home after the gigs. Given my two roommates, there was always a steady stream of strange people and suspect women wandering through our house almost every night. Living with Michael and Gram was like living with a couple of animals. I actually went so far as to padlock my bedroom door while living with those guys.
Somehow, during the chaos of the train tour, Gram and I managed to find time to write another semi-gospel song called “The Train Song.” I already mentioned Gram’s knack for pulling off whatever hijinks he could think of, but he did it again when he cooked up the idea of hiring R&B pioneers Larry Williams and Johnny “Guitar” Watson to produce that record as the Burritos’ next single. Larry was best known for his songs “Dizzy, Miss Lizzy” and “Boney Maroni” (with the memorable line, “skinny as a stick of macaroni”), while Johnny was known for his signature song “Gangster of Love.” It was an idea only Parsons could come up with.
When the day arrived, we were all standing in the parking lot of A&M’s studios when a gleaming red Cadillac convertible pulled up with Larry Williams behind the wheel and Johnny “Guitar” Watson riding shotgun. They looked like a couple of characters straight from Central Casting. Larry had his initials emblazoned across his jumpsuit, which of course was bright red to match his Caddy. Johnny had on the coolest straw pork pie hat with a wide black band. Now, these guys were cool. Before the engine had even stopped, Larry was out of that car, clapping his hands. “Watson,” he shouted, “let’s make us a hit record!” In addition to our dynamic production duo, we brought in Leon Russell and Clarence White to play with the rest of the band.
Once we got settled into the studio and started working out the parts, Gram pulled out a big bag of cocaine. Johnny and Larry scoped out Parsons and started working their game: “Watson,” Larry exclaimed, “I believe this is a hit.” Johnny fired back, “You know it is!” Gram was soaking up the complim
ents when Michael whispered to me, “Does Parsons even know they’re just playing him for his drugs?” Chris Ethridge, being an R&B bass player born and raised in Mississippi, gave me a wink from across the room. He knew the score, too. It was a strange session to say the least, but in the end we wound up with a genuine Flying Burrito Brothers record that sounded a little like Spike Jones and his band. What it definitely was not was a hit, despite what Mr. Williams had so loudly earlier proclaimed in the A&M parking lot.
The first half of 1969 was like one never-ending party, but then the vibe suddenly changed. We were still living at Burrito Manor in August when the Manson murders happened. The free-flowing culture of trust disappeared in the blink of an eye. It was like the entire city went under lock and key. People were frightened to the point of not leaving their homes at night, and it suddenly seemed crazy to have unknown people coming and going from your house. It was later discovered that one of the Manson family’s intended targets was Terry Melcher, who produced the first two Byrds albums. Terry and Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys had gotten professionally entangled with Manson, who was an aspiring singer and songwriter. When they realized he wasn’t very good and attempted to sever ties, Manson became belligerent. It was shortly after that when Terry moved from his house, which was subsequently rented to Roman Polanski and his wife Sharon Tate—the home where the Manson murders happened. Rumors circulated that Manson targeted the place to seek revenge on Terry, and Terry himself went into hiding for a while.
Before the murders were solved, police were following every lead they could. Michael and I had a good friend from our Byrds days named Charles Tacot, an older guy who ran with Dickson and a lot of the Hollywood crowd. Charles, who’d been a small arms instructor in the Marines in his younger days, was a tough, no-nonsense kind of guy you could count on to watch out for you. After the murders, I opened up the Los Angeles Times one day and saw Charles’s name as someone they were interested in talking to. One of the victims was famed hair stylist Jay Sebring, and there was some kind of conflict between Charles and Jay. On top of worrying about the random people who’d been coming and going, we were now also convinced that the cops might burst down the door of Burrito Manor, looking for Tacot, and drag us all away. It sounds paranoid now, but it’s hard to describe the mood across the city in those dark days.
I decided it was time to move immediately—if not sooner. I found a house north of Malibu that Gram and I could rent for six months, so we moved out and closed up the Manor for good. I was the one who’d signed the lease on Burrito Manor, which came back to bite me two years later when I was stuck with the bill for unpaid damages done by my roommates. It was a few thousand dollars, so I just paid it and vowed that I would never live with either of those lovable idiots again. No question the original lineup of The Flying Burrito Brothers was the weirdest, craziest, and funniest bunch of characters I was ever involved with, but the fun of it all was starting to run its course in the late summer of 1969.
By the time Gram and I relocated, things were changing quickly. The other side of Malibu was too far from the action for Gram, so he was in and out, rarely ever staying there. We wrote “High Fashion Queen” and a few other songs together, but we definitely weren’t productively collaborating like we were before the first album. I had no idea where Gram was coming from anymore. I poured what energy I still had into protecting the music and the band while Gram, always the charmer, was more of a hustler. He was brash and assertive and sought to advance his career by networking and ingratiating himself into the right social circles. But he was starting to trade off his career aspirations for a more hedonistic lifestyle. We both had the drive to succeed but with a very different methodology when it came to execution. It just wasn’t that important to me to see and be seen, but as Gram was drawn into the trappings of Hollywood excess, I could feel him slipping away. He was drifting into dark territory, and his fascination with the party scene chipped away at the tight musical brotherhood we’d established just a few months before. It increasingly seemed that Gram cared more about fame than about the music.
Nobody held more sway over Gram than Keith Richards. If The Rolling Stones were around, Gram was like their eager puppy dog. He was determined to be in their presence, and it didn’t matter what other commitments might fall by the wayside. One night we were booked at a show in El Monte, a Los Angeles County suburb. On the day of the performance, I couldn’t find Parsons anywhere. Searching for Gram was becoming a daily chore, but I knew the Stones were in town cutting tracks for their next album, so I had a hunch where I’d find him. I drove to the studio, Sunset Sound, and explained why I was there. Gram didn’t want to leave until, finally, Mick Jagger walked over and said, “Gram, Chris is here to pick you up; you have a show tonight and we’re busy working.” What Mick was really saying was, “You have a responsibility to your band and your fans, and we don’t really need you here while we’re recording.” What a moment. Mick Jagger giving Gram Parsons a lesson in social and professional responsibility! Though Keith and Gram were tight, I had a feeling Mick never had much warmth in his heart for Gram. But Gram wanted to be Mick Jagger, so Mick managed to get through to him with a message I’d not been successful at communicating. I was grateful for Jagger’s words, but I sensed the end was in sight.
Despite the triumph of getting Gram to the show, it still turned out to be a strange night. We played fine, but headed home afterward while our roadies Frank and Robert packed up the equipment. A bunch of gangbangers jumped them and tried to steal our gear, but they managed to survive. Robert later told me that Frankie saved his life that day. Frank was all of five-foot-five, but he was an ex-gang member himself and a guy you wouldn’t want to mess with. I’m pretty sure the guys who caused the problem had to be helped back to their respective homes at the end of the confrontation. Frank and Robert were incredibly loyal friends who stuck with me even after the Burritos.
Though there were some good shows in 1969, in all honesty, the original incarnation of the Burritos probably started going downhill after the first tour. The concept was better conceived than executed and, unfortunately, lackluster performances were a common occurrence in that band as it became clear that Parsons was more interested in getting wasted than getting his job done. I would say maybe only every fifth or sixth show was passable, and it was killing me to go out and give audiences a sloppy performance. I felt I had reached a high mark as a musician singing and playing on The Byrds’ “Eight Miles High” and “So You Want to be a Rock ‘n’ Roll Star,” but I was no longer hitting the standard I’d set for myself.
I loved working with Gram in those first months, but he simply grew more and more undisciplined. Sadly, he just couldn’t consistently deliver on our promise. He had natural stage presence, but I firmly believe that the greatest hinderance to Gram’s development as an artist was his steady stream of trust fund payments. He never had to suffer in his quest for a career in music, while everyone else had to learn how to scratch out a living while building a strong following. Gram had the drive, but he didn’t have the hunger. Despite generally strong material, we were too often lazy and weak in our execution. And Gram’s financial situation was a huge contributor to his downfall.
When it came time to start planning for another album, we were unprepared. We didn’t have a strong batch of new songs, and we’d lost Chris Ethridge who, citing family problems, returned to Mississippi. Phil Kaufman wasn’t the right guy to manage the band, and I often found myself having to be the adult in the room to keep everyone on track. By the fall of 1969, Phil was out, too, and I brought in the old team of Dickson and Tickner to help guide the Burritos. Sure, I’d had my differences with them during my time in The Byrds, but at least they had some experience in the music business.
With Chris Ethridge gone, we needed to bring in a new band member who could handle the chaos. I decided to return to playing bass, as I’d done as a Byrd, and recruited my old friend Bernie Leadon to play guitar. Bernie had left Dillard & Clark
at the same time Michael departed, and he’d been playing in a group called The Corvettes, backing up Linda Ronstadt. Bernie was a fantastic singer and musician, and I was thrilled when he decided to switch gears and join us. With Gram losing focus, I knew Bernie would be a lifesaver in the vocal and instrumental departments.
Despite all the changes, the odds were stacked against us in terms of material. We were really desperate to come up with something for that second album. Generally, the recording process was draining, as Gram routinely showed up late, loaded, disengaged, or some combination thereof. Even with the challenges, however, there were still some memorable moments in the studio. Frank Blanco’s mother brought in (and acted as translator for) a Norteño accordion player named Leopoldo Carbajal to add a bit of spice to Bernie and Gram’s original song “Man in the Fog.” I enjoyed recording a couple of other things for those sessions, including “Older Guys” and “Down in the Churchyard,” but, overall, we weren’t anywhere near the groove or unique vibe we’d come up with for The Gilded Palace of Sin. The songs just weren’t there.
Needing outside material to round out the sessions, Gram convinced Mick and Keith to let the Burritos record “Wild Horses” even though they’d not yet released their own version. I think they’d sent a tape of it to try to get Sneaky to overdub a steel part, but when Gram heard it, he wanted us to cut it. The song didn’t work for me at all. It was depressing, maudlin, melodramatic, and did not fit what we were doing on the second album. At that point, I just didn’t care. I was starting to lose all interest in the band, so I just went along with it.
As it was becoming harder to maintain much enthusiasm for the Burritos, the Stones asked us to perform at their upcoming free concert to be held in December of 1969 at the Altamont Speedway in Northern California. I wasn’t sold on the idea, mainly because there wasn’t a lot of information about the event and because we’d be traveling there on our own dime. I finally gave in, and off we went. We flew to San Francisco and rented a car to head to the show.
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