Time Between

by Chris Hillman

  It was a dark day. Clouds obscured the sky, and there was a thick, haunting presence in the air. We were involved in a car accident on the way to the gig and, when we finally arrived, it was complete chaos. It looked like a war zone. We quickly learned that the Oakland Hell’s Angels were in charge of security. The Angels were in an agitated state of chemical enhancement that made them overbearing, violent, and confrontational. They were flat-out scary and had already been punching and kicking anyone who happened to cross their path. When Marty Balin of Jefferson Airplane jumped off the stage in the middle of his band’s set to try to take care of some problem involving one of the Angels, he was hit in the head and knocked out.

  Frankie and Robert backed our equipment van up near the stage, and we prepared to do our set. As I made my way up the steps, I saw that Crosby, Stills & Nash looked to be making a quick exit after playing a few songs. As I was heading up, Crosby was coming down. He paused and looked me in the eye. “Be careful,” he warned. “This is a little strange.” A little strange? I walked up and was greeted by two burly Hell’s Angels. One of them barked, “Where do you think you’re going?” I had my Fender bass in my hand. Where did he think I was going? Not something I would say to these guys in their present condition. Feeling like a monk explaining to two Vikings that it wouldn’t be a good idea to sack and plunder the monastery, I finally managed to convince the two gentlemen stopping me at the stage that I was going up to perform.

  The Flying Burrito Brothers played a good show. We managed to calm everyone down a bit, and there were no problems during our set. As we exited the stage, however, we found a very large naked man being severely beaten by a couple of the Hell’s Angels. He was out of his mind on drugs and had no clue what was happening or why. As soon as the Angels found something more interesting to go after, we pulled this guy into our van and told him to stay put until we could find someone to help him. The minute our backs were turned, he escaped from the van and proceeded to get the Angels’ attention again. They were immediately back on the attack. This was turning into an unbelievable nightmare. It was like a living Hieronymus Bosch painting unfolding before my eyes.

  I gathered my belongings and—along with Sneaky, Dickson, and our friend Jet Thomas—beat a hasty retreat toward the car. Gram took off with the Stones, and I didn’t know where Bernie and Mike had ended up. It wasn’t until 2010 that Bernie told me what happened to them. The two of them got a ride back to the Sausalito Inn with our friends Toni Basil and Annie Marshall. The hotel was seventy miles from the speedway, which tells you something about how well planned the whole thing was. Mike didn’t even have a room, but he was able to talk the desk clerk out of the key to Gram’s room, where they stayed that night. By the time they finally made it to the hotel, Sneaky, Jet Thomas, Dickson, and I were on the way to the airport. We heard the horrible news on the radio that a young man had been stabbed to death by someone in the Hell’s Angels right in front of the stage.

  Altamont was a far cry from the Monterey Pop Festival, which was just two and a half years prior. That’s when everyone got along, with very little security, for a nice, peaceful weekend. With the darkness descending around Altamont, it was almost predestined to end in tragedy. The promise of peace and love that had marked the 1960s was now a shattered dream. The decade wasn’t fading out with a whimper, but with a very evil and abrupt end.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  START ALL OVER AGAIN

  Burrito Deluxe was released in April of 1970. There’s really not much I can say about that record except that it was flat-out bad. They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but that might not be true for albums. At least it isn’t true for that album. In addition to a lackluster set of songs, it featured really terrible artwork. There’s nobody to blame but Parsons for that. Gram came up with the idea of the science lab jump suits, as well as the plastic gloves. Why did I allow this to happen? Out of the many records I had already done, this was the worst album cover I had ever been involved with. But I let it happen. Once again, I was giving Gram the reins when I should have stepped up and asserted myself more forcefully. The cover alone would have hampered our attempts at getting on any radio playlist, not to mention the music inside. And that’s exactly what happened—no airplay and no sales.

  Today plenty of folks in the Americana and roots music crowd cite the original incarnation of The Flying Burrito Brothers that Gram and I started as a pioneering musical experiment and an important influence. In 1970, however, we were a commercially unsuccessful group with a hitor-miss track record as a live band. I always knew the potential, but by that point it was becoming way too stressful hoping Parsons would show up for gigs. And then hoping, if he did show up, he wouldn’t be so high on something that he couldn’t perform. There were many nights when we would count off an up-tempo country shuffle only to have Gram start singing a slow ballad in a different key. Not an easy task to pull off. It became like a Keystone Cops routine with everyone crashing and banging into each other during a four-bar interlude to try to rescue the song. It was becoming embarrassing.

  And then it all came down to that night.

  Gram was twenty minutes late when he staggered into the Brass Ring, the San Fernando Valley club where we were working. He was stoned out of his mind, and when the show began, Gram completely destroyed it. Once again, we all started playing one song and Gram came in on the vocal with something else entirely. Multiple times. Total train wreck. After the first set, I stomped off the stage and retreated to the dressing room, where I was furiously pacing back and forth. Suddenly Gram came into the room, glassy-eyed and slurring his words. “What’s the matter, Chris?” I turned to face him and saw that his guitar was still strapped on. My mind was racing. That guitar. I hated it. We all hated it. The guitar was little more than a prop, and he could barely play it. My blood was practically boiling. It was a terrible instrument, and really terrible considering he never played with any finesse. That’s what was missing with this guy. Finesse. He was like a bull in a china shop. He just didn’t care!

  I was in a rage. I took a few steps toward Gram and stuck my finger in his face. “You’re fired!” I screamed. “You have no respect for anyone, and I’m done with it. You’re through!” Gram smirked. “You can’t fire me,” he drawled. I launched into an angry tirade about selfishness, professionalism, self-respect, and who knows what else. As my voice kept rising, I lost all control and smashed my fist through the front of that stupid guitar. “Be thankful that wasn’t your head,” I snarled as I stormed out of the dressing room and headed for my car.

  A day or two later, I was walking across the A&M lot, feeling bad about the guitar, but not about firing Gram. As I discovered immediately after that fateful confrontation, Sneaky, Mike, and Bernie all agreed with my decision. We were tired of feeling used, and it was time to move on. As I was walking, I saw Gram coming toward me. “Chris,” he said, “What’s going on here? What did I do?” I told him that it was time to part ways and that my mind was made up. “You can’t fire me, man,” he whined. “I made this band. You can’t do it without me.” I just shook my head. “No, Gram,” I replied softly, “we both made this band, and I can absolutely do it without you. I did plenty of things before you came along, and I’ll do plenty of things after. I’m sorry, but this time it’s truly over. You’re fired.”

  Nobody could stay mad at Gram for very long, but I was resolved that he wouldn’t come back to the band. And he didn’t. It might have been one of the few times in his life that Gram didn’t charm his way out of the consequences of his bad behavior. He had his pain, but Gram was also a spoiled rich kid who almost always got his way. He had to learn an important lesson, and I was at peace with the decision. I really loved Gram, but he was the least professional guy I ever worked with. Still, I knew he would bounce back, and I hoped that maybe this would be a wake-up call that would trigger him to refocus his natural talents. Gram still needed to grow and mature, but I wasn’t going to let him do it on my dime anymore
.

  After we parted ways, Gram returned to England. He reached out to Keith Richards, who invited Gram and his fiancé Gretchen Burrell to stay for a while. They moved in to Keith’s Redlands estate outside of London, and the two of us lost touch for a good while. In the meantime, the Burritos, as a four-man lineup, vowed to stay together at least a little longer to see if we could rebuild ourselves into a real band again. The challenge fostered a camaraderie between the remaining members that hadn’t existed before.

  Our first show without Gram was at the tail end of a package tour in June of 1970. The traveling Festival Express Tour, featuring The Grateful Dead, Janis Joplin, Ian and Silvia, and other acts, was making its way across Canada on a chartered Canadian National Railways train. We got on board for the last two shows. With the change in personnel, we had to rework the set list and tweak our arrangements. Bernie and I swapped off singing lead and harmony vocals, and it felt good. In fact, years later, when a CD and DVD of those shows was being prepared for release, Bernie and I were able to view the footage and give our input on what should or shouldn’t be included. We both agreed that our take on Gram’s song “Lazy Day” should be included because it was a fine performance. Actually, it was more than a fine performance. It was the best the band had played all year. It was plain to see what could have been if Gram hadn’t allowed his talent to wash away in that period. It made me sad to see what could have been—and what should have been—much earlier on.

  Despite the fresh opportunity and the improved tightness of the group, we were still in somewhat of a rut, both musically and financially. We needed to bring in another singer and songwriter to keep the fires stoked, and that’s when Rick Roberts arrived at our doorstep. Tickner ran into him when Rick was hitchhiking one day on Sunset Boulevard. He brought Rick to our rehearsal that night, and I liked him immediately. He was a solid singer and nailed the harmony parts. On top of that, he’d written some good songs. But, most importantly, Rick was full of ambition and highly professional. We weren’t looking for another Gram; we were looking for a reliable collaborator to helps us move into the next phase of the life of the band.

  Soon after Rick came into the group, we were offered a tour of Holland and England, which we immediately accepted. It felt a bit strange when we landed in Amsterdam and were met by a large group of fans at the airport. After clearing customs, we were ushered into a press conference—something I hadn’t experienced since The Byrds. Turned out we were big stars in Holland. The Dutch fans loved our music, and Sneaky Pete was the most popular guy in the group by far. It was great to see him get such positive feedback from audiences.

  Robert Firks found us bed-and-breakfast style lodgings on the Prinsengracht Canal called the Weichmann Hotel. It was run by an American named Ted Boddy and his wife Nikki, whom he’d met in the early ’50s while stationed in Europe. Nikki’s family had converted the beautiful historic building into a hotel before it was taken over by the Nazi high command to house some of their officers during the occupation in World War II. It was a beautiful spot on a charming street—a great find on Robert’s part. We became close friends with the Boddys, and I visited with them often over the years. As word got out about their openness to musicians, a lot of bands camped out at the Amsterdam Weichmann Hotel.

  While the rest of us enjoyed the hotel, Mike was soaking up every last bit of the Amsterdam experience. It’s always been a very liberal city where one could buy hashish legally over the counter. It was Michael Clarke’s dream come true. He was in his element and enjoyed every second we were in Holland. Everyone in the band was given a week’s per diem, and Michael went through his in approximately three hours on the first night we landed there. He then proceeded to borrow money from the rest of us for the entire stay in Amsterdam. I think he even hit up Mrs. Boddy for a few guilders.

  We had a fabulous concert at the Concertgebouw Opera House in Amsterdam and worked some other venues around the Netherlands before flying to London. Expecting the same reaction we got in Holland, we hopped off the plane at Heathrow airport to—crickets. Nobody was waiting for us except the tour promoter. At least we played some great shows around England to appreciative audiences. It was just as successful as the Netherlands—though in a far more reserved manner.

  Bringing Rick into the fold injected some new life into the band, as well as some new sensibilities. He came from more of a pop background, and our respective strengths worked well together as we began writing songs for the third Burritos album. Dickson was going to produce the record and, unfortunately, just as The Byrds had done a few years prior, Rick signed a publishing deal with Tickson Music before I could warn him. Regardless of what was going on from a business perspective, however, we cut a really good album. We had good songs, we carefully rehearsed the tracks and the vocals, and Bernie and Sneaky got to expand on their solo ideas, with Bernie playing more banjo and acoustic guitar. The final product, simply titled The Flying Burrito Brothers, was completely different from the first two albums. Some have argued that it didn’t sound like a Burrito Brothers record, but I disagree. It was an expansion on who we had been as singers and songwriters, and an exploration of a wider range of influence, while staying within the parameters of country music. As a bonus, the album was much more successful than our first two efforts. It received excellent reviews, and sales were far better than they’d been for the previous records. Finally, the Burritos were living up to our promise and building an audience around the country. For the first time, we were doing great business.

  Though we were hitting our stride, Sneaky decided to leave the Burritos after we finished recording the third album. His first love was stop-motion animation, and he wanted to stay home where he could work in his chosen industry and be available for recording sessions. He wound up working on some great TV shows and films and playing on some fantastic records too. I was sorry to see him go, but I understood.

  There weren’t many steel players like Sneaky Pete, but Tickner once again showed up with just the right guy. Al Perkins had just moved to town from Texas and was not only brilliant on steel guitar, but also a fantastic lead guitarist. He had a lot of experience working in bands and, like Rick Roberts, was a total pro. It was yet another step in the right direction. We were booking a steady stream of gigs, primarily at colleges on the east coast, and perfecting our new identity as a tight, kick-ass band that was able to play straight country, bluegrass, and rock and roll. We had new blood, new energy, and the audiences were loving it. Truly, the best lineup of The Flying Burrito Brothers that ever existed was me, Michael, Bernie, Rick, and Al.

  That lineup, unfortunately, was short lived. With Rick joining the group, I could tell that Bernie was feeling a bit frustrated. Having put in a solid year with the band, he was looking for a new challenge. He didn’t want to leave us high and dry, but he let us know that he had his feelers out for another opportunity. Soon after, he was invited to start a band with one of Al Perkins’ old bandmates, Don Henley. Leaving with my blessing, Bernie joined Don, Glenn Frey, and Randy Meisner to transition from being a Burrito Brother to an Eagle. It was through that group that the dream Gram and I envisioned of introducing country music to a young rock audience found its greatest commercial success. Moving to that band was a wise decision for Bernie that proved to be a monumental success story.

  Even after Bernie’s departure I was still feeling good about our lineup. We continued to play some really great shows. In fact, as we thought about what we wanted to do for our fourth album, I decided it would make sense to record some live performances. Dickson was on board to produce, and we planned to tape two upcoming university performances back East. I wanted to enhance the show by adding Byron Berline and Roger Bush from the bluegrass group Country Gazette—as well as my old friend Kenny Wertz from the Squirrel Barkers—to join us for a bluegrass set in the middle of the show. I played mandolin, Roger was on bass, Kenny handled the banjo, Rick played rhythm guitar, and Byron was on the fiddle for both the bluegrass segment and the
electric set. And of course Michael on drums.

  Released as Last of the Red Hot Burritos, the live LP became my second favorite Burritos record after The Gilded Palace of Sin. Although the liner notes had nothing to do with the actual music and should have never been a part of the final artwork, the album captured a moment in time when the audiences went wild and we were selling out wherever we played. It was a complete turn-around for the band, and we achieved it through raw perseverance and dedication. We had finally broken through, and we were working as a team—a truly golden era for me in terms of live performances.

  It’s funny that a West Coast band like The Flying Burrito Brothers would work most steadily on the East Coast, but that’s where our strongest audience was in the early 1970s. One of the premier clubs in the country at the time was the Cellar Door in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, DC. We were booked there one night when Rick Roberts and Kenny Wertz casually wandered into a nearby bar called Clyde’s during the break between our sound check and the show. After a little while they returned, raving about a talented young woman they’d just heard performing solo with an acoustic guitar. They insisted I come down and hear her before our show started, and I agreed.

  I walked into Clyde’s and was immediately taken by the voice of this great singer. She had a natural honesty and charm that shined through with every note that came out of her mouth. That was the first time I heard Emmylou Harris. She was wonderful but completely unknown to anyone outside the scene in and around DC. I was so impressed that I invited her up to the Cellar Door to sit in with the Burritos when she finished her set. She agreed and got up on stage with us that night to sing “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels.” I think we asked Emmylou to join the Burritos on the spot, but she wisely turned us down. Georgetown had a thriving music scene, and she was happy staying in her comfort zone and playing her various gigs around town.