From mid-January to the end of February 1975, SHF went through the motions of recording a lackluster second album, appropriately titled Trouble in Paradise. Since Richie and I both lived in Colorado, we decided to record at the Caribou Ranch, which was located up in the mountains above Boulder. We were fortunate to get well-known and respected producer Tom Dowd to produce the record. Caribou was a wonderful recording environment, perfectly suited for many of the top rock acts of the time. We began rehearsing, but we didn’t have Jim Gordon on board with us. Jim was such a good drummer that we’d all been spoiled while working on the first album. The drummer we used was someone that J.D. met and hired on the spot. Unfortunately, the man couldn’t lock in, and it was very difficult to capture the groove that we had with Jim.
The album came out in the spring and sounded like an attempt to hit all the required chapters you would find in a Rock Music 101 course. Our manager, Ron Stone, convinced the powers that be at Asylum that we were set for an extensive concert tour in the summer so that the label would promote the album. But there were never any dates booked, as he knew. We all knew. It was the end of SHF. We slowly walked off into the sunset after the last session, remaining friends, but never recording together again. Since we’d all been signed to Asylum Records as individuals, the door was open for each of us to record a solo album.
When I first started to write my own songs I, like many other musicians, was ignorant about the business and the value of owning music publishing rights. Tickson Music, during the Byrds era, and then Irving Music, during the Burrito era when I was signed to A&M Records, were the companies that controlled half of the ownership of my songs. Having written songs with Stephen while in Manassas, I then signed with his company, Gold Hill Music. I just wasn’t very business savvy about that kind of thing. After Rosalie Morton tried to tell me not to give up my publishing on that fateful day in the A&M offices in 1968, you would have thought I would have learned something. Finally, I figured it out. I called Stills up one day and explained that I felt it was time for me to have my own publishing company. Stephen was so gracious and encouraged me to do it. That’s when I started my own company, Bar None Music. Years later, Stephen generously gave me back all the publishing on the songs he had under Gold Hill Music—a truly honest guy.
Though I’d moved to Colorado to work with Manassas in 1972, I continued to live there after the band broke up and stayed on through the Souther-Hillman-Furay years. The Colorado period was not a bright time in my life. I was in a very dark place, and I knew I had to get my life back on track. I was preparing for my first solo record, which was a new experience after having always been a team player in a band. I had written some good songs and believed it was finally my time to step out. I must admit I was feeling a bit apprehensive and not quite sure of myself, but this time I met the challenge head on.
There were a few bumps in the road on the way there. The first recording session was a train wreck—not because of the players on the date, but because of the producer I’d hired to do the album. He was a gentleman from Nashville who had produced Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash, so I thought he’d be the perfect guy to work with. We just didn’t communicate well, and it bordered on a bad nightmare from day one in the studio. I needed someone I could relate to who understood what I was trying to accomplish. A good producer, like a good film director, has to wear many hats: big brother figure, amateur psychologist, pal, and, most importantly, someone who knows how to use every trick to get the best performance out of the artist. I was still learning to use my voice—to sing with feeling, commitment, and phrasing—and I needed patient direction from the guy in the booth. The person I hired didn’t have a clue, and I can’t even imagine how he managed to have success with Dylan and Cash. When I tried to discuss my concerns he insistently reminded me of who he was and what he’d accomplished in the music business. Either that or he’d respond with some inane remark about everybody on the session being laid back and drinking organic apple juice. He actually said that to me. I thought, “Who is this guy? This isn’t Woodstock!” We were recording in Sausalito, and maybe that was part of the problem. I was seeking focus and direction, not mellow vibes.
Feeling completely lost I turned to my old friend Stephen Stills. I called him up and told him what was going on. “Get rid of this guy,” he said. “Let’s get Ron and Howard Albert to fly out and produce your record.” It wasn’t an easy task, but I let the man from Nashville go. Afterward, I flew down to LA and met up with the Albert Brothers. Ron and Howard, knowing me as they did, took charge and made everything easy. They booked a good studio, Cherokee Recorders in Hollywood, and we all decided together on what players to use on the tracks. A lot of old friends worked on those sessions, which would become the Slippn’ Away album: Herb Pedersen, Bernie Leadon, Tim Schmit, Al Perkins, Paul Harris, Joe Lala, Jim Gordon, Russ Kunkel, Lee Sklar, Rick Roberts, Donald “Duck” Dunn, Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan from The Turtles, and one of my true guitar heroes, Steve Cropper. It was a remarkable cast that assembled for my first solo effort, and, because Ronnie and Howard were such great producers, the whole project came together quickly and smoothly.
With the release of Slippin’ Away, it was time to put together a band to go out and promote the new record. I used some players from the Boulder area, including my old pal Rick Roberts from the Burritos, along with Jock Bartley and Mark Andes. Jock was an extremely talented lead guitarist, and Mark Andes had already found success with the bands Spirit and Jo Jo Gunne. These guys were great players, and I even produced a demo of their own group, which was called Firefall. They ended up joining forces with our old brother Michael Clarke, landing a recording contract with Atlantic Records, and going on to achieve great success in the late 1970s with songs like “You Are the Woman” and “Just Remember I Love You.”
I was thrilled for the Firefall guys, but as they were concentrating on their own career, I had to find a band. I recruited some new guys, including Skip Edwards on steel guitar and keyboards, Al Staehely on bass, Bernie Leadon’s close friend John Brennan on lead guitar, and, for a while, Al Garth, Merle Brigante, and Larry Sims from the Loggins and Messina Band. All these guys were excellent players.
In the spring of 1977 The Chris Hillman Band, as we were called, was booked for a triple-bill European tour alongside Roger McGuinn’s group, Thunderbyrd, and Gene Clark’s K.C. Southern Band. What seemed like a great plan ended in disaster. After two sold-out performances at the Hammersmith Odeon in London, the tour began to fall apart. The promoter failed to pay all three bands, as well as the travel agents representing the tour. My attorney advised me that the promoter’s company was in breach of contract and that I should consider leaving the tour. I gave the promoter thirty-six hours to make good on the deal and warned Gene and Roger that the arrangement was taking a turn for the worse. The time limit expired, and I made plans to depart. Roger and Gene decided to stay, playing two more shows without getting paid.
That reunion with Roger and Gene was short-lived. That version of The Chris Hillman Band would be short-lived as well. We toured around the country with enough success to warrant another album for Asylum Records. I began work on another solo record, using my live band in the studio, but this time with a different producer. It was clearly another case of the second album jinx. Clear Sailin’ came out in 1977, but the songs were weak, and it didn’t have the Albert Brothers’ magic touch. I had lost my momentum somewhere along the way and was back to spinning my wheels. I was still playing shows but having some minor problems with the band members, so I decided it would be best if we all went our separate ways.
There was something about the decade of the 1970s that was clouded by a spirit of misery and death. Of course, we’d lost Clarence. Then we’d lost Gram, who got trapped in the quicksand of excess and was ultimately overcome by his personal demons. It’s hard to explain, but there was something about that ten-year span that affected so many of us. There was a darkness and oppressiveness that seemed to be nipping at ou
r heels. I was slowly realizing that I couldn’t outrun or bury my own pain. My long-held internal anger was reaching its highest point as my father’s suicide continued to haunt me. Controlling my temper would prove challenging as the ’70s rolled by. At the same time, I was making personal choices that contributed to my restlessness and unhappiness. So much of that self-destructiveness, I now realize, was rooted in anger. I think the only reason I survived a decade that many others didn’t was because of the wisdom and guidance my parents instilled in me during the first twelve years of my life. They gave me values, morals, and a sense of responsibility that kept me from becoming another statistic in those days. It was becoming increasingly obvious to me that I needed to change.
An important part of that realization was Connie, who had walked back into my life when I was very near the breaking point. By 1976, her travel schedule had settled down, and we were able to spend more time together as she guided me into a positive, loving place that was unlike anything I’d felt since before my father’s death in 1961. By that point, I had sold my place in Boulder and purchased a small house in the Birdrock neighborhood of La Jolla, California. I decided to take a short hiatus from recording and touring, though I was still writing every morning. And I was back into surfing too. I missed the ocean while living in Colorado. Anyone who grew up near the Pacific Ocean can relate to the power of the ocean that was luring me back. My new house was blocks from Tourmaline Beach, a perfect point break to ride. I filled my time living easy by the ocean, reading, coming up with songs, and, most importantly, going up to Los Angeles to visit Connie on the weekends. We were madly in love, and her insight and advice were what kept me going.
As I was seeking clarity on what to do next, another opportunity arose with Roger McGuinn and Gene Clark. Roger was represented by Ron Rainey, who had been booking shows for Roger and Gene as an acoustic duo. In early 1978, Ron was putting together a solo deal for Roger at Capitol Records. The label offered more money when there was talk of adding Gene to the mix. Then, through Ron’s business contact with Connie, he tried to recruit me into the deal as well. At first I wasn’t interested, but with Capitol salivating about signing three former Byrds they put a strong offer on the table that began to sound attractive. Ultimately, we signed a three-album contract and made plans to record in the fall. That gave us time to do a month-long tour of Australia and New Zealand with some scattered shows around the States.
I convinced Roger and Gene to go to Miami, Florida, and work with Ron and Howard Albert at Criteria Studios. I’d loved working with those guys during the Manassas sessions and my first solo album, so I knew they’d be the right partners to help with the album that would become McGuinn, Clark & Hillman. All three of us were prepared and had some great songs. Roger brought in a drummer he’d been working with named Greg Thomas, who turned out to be one of my favorite drummers of all time. Joe Lala played percussion; Roger was on six-and twelve-string electric guitar; I played bass; and the Albert brothers recommended a lead guitarist named John Sambataro who turned out to be a welcome addition to the session band, and then the touring band with McGuinn, Clark & Hillman. With strong material, proper rehearsal, and a shared focus, we were prepared. This was not going to be a repeat of the Byrds reunion debacle of a few years prior.
Following the Manassas game plan, we leased a big house on Pine Tree Drive in Miami, with the plan of spending two weeks at Criteria and then finishing up the sessions in Los Angeles. With the Albert Brothers guiding us, we made a great album and had a top-twenty chart single with Roger’s song “Don’t You Write Her Off.” We hit the road, and it all worked well. The band was tight, and the shows were consistent. For some unexplained reason we did not call it The Byrds, maybe because David and Michael were not involved. It was a huge step forward for Roger, Gene, and me. We had all survived some major low periods in the ’70s to emerge professionally refreshed and grateful for another chance.
Roger had met and married a lovely woman, Camilla Sproul, in the spring of 1978, both of them making a commitment to Jesus Christ and pursuing a life of faith. Their love and their spiritual values were another marker on my path of beginning to refocus on what really mattered. I knew that Connie coming back into my life was divine intervention, and I was certain we were meant to share the rest of our lives together. It was a form of pure love unlike anything I had ever experienced before. We were married in October of 1979, in Los Angeles with our dear friend Rev. Jet Thomas officiating. Roger serenaded us with a beautiful acoustic version of “Turn! Turn! Turn!” Many of my closest and dearest friends, and our extended families, came to celebrate that special day with us over forty years ago.
Real life, however, is rarely a linear story of triumph, and there continued to be challenges. As McGuinn, Clark, and I started to regain our notoriety in the music business, Gene began to struggle with his own personal demons once again. He was focused and singing so beautifully during the recording of the first album. He had contributed some wonderful new songs, and the three of us were having a great time after dealing with obstacles over the last few years. Like Gram, Gene unfortunately fell under the spell of alcohol and drugs after the album was released, which only intensified his personal issues. He was such a gifted and talented singer and writer that it almost made me wonder if that old myth of madness feeding the creative spirit was actually true. I’ve never known anyone like Gene Clark, who was so poetic and insightful in his writing, yet hardly ever read a book. He possessed a gift, being able to grab the most beautiful passages and rhyming sequences right out of the air. But, sadly, we began to lose him to that familiar dark force that had seduced so many friends.
It was becoming so predictable, like a bad movie that keeps playing over and over: the band forms, everyone is excited, and, with the right amount of luck and talent, has a couple of hits and touring success. Then it proceeds to splinter, usually due to outside negative influences. My simplistic analogy of a musical group is that it’s like five individuals, each holding a paintbrush and each working together to paint the Mona Lisa’s smile. When it works it’s spectacular, but when one or two drop the brush, it’s the end. Roger and I tried to keep the momentum going with our MCH band pals Johnny and Greg, but it was like were headed down the same road with Gene that we’d already traveled back in 1966. We did another album called City, but then Gene was gone, and Roger and I were left, once again, attempting to hold a crumbling entity together.
Even though our second album was not as sparkling as our first, Capitol wanted one more, per our contractual obligation. Connie’s sister Reneé was married to producer and legendary Atlantic Records executive Jerry Wexler, who had been producing R&B artists like Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles, and LaVerne Baker since the 1950s. We asked Jerry if he would be interested in working with Roger and me, and he agreed to do it if we would record in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. Roger and I started writing together every night, preparing for this next adventure.
Jerry brought in Barry Becket to assist. Both were brilliant producers and record men, but neither of them had a clue what McGuinn and I were all about. Jerry kept trying to turn us into Sam and Dave. He even had me sing a version of Graham Parker’s “Soul Shoes” in a Mick Jagger style, which was totally out of character for this country and bluegrass guy. It was, by far, one of the strangest records I’ve ever been involved with. There were a couple of decent songs from the sessions, including “Turn Your Radio On/Songbyrd’s Flight,” which Roger and I wrote together. We wrote another one during that period called “Here She Comes Again” that we didn’t get a chance to record until thirty years later on my solo album Bidin’ My Time.
By the time we finished in Muscle Shoals, McGuinn-Hillman was staggering on the ropes. Capitol refused to release the record at first, and who could blame them? It was not at all cohesive or anywhere near an accurate representation of who we were. They were finally pressured into putting out the album, but by that time we were practically down for the count, musically speaking. On a pers
onal level, the real fighting was just beginning.
We were on a tour of the East Coast to promote McGuinn-Hillman with new band members, including my dear friend Al Perkins, who’d worked with me in The Flying Burrito Brothers, Manassas, and many other projects. But the new blood wasn’t enough to reinvigorate us after a bad album experience. Things were tense between me and Roger. We were both feeling the frustration, and we were struggling with a lack of direction. The record company was barely going through the motions, and I was always on the brink of a terminal meltdown.
One night, we were booked into the Bottom Line in Greenwich Village. After our first show, I came off the stage only to be cornered by a drunk promotion man from Capitol Records. I repeatedly told him to wait just a moment until I had time to change in my dressing room, but he kept pushing, shoving, and interrupting. I didn’t have a lot of tolerance for that kind of behavior, so, in a “Sinatra moment,” I hauled off and punched him. Our road manager, who was a large man, grabbed me from behind and pulled me into the dressing room. Bright and early the next morning, as we were leaving for JFK airport, my attorney phoned to tell me that I was off Capitol Records. I’d been dropped from the label because, as the Capitol legal affairs executive explained to my attorney, “Your client’s pugilistic tendencies and general attitude are no longer welcome here.”
It was a long plane ride back to Los Angeles. What happened at the Bottom Line wasn’t the first time. Poor Roger must have witnessed three or four of my fights with various people during the MCH era. I wasn’t a tough guy by any means, and I was lucky nobody killed me during one of my meltdowns. Gene and I came close to blows a few times, and I would have probably ended up on the canvas if the strong Missouri farm boy’s drug use hadn’t messed him up pretty bad by that time. When we arrived at LAX, Roger turned to me and said, “Chris, I don’t want to work with you anymore.” Short and to the point. MCH was done, and now McGuinn-Hillman was dead and buried with it. Looking back, I don’t blame Roger one bit. I wouldn’t want to work with me either. It was getting to the point where I should have added “extremely volatile and unpredictable” to my resume. I would have never been able to explain it at the time, but the truth was I was angry at my dad for leaving us. Those feelings had never been dealt with, which only allowed them to grow. It would take a little more time before I was able to completely forgive him. And myself.
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