Time Between

by Chris Hillman

  Every traveling musician runs into these same kinds of incidents on the road at one point or another. Sometimes it’s accidentally leaving a man behind, and sometimes it’s just dealing with the unsavory characters who have a habit of populating the live music circuit. In the early days of The Desert Rose Band, I remember settling up with a club owner in Georgia who made sure I saw his .357 magnum, which he “casually” set on the desk while counting out the money. That was nothing new to me. Prominently flashing guns has always been a part of the world of nightclubs and music promotors. In The Flying Burrito Brothers days I played a festival in Palm Springs, California. I went to the office, along with Paul Butterfield, who was also one of the acts on the bill. Paul always carried a .38 snub nose pistol in his briefcase, a habit he formed after years of working the clubs on the Southside of Chicago, where a weapon could come in mighty handy. Sometimes the occupational hazards might even come from fellow musicians. There was a club in Tupelo, Mississippi, where the house band had to take the night off when The Desert Rose Band was booked to play. They weren’t happy and tried to set us up by asking me if I had brought some of that good “California bud.” I spotted that con a mile away. These are the sorts of little adventures that any musician from the old days has experienced from time to time.

  In 1989, The Desert Rose Band began recording the Pages of Life album. By that point, we’d been together over five years, which was the longest I had ever been in a band. Steve Hill and I continued to write at my house, and we wrote six songs for the project, including “In Another Lifetime,” the Top 10 singles “Story of Love” and “Start All Over Again,” and “God’s Plan,” which was later recorded by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans along with their son Dusty. What an honor. Herb offered up his great song “Our Baby’s Gone,” and I think we knew when we were recording the album that it was shaping up to be our best yet. What we didn’t know was that changes were coming in the world of country radio airplay that would affect many artists. We also didn’t yet know that it would be the last album recorded with the original lineup of the band. Jay Dee decided to leave to spend more time doing studio work for movies and television. We had worked together since the Sweetheart sessions in 1968, and it was always an honor to play with one of the most highly regarded steel guitarists in the country.

  With the dawn of a new decade, all looked good on the horizon. My family was doing well, and our children were growing up. I was working and relatively happy. Pages of Life was released in January of 1990, and I was feeling good about the future of the band. Our next video, “In Another Lifetime,” was shot in the Mojave Desert near the small town of Zzyzx, California, complete with a cast of snakes and tarantulas climbing over our boots. We continued to tour and get great press, thanks to the efforts of our wonderful publicist Sarah McMullen, who also worked for the Roy Orbison estate.

  Just as I was looking ahead at what was to come, I had an opportunity to revisit the past. In fact, it was the memory of Roy Orbison that was the catalyst for bringing me together with my old bandmates Roger McGuinn and David Crosby. We were invited to play for Roy’s widow Barbara at a tribute concert that was staged at the Universal Amphitheatre in Los Angeles. The audience went crazy when Bob Dylan joined us onstage for a memorable version of “Mr. Tambourine Man.” It felt so good to be playing music with my old friends again. These sorts of Byrds mini-reunions always worked out well and were fairly tame. If we’d tried to do it for any longer it would have opened up some old war wounds, and it wouldn’t have been pleasant for any of us.

  The legacy of The Byrds was receiving fresh attention at the time. The previous year, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band asked Roger and me to sing a version of “You Ain’t Going Nowhere,” the Dylan song we had recorded on Sweetheart of the Rodeo, for their Will the Circle Be Unbroken: Volume Two album. We met up in Nashville in late January of 1989 and recorded the track with Randy Scruggs producing. We had no idea that this would end up being released as a single with our names as the artists. It reached number six on the Billboard country chart, earned a CMA nomination, and resulted in us getting nominated for a Grammy for Best Country Vocal Collaboration. The nomination was amazing, since we were almost completely ignored when the original Sweetheart of the Rodeo version was released in 1968. Even more amazing, I was nominated for two Grammys that year, since The Desert Rose Band was up for Best Country Performance by a Duo or Group with Vocal for “She Don’t Love Nobody.” My past and my present were coming together in a wonderful moment of both looking back and looking forward.

  After The Desert Rose Band returned from a long tour of Canada, Europe, and the States in 1990, I learned that Sony, which owned Columbia Records by that point, was in the process of putting together a box set of The Byrds. Not only did they want to gather up the best tracks from our time together, but they also wanted new songs for the package. Roger brought in Bob Dylan’s “Paths of Victory” and a new song, “A Love That Never Dies.” I brought in Julie Gold’s “From a Distance,” which I assumed Crosby or McGuinn would tackle. I ended up singing the lead vocal, so I guess the bass player won that vocal competition. Stan Lynch, who played with Tom Petty’s Heartbreakers, was brought in to play drums, along with John Jorgenson, who added some guitar overdubs. Ed Seay produced and engineered the sessions in early August at Nashville’s Treasure Isle Studios and did an excellent job, just as he’d done on all The Desert Rose Band recordings.

  Revisiting our work with The Byrds gave us an opportunity to ensure the legacy of the band by protecting its name. By the late 1980s, Michael Clarke and Gene Clark had their own version of The Byrds and were out on tour with some new players. This became a problem for Roger, David, and me because these “Byrds” were not very good. Frankly, they presented a bad version of what was once an incredibly talented and unique band. To protect the ticket buyers—and to at least get Gene and Mike to bill themselves as a “tribute to The Byrds” rather than “The Byrds”—Roger, David and I reformed again. Some dates were booked in California to establish and protect our rights to the name. We played three shows, beginning in San Diego and ending up in Ventura. We also had Steve Duncan and John Jorgenson from The Desert Rose Band sitting in. The performances were fantastic, and by the time we hit our last show in Ventura with Tom Petty joining us on guitar, we sounded as good as we did in the mid-1960s. It was important to the three of us to keep the integrity and the legacy of The Byrds intact, and not allow it to be diluted for a quick dollar.

  That legacy was further cemented when, in January of 1991, The Byrds were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame—a huge acknowledgment from our peers and the record industry. The ceremony was still fairly new at the time and was not yet televised, which made the black-tie event—in the beautiful ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City—a private and special occasion. All five original members—Roger, David, Gene, Michael, and I were in attendance. Roger, David, and I were seated at a table together, along with our beautiful wives. Michael and Gene’s wives were not able to attend, and somehow those guys were seated at a different table. Camilla McGuinn, who is gracious and loving, saw to it that Gene and Mike were relocated to be with the rest of us. We were all together, and it was wonderful. That, in and of itself, was a rarity, as just about every group of inductees usually aren’t speaking and haven’t been for years. Normally, separate tables are the best-case scenario, but not in this case. We were back together as a band, honored for that special moment in time.

  Just before the program began, the images on the video projectors were interrupted. Rather than videos of the inductees, a news broadcast came on. President George H.W. Bush announced that the Desert Storm operation had begun. This was almost a mirror of our first year of success in 1965 when the Vietnam War loomed large and was changing our whole way of life in America. In that moment at the ceremony, it felt like the times weren’t changing, so much as turning in a circle. We had made a complete revolution.

  Once the evening was underway, Don Henley
of The Eagles gave the induction speech. He talked of growing up in Texas and being strongly influenced by The Byrds in 1965. He was eloquent and very complimentary, his words very much appreciated by us all. We went up on stage when they introduced us, and each gave a short speech. Then, the five of us with—with Jackson Browne and Don Henley sitting in—played three songs, “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Turn! Turn! Turn!” and “I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better.” Roger played twelve-string and I played bass, while all five of us contributed vocals. Paul Schaffer and the house band helped back us up. It was a perfect evening, and it was wonderful to be recognized and honored for our very best time together as a group.

  The only downside to the evening was seeing how Gene and Michael were struggling. Mike was drinking quite a bit, while Gene’s hands were shaking. He looked frail, and I knew they were both battling personal demons. David gently offered help with his kind words, “If you ever want to get right, I’m here to help you in any way I can.” David, having been incarcerated, strung out, and now completely sober, was reaching out to Gene and Mike. Sadly, it didn’t turn into a happy ending. Four months later, Gene was gone. I received a call from his manager on the morning of May 24, 1991. In a frantic voice, he told me, “Gene’s dead.” He had passed away in the middle of the night from what was later reported to be a massive heart attack. Such a huge talent—an incredible singer and songwriter who, after leaving The Byrds in 1966, spent the remainder of his life writing fantastic songs, making albums, and slowly destroying himself. So tragic and tortured a life, but he left us such beautiful songs. I loved Gene. I didn’t always like him, but I never lost my respect for him and his art.

  Over the next couple of years I kept hearing bad things about Michael Clarke and the toll his drinking was taking on his body. I wanted to reach out, but I didn’t know where he was living at the time. Finally, I managed to get a phone number for a house in Florida. On the morning of December 19, 1993, I dialed the numbers in hopes of reconnecting with Mike. A woman answered the phone, and I asked to speak to him. “Who’s calling?” she asked. “It’s Chris,” I replied. She identified herself as Robin, Mike’s former wife and the mother of his son Zack. “Honey,” she said in a very sad tone, “Michael passed away two hours ago. He died in his mother’s arms.” Oh my God! No words could describe how I felt at that moment. I managed to hold back the tears long enough to finish the call, but as I slowly put down the receiver, they came in torrents. Mike, Gene, and I were younger than David and Roger, so we formed a brotherly bond in the early days of The Byrds. I was closest to Mike, as we anchored the rhythm section together and shared a mutual love for blues and R&B.

  Everyone loved Michael, who always lived in the moment and always had a beautiful woman on his arm. I don’t think he ever made an enemy in this world and, despite his cunning and larceny, he was a joy to know. We all forgave him because we loved him so much. Michael was never one to be afraid, and I had so many memorable adventures with him—from our time in Puerto Vallarta to hanging with Otis Redding at the Whisky a Go Go. Michael had walked right up to Otis and introduced himself. Before I knew it, we were both sitting with him as he bought us a drink. We had a nice conversation. Otis Redding was a lovely man and such a huge talent. Another time, in The Flying Burrito Brothers, I walked into the bar at the Gramercy Park Hotel in New York after a show one night to meet up with Mike. I spotted him and sat down. Michael said, “Chris, meet Chuck Berry.” There was a guy sitting on the other side of him and it really was Chuck Berry. Once again, Mike had immediately made a friend. I reached out to shake Chuck’s hand. He looked at me and said, “Charles Berry, nice to see you.” That’s all. And that was good enough for me!

  I was close with Mike’s mother, Suzie, and, after Michael passed away, we were able to send one of his beautiful paintings to her. Connie also helped his son Zack in sorting Mike’s record royalty accounts. Michael was an amazing man who accomplished so much in his short life. After his time with The Byrds, The Flying Burrito Brothers, and Firefall, he played drums for Etta James and Jerry Jeff Walker. As a drummer, he could be lazy, but when he was focused, he could hold his own with the best. Mike put a lot of soul into his music, and that’s what it’s all about. But, for me, the best thing Michael ever did was introduce Connie into my life. If not for Mike, I would never have known the wonderful woman with whom I have raised a family and shared some of the happiest moments of my life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  LIKE A HURRICANE

  In the summer of 1991, my family and I moved to Ojai, California, a small town that’s inland from Ventura. Our new house was located on two acres, with a lot of open space and a wonderful pool. It was a perfect place for the kids. Catherine loved to swim and play tennis, while Nicky loved to climb trees and shoot his Daisy BB gun, just like his dad had done so many years before. We shared some pretty good memories together there, although living in a gated community sometimes felt like we were trapped among our neighbors. At times it was like being locked in with some serious mental patients.

  The Desert Rose Band had two albums in 1991: A Dozen Roses: Greatest Hits and True Love. Following those albums came some changes to the band. I always thought John would be the first to jump ship. He was very talented and driven to success, and I knew he wouldn’t be happy to remain a guitarist and background singer forever. When he grew restless, I encouraged him to make the move. Steve Duncan left as well. It was all fine with me. I didn’t want anyone to feel unhappy or unwanted, and I thought they should follow their dreams. We hired Tim Grogan to play drums and Jeff Ross, a friend of John’s, to play lead guitar. Jeff wasn’t a country player, but he added a different element to the sound, and it all worked. After Jay Dee left, we needed a new steel guitarist, and, to our great fortune, Tom Brumley, the legendary musician from Buck Owens’s Buckaroos and Rick Nelson’s Stone Canyon Band, was interested in joining us. Needless to say, I was thrilled. Tom—along with Jay Dee, Sneaky Pete, Al Perkins, and Lloyd Green—was one of my favorite steel players. I can safely say I’ve been tremendously privileged to work with the very best steel players in the world.

  With our new bandmates coming in the new year, 1992, the revised Desert Rose Band was ready to hit the trail. We continued touring and prepared to record another album, but country radio programming was rapidly changing. There was a brief moment in the mid-to-late-1980s when a special crop of great singers and songwriters like Dwight Yoakam, Steve Earle, Lyle Lovett, Randy Travis, Patty Loveless, The O’Kanes, and so many others came along and illuminated the country music industry with a fresh new light. They had new perspectives, but they were deeply rooted in country music’s traditions. Then Garth Brooks came along and completely changed the face of the genre forever—and not necessarily in a bad way. His presence simply launched a new business model. Garth was the consummate showman—a good singer and entertainer who held a degree in advertising from Oklahoma State University. And he put it to good use. The days of Hank Williams, Lefty Frizzell, Buck Owens, Kitty Wells, and all the great “brother duos”—all that represented solid, genuine country music in my mind—were suddenly gone from the airways. Things change, and it had a ripple effect on many artists who broke out in the second half of the 1980s.

  Doing our best to hang in there in the face of a changing landscape, The Desert Rose Band switched management companies yet again. It would prove to be a very bad decision. We were rapidly going from bad to worse, and our airplay continued to dwindle. After eight Top 10 hits between 1987 and 1990, we suddenly found our singles falling shy of the Top 40. All our peers who had previous success seemed to be suffering as well. The effects soon trickled down to our live bookings too. The talent buyers for the state and county fairs booked the following year’s acts based on how well they were doing on the charts at the time. Since we weren’t scoring the big hits like we used to, The Desert Rose Band was quickly relegated to the “Budweiser Stage” for the summer of 1992. That meant you went from being a main stage headliner, performing one
show per night, to playing a smaller stage sponsored by a beer company that required three shows per day. We were working steadily, including another tour of Europe, but I was very conscious of the change in the air.

  After coming off the road, we headed to Nashville to record the album Life Goes On. “What About Love” was the first single, and I felt it had a good chance of earning some heavy radio play. How wrong I was! Curb Records was done with us. Their plan, as I learned on a forty-five minute phone call with Mike Curb, was to try to market it to Christian radio. That was certainly one of the strangest ideas I had ever been presented with. We’d given them Top 10 radio hits and, in turn, the stores still weren’t stocking our records. Was it the label or was it the management? In hindsight, everything points to the management company, which should have been on top of their game and motivating the label; that’s how it works. In the end, Curb released Life Goes On in Europe and Asia. It wasn’t even released in the United States. How quickly the tide can turn.

  The Desert Rose Band’s final show was in 1994 at the Riverside County Fair in Indio, California. That was the end of the trail. Going all the way back to The Scottsville Squirrel Barkers in 1963, I had never been in another group as long as I was in The Desert Rose Band. There were many wonderful moments and enough stories to fill three books. Though the end was frustrating, I can confidently say the good far outweighed the bad. I loved that band, but it ended at the right time. I needed to stop the excessive touring; I needed to be back with my family—to really “be there” for them as a husband and a father. My family—then, as now—was far more important to me than anything in the world.

  After disbanding the group, I went home to Ojai and enjoyed the time to jump into some new projects that had nothing to do with music. In the early ’70s, I had taken karate lessons at one of Chuck Norris’s Tang Soo Do studios in the San Fernando Valley. I always wanted to finish my training but never had time to do it because of my touring and recording schedule. Now that I had the opportunity to pursue it, I resumed training and studying in Ed Parker’s Kenpo style, which incorporated both linear and circular motion techniques. Parker was precise in his development of this Chinese-based martial art; Elvis Presley even studied with Parker and used some of the “kata” moves in his Vegas show. The Flores Brothers, Refugio and Jesus, had a big studio in Oxnard and a branch down the road from my house in Ojai. Once I signed up for lessons to resume where I had left off, I was totally committed. My son Nicky soon joined the “Little Tigers,” a special class for young kids. He loved it and was as committed as I was. Best of all, we could share in something together.