I spent about five years, working my way up the ranks until it was time to take the black belt examination. Everyone who was qualified to take the test spent an entire month preparing and, per Ed Parker’s rules, had to write a fifteen-page essay on a subject related to the martial arts. It was an exercise to challenge both the mind and the body. When the day came, my black belt test took a little over three hours. It was grueling, trying to remember two hundred techniques as the instructors called them out. To add to the challenge, Ed Parker’s methods taught you to improvise on the spot. At the end of the test, we each picked a partner and put on our safety equipment to spar a few rounds. I passed! I was so excited as I received my belt from my sifu (instructor). I had stuck it out through intense workouts and sparring, and, at fifty-three years old, I’d never felt better. The martial arts were just the kind of strict regimen I needed at that point in my life. The discipline kept me focused and grounded in a way I had never experienced before.
After a period of self-imposed exile, I missed playing music. In 1995 Herb Pedersen and I worked out another deal with Barry Poss at Sugar Hill Records to record a semi-concept album centered on the Bakersfield Sound of the 1950s and ’60s. We put together a great band with Jay Dee Maness on steel, Lee Sklar on bass, Willie Ornelas on drums, and Larry Park playing lead guitar. Our entire budget was around $8,000, which meant we had to be totally prepared before walking into the studio. Perfect! Now, that’s the way to make a record, and I think it turned out to be one of our best ever. We recorded songs that were originally cut by classic artists like Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, The Wilburn Brothers, and Wynn Stewart, as well as a couple of tunes I wrote. One, “Just Tell Me Darlin,’” was written with my old pal Bill Wildes. The other, “Bakersfield Bound,” was a song I wrote with Steve Hill about the Dust Bowl and the subsequent migration to California in the 1930s. That became the title of the album, and Herb and I had the wonderful Henry Diltz photograph us for the cover while driving into Bakersfield in a beautiful classic Cadillac convertible. Herb and I grew up in California with that music in our DNA, so it was only natural to make that album together. Nearly twenty years later, country star Vince Gill made a similar-themed album called Bakersfield with Paul Franklin accompanying him on steel guitar. Herb and I were honored to see musicians of Vince and Paul’s caliber follow in our footsteps to help keep the Bakersfield Sound alive.
Shortly after Sugar Hill released Bakersfield Bound, Herb and I ran into our old friend Larry Rice. I had known Larry and his brother Tony since 1963 when they were living in Los Angeles. They were already incredibly skilled musicians at a very young age, having been around bluegrass music since their dad, Herb Rice, was playing mandolin with The Golden State Boys. Their uncle, Hal Poindexter, was the lead singer of the band at the time as well. That was the group I would be sure to dial in to hear on Cal’s Corral that was broadcast live from Los Angeles on channel 13. That show and that band had been such a huge influence on me when I was growing up. Larry had the idea that he and Tony should make an album with me and Herb. That was the birth of Rice, Rice, Hillman, and Pedersen—yet another group that sounded more like a law firm than a band. Just to be able to work with Tony was itself a huge honor. Tony Rice was one of Clarence White’s protégés and to this day remains an amazing musician.
Larry put a deal together with Ken Irwin, who ran Rounder Records. Sugar Hill and Rounder had a friendly arrangement where acts from both labels would sometimes move between the two imprints with different projects. Herb and I flew down to Nashville to begin recording with Jerry Douglas on dobro, Ronnie and Rickie Simpkins on bass and fiddle, as well as Mike Auldridge, Vassar Clements, and a very good piano player, Danny Crawford. Out of the Woodwork was released in January of 1997. We didn’t tour much at all—maybe six or seven shows, and mostly festivals. Looking back, I’m not even sure if we viewed RRHP as an official band or a great side project, but we managed to make three very good records for Rounder. The last one, Running Wild, was released in 2001. We tackled some really interesting songs during our time together, from The Beatles’ “Things We Said Today,” to Stephen Stills’ “Four and Twenty.” I contributed a couple of songs for each record; some were originally for The Desert Rose Band but eventually made it to these projects, including “I Will,” “The Walking Blues” and “Change Coming Down.” One of my favorites was one I wrote with Herb called “No One Else,” which was inspired by his lovely wife Libby. Larry Rice was a wonderful songwriter and contributed some great songs to all three albums as well. Sadly, we lost Larry to cancer in 2006. He was a wonderful mandolin player, singer, and songwriter. A very talented man.
In between the first two RRHP albums, Barry Poss wanted to record another solo record with me for Sugar Hill. Richie Podolor and Bill Cooper produced and engineered Like A Hurricane, which we recorded at American Recorders in Los Angeles in the fall of 1997. I hadn’t done a project with Richie and Bill since the first Souther-Hillman-Furay record in 1974, and it was wonderful to work with them again. Steve Hill and I had come up with some interesting new songs, and Michael Woody and I wrote another called “Second Wind.” I always loved Jackie DeShannon’s “When You Walk in the Room,” which the English band The Searchers had recorded. It was a song I used to play with The Byrds during our shows at Ciro’s, so I decided to put that on the album as well. In addition to what Richie and Bill contributed, John Jorgenson produced the songs “I’m Still Alive” and “Living on the Edge,” while Herb produced “Heaven’s Lullaby” and “Carry Me Home.” Along with John and Herb, the musicians we used included David Crosby, Hal Blaine, Steve Duncan, Jay Dee Maness, Lee Sklar, Jerry Scheff, and Skip Edwards—all veterans from past campaigns. It was wonderful to be surrounded by close and talented friends while making a record for an honest man who ran a prestigious record label. It was a joy to be making music on my own terms with the people I wanted to work with.
By that point, Connie and I had been married almost twenty years. Life was good, my family was doing well, and we were very happy. I continued to embrace my Christian faith but was beginning to question and reexamine my own understanding and interpretation of the scriptures. Connie’s parents Pete and Vasiliki, who were Greek, raised her in the Orthodox Church, and our children were baptized Greek Orthodox. Connie and the kids attended services every Sunday, and our marriage was blessed in the Orthodox Church in the late ’80s with Connie’s aunt Mary Ellen and her cousin Helen as our witnesses. In our own ways, Connie and I both believed in the Holy Trinity, and we shared a love of Christ as a family. But the traditions we followed were different. I would attend church with the family on Easter, Christmas, and special feast days but never really understood the intricacies of the liturgy, or what is called the mass in the Catholic Church. The smell of the incense and the sight of the icons on the walls overwhelmed my senses. It was so different from the evangelical worship services I was used to.
As I was feeling restless with my spiritual journey as an evangelical Christian, I began to experience a strong pull toward the Eastern Orthodox Christian Church. This was, of course, long after we had taken our wedding vows. Connie never pressured me into converting. She did, however, pray fervently for me in hopes that perhaps God would guide me to that decision. In 1997, that guidance became very real in my heart. I felt a strong presence leading me and God’s gentle voice whispering in my soul. I told Connie I wanted to talk with her priest, Father Constantine, about the church. I explained to him that I was interested in joining the Orthodox Church, which was followed by many sessions where he began teaching me about the sacraments, the true meaning of the church, and when the early Christians established the first churches in the five patriarchates of Alexandria, Antioch, Constantinople, Jerusalem and Rome.
I ultimately made the decision to join the Greek Orthodox Church. My baptism that Steve Hill had performed was recognized, and I was chrismated into the church on October 26, 1997. The sacrament of chrismation is somewhat similar to the idea of confirmation in
other traditions. I stood near the altar while the priest prayed over me and then anointed me with holy oil, which is called chrism. I then recited the Nicene Creed, my personal confession of faith. While I was sitting in the pew, waiting until the end of the liturgy when Father Constantine would call me up, Nicky was sitting next to me. He was all of eight years old, but he grabbed my hand, looked up, and said, “Dad, you’re going to be just fine.” What a beautiful sentiment. The wisdom and love my little boy displayed in that moment was yet another sign that God had directed me to that time and place. I felt so much love that day from all the parishioners who welcomed me into the family—especially Father Constantine’s wife Mona, whose friendship and constant presence in our lives is a true blessing. That day also established a stronger bond between me and Connie’s family. I was home. My path to Orthodoxy was divinely sent, a direct work of God. I was part of the apostolic church, the church that endures now and forever.
In addition to my spiritual revitalization, I was feeling very physically healthy. My karate workouts, bike riding, and surfing were keeping my body strong, and I planned to stay that way for as long as God willed. At least I thought I was healthy. In 1998 I made an appointment with my doctor for my yearly physical. After what seemed like a routine exam, my blood test came back showing I had elevated alanine transaminase enzymes (ALT), which is an indicator of inflammation or damage to the liver cells. I had a further test that determined I was positive for hepatitis C. I assumed all would be fixed with a simple medical treatment until my doctor sat me down and explained that hepatitis C, which had only been identified in the late 1980s, was a far more deadly virus than hepatitis A or B. There was no vaccine. The virus causes the destruction of the healthy liver cells, which can then cause scarring, cirrhosis, and liver failure or cancer. In short, it could kill me. He explained that the disease is passed through blood and can hide in your system for years before showing up. I didn’t understand. How could I have contracted it? I flashed back to the time I got a tattoo on my forearm during the end of the Flying Burrito Brothers days in 1970. I remembered looking at the tattoo needle at the time and wondering if it was sterilized. It probably wasn’t. Maybe that’s how I got the virus, but at that point it didn’t really matter how I contracted it. The point was I had it. And I didn’t even feel sick. I was completely blindsided by this bad news.
Like it or not, I was going to have to deal with hepatitis C. Once again, Connie stood by my side and took charge of the situation. She made an appointment with Dr. Kip Lyche, a highly-rated gastroenterologist who treated hepatitis C. Dr. Lyche explained that, while there was no surefire cure, some patients were benefiting from the combination of interferon injections and ribavirin pills. He explained that the treatment had only recently been approved by the FDA and encouraged me to get a second opinion. I knew exactly where I could turn for guidance. David Crosby had been diagnosed with hepatitis C and complete liver failure in 1994. Connie and I visited him at UCLA hospital when he was awaiting a transplant donor. Sick and near death, David wasn’t able to make a living in a hospital bed. I was fortunate enough to help him financially. Now I needed David’s help. It was four years after his transplant surgery that I called him, and he was there for me. David had his personal physician—Dr. Gary Gitnick, who headed up the gastroenterology department at UCLA—call me and arrange for a second opinion from his team. Connie and I drove down and met with Dr. Paul Martin, who agreed that Dr. Lyche was right about his approach to treatment.
I still didn’t feel sick, but we decided to go ahead and start the treatment. Interferon was like chemotherapy in a slightly different form—not at all pleasant. Dr. Lyche told me in no uncertain terms that when I began the treatment I would feel horrible and would be sick every day for as long as I was on the medication. I would inject myself with the interferon three times a week and then add the ribavirin pills to the routine. The last thing he said to me at the end of that office visit was, “You’re going to hate me in two weeks.” After his nurse gave me my first injection and showed me how to administer them myself, we headed home. I told Connie that evening, “This isn’t so bad. I don’t feel anything from that shot.” Then, around 10:30 that night, I was overcome by chills, and my body went into heavy convulsions. Connie gathered up every blanket in the house and piled them on top of me. Eventually, she laid on top of me too! I was flying off the bed like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. It was that bad.
That was only the beginning. The interferon kicks the immune system into high gear on a hunt-and-kill mission in your body, seeking out and destroying the virus. It was the absolute most horrible thing I have ever felt. I grew weak, both physically and emotionally. One of the possible side effects listed on the waiver I signed was suicidal ideations. Those never became serious thoughts, but there were many times I would just break down and cry. And my poor wife was bearing the brunt of it all while taking care of Catherine and Nicky and running her office in Beverly Hills. I was reminded, once again, that this amazing woman has an inner strength most of us can only wish for. I hung in there and maintained a strict regimen with the treatments. I refused to surrender, and I was encouraged by David Crosby. He was a champ who continued to check in on me throughout my treatment period.
In the midst of that trying time in 1998, my mother experienced a severe stroke that resulted in the loss of a lot of her capabilities. This wonderful, very bright woman who had battled diabetes for forty years, finally gave out as her body stopped functioning. She held on but had lost so much physically, unable to speak and barely able to move. We gathered around her, and I prayed for God’s grace. At one point, while in the hospital, I held her in my arms and gently told her to surrender, to go with God. I know she heard me because I could see the understanding in her eyes. A few days later, she fell asleep and never woke up again. I loved my mother so much—her strength, her courage, her intellect and wit. She encouraged and believed in me. She was my greatest fan and the faithful friend whom I could call to discuss life, family, and so many other topics on which she could advise me.
My mom was the one who suffered the most after my father’s suicide, but she was understanding and tough enough to rally us to go on with our lives. The last year of her life, she gave me a card, writing how proud she was that I’d grown up and become the man she always knew I could be. My poor mother patiently waited through my dark years, silently praying for me to get through those days. She adored Connie and our children, and that meant the world to me. I owe so much to my mother and my father for all they taught me and my brother and sisters. We all survived and achieved success as a result of their guidance.
During the summer of 1998, as I battled a disease and grieved the loss of my mother, I felt like Job in the Old Testament. My faith was being challenged, but I was determined not to surrender. Though my body was weak, I was resolved to pursue a healthy lifestyle. I started by calling up Maria Basiotto, a fourth-degree black belt in Kenpo Karate who taught classes in Ojai. I explained my condition, and Maria, who was also a nurse, understood my situation. She agreed to take me on a as student. Standing over six feet tall, Maria was a no-nonsense instructor. During our first lesson together, she looked me up and down and asked, “So, you have a black belt?” Before I could respond, she said, “Now I’m going to teach you real Kenpo Karate.” I was confused and began to reply, “But I thought …” She stopped me midsentence. “I’m going to teach you the true art of Kenpo.” As I studied with her over the next year, I learned that Maria was tough but also patient and gentle. She pushed me harder each day until I earned a second-degree black belt. Maria Basiotto was instrumental in my fight against hepatitis C.
The other person who guided me through my daily battle was Dan Mackey. Dan owned a gym in Ventura—an actual old-fashioned gym with free weights. I had been going there since 1982 and already had a good relationship with Dan. He had even helped train me for my first black belt test. After I started the therapy, I asked Dan if I could still come in and if he would hel
p me train. I was so frail that I couldn’t do it without help. He readily agreed and started training me, as well as teaching me visualization techniques to use every time I injected myself with the toxic interferon.
Of course I wasn’t able to travel that summer, which eliminated any chance of playing music on the road. The moments of joy I was able to capture came as a result of my time with Connie and the children’s activities. I might have been weak, but Catherine and Nicky’s tennis camps and surfing camps created some beautiful family time together. After four months of treatments, however, I was slowly dying. I was so toxic from the medication that my skin had a greenish tint, and my hair had become thin and straw-like. The doctors were attempting to draw blood from me every week until it was finally impossible for the nurse to find a vein. It took great difficulty to function each day, and I struggled with the effects the medicine had on my mind. I lost thirty pounds. The only good part of the hell I was going through was that I could eat anything I wanted without gaining weight. But, I’ll tell you, the trade-off sure wasn’t worth it.
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