“I need another Sunrise.”
“Righto,” Chris said, and left.
McNeal sighed. “Is this going to take much longer?”
Alex grimaced and gazed down at the blank page of his notebook. It was beginning to look like another “interview” would need to be created out of press releases and promo handouts. Then Alex remembered something he had heard that afternoon, hanging out with the lighting crew.
“Jimmy, is there any truth to the rumors that Pelter wants to leave the band?”
He saw McNeal stiffen, but he said nothing. Then: “Who told you that?”
“Just heard some talk today, down at the Shrine.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Rumors, man. Fucked up rumors. Is that what you do all day long? Hang around and snoop on people? Don’t print that, or it’s the last interview you’ll ever do for Rolling Stone, man – trust me.” He threw his empty glass over the railing and there was an ominous silence until they heard it shatter, twelve stories below. No one screamed from the street.
Chris appeared with the new Tequila Sunrise. McNeal grabbed it and said, “Chris, interview’s over. Get this scumbag outta here!”
Fine! Alex thought as he stalked off to the elevator. A hundred dollars lost, but a day of writing gained back. He needed to spend time on an expose he was finishing for Crib Notes, and this ridiculous misadventure just freed him up. He wanted to be done with these stupid interviews. Something was changing in rock music, and he didn’t like it.
Woodstock
1969 Joni Mitchell
August 18, 1969
8:30 am
The effect of the 1969 Woodstock Festival on the Los Angeles music colony would take the form of huge, unexpected bonus checks raining down on them. The festival, an ambitious if not very revolutionary plan, endured many trials and local tribulations in the hills of New York’s Catskills Mountains as it struggled to get off the ground. As some feared, the organization and control of the festival collapsed almost immediately once it began, but the music went on playing to the growing crowd of true believers dancing in the mud. For a lot of kids there, it was the first time they had ever experienced any kind of shared deprivation or community. The campground became a large, temporary city of orderly, wet and stoned fans served by makeshift and volunteer services.
Since the event was being filmed and recorded, and since it was so close to New York City’s media, there was plenty of film and TV reportage that showed the nation that rock music had created its own alternate, peaceful civilization inside straight, uptight American culture. Hippies, hipsters, and just plain kids all over the Western world now walked down their streets smug in the knowledge that they were not alone, that they had been correct in their vision, and that the future belonged to them. Criticism by parents and other authorities now seemed especially pathetic and clueless, not to be taken seriously. It was sad, really, to be old they said – in spirit or real age. At least, that was how Marv saw it.
Dig the size of that crowd on TV, man! 500,000 kids! Marv Feld was driving to meet his lawyer. He congratulated himself on seeing that this opportunity was coming, and about taking the necessary steps to put himself where he knew the action would be. Marv took several phone calls from friends and family congratulating him on the formation of MaxTone, and all had been full of encouragement and envy.
The paperwork involved in forming the MaxTone Corporation was fairly simple, and Marv did it himself. But he knew he needed a real music business lawyer to help with the artist agreements and other specialized contracts, so he called his cousin, Jamie. James Schnur was a staff lawyer in the international trade section of Command Records, the huge music company.
Marv turned his Dodge into the parking lot of Art’s Delicatessen on Ventura Blvd. He hadn’t talked to Jamie, an older cousin he had always liked, for a long time and was glad to be seeing him again. He recognized Jamie’s black Cadillac in the lot.
He saw Jamie sitting in a booth against the wall. He was in his 40’s, nearly bald, and wore a white shirt and tie, a suit jacket folded neatly beside him. He was sipping coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal. Marv, wearing jeans and a paisley shirt open down his chest, sat down opposite his cousin.
“You’re looking at the wrong charts, my friend!” Marv crowed, holding up a copy of Billboard.
“I’m not your friend, I’m your cousin, shmuck. You’re asking for my advice? Stay the hell out of this business!” Jamie said, laughing as he put down the paper and crushed his cigarette.
“Haven’t you heard about Woodstock Nation?” Marv smiled, holding up the Billboard issue again. “It’s a new day, Jamie. The kids have been crowned!” Marv leaned in. “And they want their rock and roll, man!” He leaned back. “Actually, what they want is a rock and roll guru, and I’ve got him!”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s always something new with you. Hard to keep up here in the real world. I remember when you thought rockabilly was going to take over!” said Jamie.
Marv exhaled deeply. Not this again. “That was a long time ago, Jamie. I was just a kid! And there was no Cuba, no JFK, no Vietnam then. Things are completely different now.”
“Well, Marv, you are right about that. It all beats the hell out of me. That’s why I stick to T-Bills. What are you ordering?”
Jamie and Marv ate their breakfast and caught up on family news. Jamie told Marv that Marv’s father had been asking about him lately. Marv hadn’t spoken to his father, Louis, in over two years. Louis Feld didn’t understand and certainly didn’t approve of anything Marv had done since high school, even since his bar Mitzvah, when Marv snuck Elvis’ and Carl Perkins’ 45’s onto the record player.
“So, what do you need?” asked Jamie as the dishes were cleared away.
“I need contract forms for artist management, and recording agreements,” Marv answered. “You know – the basic stuff.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “You, my cousin, are dead meat. This is how the losers lose. Basic stuff! No! It’s all in the fine print. If you are trying to deal with someone who has a good lawyer, you are going to be yesterday’s news.”
“Well, I know it’s complicated, but I’m sure this guy doesn’t even have a lawyer.”
“Marv! You didn’t even mention music publishing! Do you even know what that is?” asked Jamie, almost angry now.
“Of course! The writer has a publishing company, and they sell the sheet music at music stores,” said Marv.
“Oh, Marvie!” said Jamie, his face in his hands. “I promise I will never tell your father about this conversation. Marv! The record companies make a substantial, if not the largest, amount of their income from music publishing. If you sign an artist to your record company, you should control 75% of the publishing rights, and 100% of any other rights – like using a song in a movie. Hell, Marv, you should also try and get half the writing credit on each song!”
“But - I didn’t write anything,” Marv said, confused.
Jamie sighed. He knew Marv had always been an ambitious innocent, even though he thought of himself as savvy hipster. “It doesn’t matter – it’s just a formality. It’s just good business. Most of these rock and R&B kids are too dumb and too excited to have any idea what is happening, and they will be over and gone in two years – tops! And most records don’t sell enough to cover the costs, anyway. You need that money to help pay for everything – recording, pressing, promotion – all of it. The money you take in from actually selling the discs is just a part of the whole schmear.”
Marv sat back in the booth. He felt like a child at an adult’s party, willing himself to be older but knowing inside he was just a kid. When will I be able to hang out with the grownups?
“But – what about the big hits? The golden oldies?” asked Marv.
“Hits are great, Marv - but unless a record company has some publishing on a song, they only make money when they sell the vinyl. Only the publishers and writers get paid when a song is played on the radio, or wherever.”
“All right,” Marv admitted. “I need help here. But that’s why I’m talking to you, Jamie! What do I need to do?”
Jamie sighed and leaned back, checking his watch. “I gotta go. You’re really gonna do this, aren’t you?” said Jamie, shaking his head. “OK, OK - I’ll make up some contracts for you, with your best possible deal, and you can start from there. If your guru guy signs them, you’re golden! If he argues, we’ll talk. But I need you to do me a solid in return.”
“Sure – what?” asked Marv.
“I want you to hire my kid, Mickey. Have him do anything around the Maxtone office.
Phones, coffee – I don’t care. He’s another kid who thinks he can make a living ‘grooving to the boss sounds.’ He just finished high school and he won’t go to college, the idiot!” Jamie stood up and grabbed his jacket and newspaper. “He’ll either succeed with you or go down with you. Either way, it probably won’t take too long. I’ll call you. Oh – and say hello to, uh . .’
“Maxie,” said Marv. “Maxine.”
“Oh, yeah – sorry. The cheerleader girl. She’s nice.”
“Yeah – thanks, I will,” said Marv, picking up the check. Thank God, he thought, for family.
In the Pines, In the Pines
Traditional
August 20, 1969
9:30 am
“Delivery!” someone shouted through the door, knocking hard.
Marv shuffled over to the door, still in his robe. “Who is it?” he asked through the crack in the doorway.
“Got a delivery for Marvin Feld, Maxtone Records?”
Marv opened the door, and a kid in a uniform jacket handed him several bulky, legal sized envelopes. He quickly turned and left before Marv could speak, so Marv called out after him, “Thanks!”
The package was from Jamie - the contracts he had promised. Fast! thought Marv. And a delivery service! Classy! I’ll have to remember that trick.
He went back to his bedroom office, and tried calling Charlie at the ranch again.
• • •
The pay phone in the ranch café was ringing again. Sandy and Valley Jane were up to their armpits in a swarm of Girl Scouts who had come to the ranch to do a little horseback riding. As Sandy led them out to the stables, Valley Jane was finally able to answer the phone.
“Spahn Ranch.”
“Hello? Finally! I need to talk to Charlie,” Marv said curtly.
“Charlie? There’s a lot of people here today. I don’t….”
“No – Charlie Manson! I need to talk with him. It’s Marv Feld.”
“Oh! Charlie’s not here right now. I mean, he’s like on a trip somewhere. Out of town.”
“So, when do you expect him back?” asked Marv.
Jane laughed. “Charlie? Uh, when you see him, you’ll know for sure, man! He’s on a trip with Steve and Sherrie.”
“Bummer. Well, can you leave a message for me? It’s very important he call me as soon as he can,” Marv urged.
“Sure. What’s the number?” Jane asked, as she wrote on a small paper plate. The paper plates were the standard method of leaving notes at the ranch. The wall near the phone was covered with them, tacked to the rough wood.
“Really! It’s very important,” Marv repeated.
• • •
Charlie traded the last of the speed stash for a white 1962 Chevrolet Bel Air. After removing the license plates and replacing them with known-safe plates from the collection, he left with Steve Corgan and Sherrie to score another 500 tabs of LSD in San Jose.
Steve and Charlie had also decided that now was a good time to split from the ranch. If questions were asked about Shorty it would be better if they were gone. Anyone asking would get twenty different visions from the rest of the stoned family members.
They took the Simi Valley Freeway west, making toward Ventura on the coast. Sherrie drove. She was a good driver, and they knew that the cops were less likely to pay attention to a car when a woman was at the wheel.
When the freeway ran out they traveled on the farming roads through the orange and lemon groves in the hills along the Santa Clara River. The air was hot, but clean - and smelled sweet from the perfume of the citrus trees grown along the river. As the river plain spread out, they saw vast fields of lettuce being harvested by long lines of farm workers, bent over in the dust and heat. Their contractors sat under umbrellas near the road.
After driving a brief section of road through the outskirts of Ventura, the three felt a natural rush when the Pacific came into view. For the next 200 miles, the ocean would guard their left flank, and the coastal mountains their right as they headed north toward San Jose.
The beach day in Ventura was clear and perfect. Surfers plied the waves and people swarmed the beaches, the entire California coast having been made accessible by law. South, towards Los Angeles, a low hanging orange-brown cloud of smog smeared west out over the Santa Monica bay.
‘‘Look at that shit cloud!” Charlie spat. “Those piggies are choking on their own lives, man! But, it’s cool. The end is coming.” Charlie laughed. “But they are not going to dig it, man!”
Further north they stopped in Isla Vista to gas up, and Charlie bought them all bean and cheese burritos. Isla Vista, the student ghetto of UC Santa Barbara, was alive with hippies and all kinds of head folk. It was a mellow town on the coast route from L.A. to San Francisco. But as hip as it was, it was still smaller than either end of the Hippie Highway and a much more expensive place to live.
Charlie took over as driver for the next leg of the trip. As they got on the ramp for the 101 North, he slowed and stopped for a hitchhiking girl. She appeared to be about 20, petite, brown hair cut short. She was wearing cut-off jeans, a tee shirt, and hiking boots. Her stuffed backpack sat on the gravel as she waited for a ride.
“San Francisco?” she asked as the Chevy pulled up next to her.
“We can get you up to San Jose,” Charlie offered.
“Cool!” she said, and got in the back with Steve. “Thanks! I’m Annie.”
Introductions were made, and the car moved up the ramp and onto the highway. They went north over Gaviota pass, into the Santa Ynez valley. There was an immediate heat shock when they entered the valley, where the temperature was at least twenty degrees higher than at the shoreline. Farmland again stretched out on all sides under a bright blue sky. When the rows of crops were perpendicular to the road, the car’s speed made the rows appear to be rotating spokes of a huge wheel. They talked about the musicians of the day, the incredible Woodstock trip, and stopped to buy bags of fruit and nuts from one of the many small farmers’ stands along the highway.
As the car neared San Luis Obispo, Charlie said, “Hey, Annie. We’re going up on the coast, not the 101. If that’s not cool with you, you’ve gotta get out here.”
“No, that’s great! I love the coast highway!”
“Did you grow up in San Francisco?” Sherrie asked. She liked Annie, who had been friendly with her so far. Most hitching girls ignored her and just flirted with the guys.
“No,” said Annie. “I grew up in Santa Barbara, but my Dad moved there after he and my Mom got divorced. He’s like a vice president for Union Oil, but she wouldn’t go with him when they wanted him up there. She’s a biology professor at UCSB, and she got more and more against the oil drilling after the big spill last year. So - they finally got divorced. She and I do a lot of education and protests about the drilling, and other environment things.”
‘That’s so cool!” said Sherrie. “But now … is your dad real mean to you and stuff?”
“Naw, he’s all right. I just can’t talk to him about the oil thing.”
Steve looked over at Annie. “But where are we gonna get the oil? We need it!”
Charlie broke in, laughing. “We need it right now. Gotta get gas. You got any money for gas there, Annie girl?” He looked at her with a stern face in the rear view.
Sherrie grew cold. In Charlie’s car, no one hitched for free. Ev
en – especially – girls. It was either gas money, or –
“Oh yeah, no problem, Charlie.”
Manson looked ahead. “Well, it looks like we got Shell, 76, or Standard. Any choices?”
“76 would be cool. I got a gas card from my Dad.”
The Bel Air turned off the highway and onto the concrete apron of the 76 station. A bell dinged in the garage when the car rolled over a small air hose that lay across the entrance. Charlie stopped the car at the pump and waved off the attendant who was coming to help.
Sherrie left for the restroom. “Steve - fill it up. Annie and I will go in and pay,” Manson commanded.
Annie and Charlie entered the small office and went up to the counter. Manson stood close to her left side, trying to get a good look as she opened her bag to get her wallet. She found the wallet and took out the 76 gas card. Manson could see at least four other plastic cards, and the corners of a few twenties in the billfold.
Steve came in and went up to the soda machine. “Anyone want a Coke?” he asked.
“Mountain Dew,” said Charlie.
“A Tab if there are any, thanks,” Annie said.
The clerk came in from the garage and Steve gave him the pump total. The clerk pulled out the small machine to imprint the card info onto the sales receipt, and cranked it. He did not ask for any ID. Annie signed the receipt, and they left.
Sherrie met them as she was leaving the bathroom. “Hey, where’s my Coke?” she whined.
“It’s back there - in the machine,” Charlie said, and he and Steve laughed and slapped each other on the back.
“Aw, jeez …”
The day was turning into evening. The breeze had picked up, coming off the ocean, drawn inland by the day-heat of the interior. From miles offshore, the fogbank began its nightly return to the coast. The first scraps of fog started to thin the sunlight.
“Let’s go, people! We’re losing the day!” Charlie barked. As they started to get in the car, Annie stopped.
‘Wait! Sorry – I forgot. I need to call my mom,” she said as she turned toward the pay phone.
Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band Page 6
