Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  Marv had to be careful to conceal his excitement, not seem too eager. “Well, I’ll check with the band, there’s a schedule here someplace.” He shuffled papers around his desk loudly. “Uh – here it is. Um … yeah, next weekend is open. That could be great! So, what are the terms?”

  “Well,” Ted said, tentatively, “it’s a promo gig, like I said. So there’s no money for the band, but we are going to blast the hell out your song in our contests and stuff.”

  Marv sighed and his free hand came to his face and covered his eyes. Where is the money in this damn business? he thought. “Well, I don’t know if that’s gonna fly with the band, Ted. I mean, I’ll ask them. I’ll try to convince them how great an opportunity this is – very generous of KOWL.”

  “Thanks, Marv. Like I said, we think it’s a win-win thing. But, if they want to pass …”

  “No! No, I’m sure it’s a go, Ted. No need to call anyone else,” Marv said.

  “Cool!” a new voice said. “Hey, Marv! It’s Freddie John! I’m in charge of our Rock Fest promo strategy, and I need to have you come by to sign the usual stuff. Soon as you can. And Marv?” Freddie asked. “I could really dig another one of those snow cones you brought last time, know what I’m sayin? Cool, my man! See you next week!” They hung up before Marv could say anything else.

  Marv didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Who was using who? A prestigious, moneyless gig for him, a no-cost show for KOWL - all for a gram of coke as a bribe. But the news kick-started a serious improvement in Marv’s mood. Now he had more ammunition to use when he called Jamie.

  Boom Boom! - Out Go the Lights

  1951 Little Walter

  October 1, 1969

  9:00 am.

  Alex pounded the keys of the IBM Selectric typewriter he had borrowed from the Crib Notes office. The open door and windows of his room at the Sportsmens’ Lodge Hotel in Studio City faced the San Gabriel mountains, rising up far across the Valley. Alex typed, barefoot, wearing only cutoff jeans and an old UM jersey. As he occasionally glanced up from his work, he watched the mountains slowly become enveloped and hidden by the daily smog that thickened by the hour.

  Such a beautiful place, he thought, but it’s just getting trashed. He had noticed that a lot of Californians claimed to love California but acted as if the magnificent natural surroundings were just a sort of theatrical set or backdrop behind a stage. In Michigan, people interacted with their environment in very direct ways, in all seasons, whether they wanted to or not. He remembered the first time he had seen the shacks in Topanga Canyon and Manson’s ranch, thinking: How do they survive in the winter? Oh, yeah. There is no winter here! Winter in So Cal was what they called good football weather in Michigan. Winter in Michigan would kill you dead if you didn’t respect it.

  Alex spent a couple of days trying to get as much material on paper as fast as he could. He had lost a surprising amount of information at times in the past from trusting that his memory would always serve. Not always, he had found out, to his humiliation. Write it down! As he typed, he tried to stop his mind from assembling the material into a narrative or form – not yet! Still, it was only a natural thing to do.

  He sat back in the chair, hands behind his head. He wasn’t sure how to put this story together. Maybe there wasn’t any ‘story.’ Just another collection of people who had lost faith in conventional society, for lots of reasons. Charlie’s fixation with music and his need to command and control people made a powerful combination - and a perfect fit for today’s music scene. And Marv and his schemes were now just as much a part of the story as the runaways – maybe more. Alex felt that something was accelerating, looming. It was a setback when he had been banned from meeting with the Family, but he had other avenues to get to the story.

  He heard feet down the outdoor hallway, hurrying in his room’s direction. A woman rushed to his door and knocked, even though the door was fully open. “Alex?” she said, out of breath.

  It was Betsy Sloane, the office manager at Crib Notes magazine. Her face was ashen and drawn and she was breathing in quick, repetitive little gasps. “Thank God you’re here! Phil asked me to come by and get you to the office – he’s been hurt!”

  “What?! Is he OK?” Alex asked, standing.

  “I – I think so. I mean, he called me, so at least he can do that. He got beat up by some guys. He says they trashed the office, too!” She leaned against the doorway, trying to breathe.

  “Hey, take it easy! Calm down a little. OK. Were they robbing the office?”

  “No one knows what happened, right now. Phil just wanted me to get you. I’m on my way there.”

  “OK, sure! I’ll be there as quick as I can,” Alex said as he started to change. But Betsy was already down the hall and off to the parking lot.

  • • •

  Alex parked his rental Chevy down Larrabie Street, a bit away from the office building. He didn’t want his vehicle to interfere with any police cars or ambulances. As he jogged to the Crib Notes building on Sunset, a two-story brick structure built in the thirties, he saw no police activity or emergency vehicles. He bounded up the stairs to the office and looked again – no sign of anything wrong.

  As he entered the office door Alex saw a different story. File cabinets were opened and folders strewn all over, typewriters pushed off desks, paper everywhere. Posters and bulletin boards were torn from the walls. He noticed some scrawled words in red painted on a wall near the back, and in Phil’s office Betsy and another writer named Frank tended to a bandaged Phil Crane.

  Phil’s face was swollen and Alec saw some crusted blood in one nostril. His left hand was heavily bandaged and rested in a sling. He looked dazed, but more angry than in pain.

  “Phil!” Alex said, rushing up. “What happened?”

  “He can’t talk too well, Alex – they doped him up a little in the ER,” Betsy said.

  “Two guys,” Phil mumbled. “I came in about 6 this morning. Couldn’t sleep and I had calls to New York to make. I walked in on those yo-yos trashing the place.”

  “Why?” Alex asked. “Were they looking for money?’

  “Beats me. There’s no money here. They didn’t take any typewriters to pawn – nothing,” Phil said. “They were writing on the wall when I walked in. What does it say, Betsy?”

  “They wrote “BLACK POWR” in paint on the wall,” Betsy said, nodding toward the back. “P-O-W-R. Is that misspelled, or some new slang?”

  “So, they were black?” Alex asked.

  “No, man – they were biker looking dudes – white guys. One was big - had a long braid and tattoos all over his arms.”

  Alex had a start. “The other guy – was he about 5-9, brown hair, moustache?”

  “Yeah – yeah, I think so. What the hell? Do you know what this is all about?” Phil asked. He tried to focus on Alex, but Phil’s eyes were rolling around in their sockets.

  “Did they say anything? Ask about anything?” Alex pressed.

  “No. I mean, they pinned me against the wall then asked me if I was right or left-handed. I fucked with them awhile, then the big one slammed me. I went down, and he was going to start kicking me with those big fucking motorcycle boots, so I told them: left-handed.” Phil smiled at Alex. “Don’t hurt me, I sobbed.”

  “You’re right -handed” Alex said, nodding.

  “They took my left hand and smashed it with a typewriter, then they left. Morons!”

  “Where are the cops?” Alex asked. “Are they already gone?”

  “No cops!” Phil said, and tried to get up. He hated cops. Six hands kept him in his chair. “Fuck’ em! This is nothing! I won’t be stopped by this bullshit. Remember Alabama?”

  Alex and Phil met during the Freedom Rides in Alabama. Alex was then a high school kid who hitched and bussed his way to the protest action down south. He met Phil Crane when he tried to fake his way into the press pool covering the marches. As two Alabama State troopers were about to toss his ass out on the pavement, Phil Cra
ne, who had been watching, rushed up and shouted, “There you are! Where the fuck have you been! You’re two days late, asshole!” He looked over at the troopers, totally nonchalant. “He’s with the Ramparts magazine crew,” Phil said, flashing his press badge. “C’mon, you dope!” He grabbed Alex by the arm and pulled him inside the courthouse.

  Alex, a white-faced and freaked out high school kid, just managed to say, “Thanks!” before Phil pushed him into a folding chair and said, “Stay right here! Go through this document.” He shoved a one inch thick pile of legal paper at him. “Mark the text wherever you find the name ‘Tweedy.’ I’ll be back.”

  From then on Alex acted as Phil’s assistant until Alex left a week later on a bus back to Michigan, paid by Ramparts. There had been violence, threats, and confrontation every day in that scene, and he watched Phil push his way to the information, to the truth, fearlessly. It was another experience that formed Alex’s resolve to become a professional journalist.

  “That was some shit, man!” Phil Crane said. “I got out of that kind of reporting to get away from this kind of craziness! Well, just goes to show, I guess.”

  “Show what?” Betsy asked.

  “Fuck if I know!” Phil said, and they all laughed. “So, Alex - who are those guys?”

  “I’m pretty sure they were some of Charlie Manson’s pals. Kind of like his enforcers.”

  “Enforcers? What the fuck is going on out there?”

  “Good question. A lot of it is plain old vice squad material, but there is always this sort of implied doom out at the ranch, in all kinds of ways. They believe there is going to be a race war, soon, and that they are somehow going to survive it all and the rest of the white world will not. It’s complicated, and doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, either.”

  “But – ‘Black Powr?’ They aren’t black!” Frank said.

  “I know,” Alex answered, “but there has to be a connection between Charlie’s visions and sending his guys out here to put up that message. And we already know they don’t want us asking any more questions.” Alex stood up. “Are you OK? Are we still going after this story?”

  “Fuckin’ A!” Phil said. “Keep at it! Now I’ve got a personal score to settle with those bastards!”

  So You Wanna Be a Rock and Roll Star?

  1967 Jim McGuinn, Chris Hillman

  October 4, 1969

  6:00 pm

  Up the road ahead, Marv could see a group of kids standing at the entrance to the ranch. As he drove closer, girls flashed handmade posters and banners at the car.

  “We LUV Charlee!”

  “The Charlie Manson Band – LISTEN!”

  “All RIGHT!” Marv shouted, alone in the car. Real fans! He had used the last of his cousin’s latest loan to buy a mention in Teen Beat magazine – a last minute puff piece for the upcoming show at Devonshire Downs. It hit the streets two days ago. Marv had no idea how the kids had found the ranch – the power of music and the passion of fans had triumphed again.

  Marv smiled and waved at the girls as he passed them, turning into the ranch. He hit the brakes hard to avoid running one of them down as they swarmed the car.

  “Do you know Charlie?” squealed one.

  “Please, please send him out here to say hi, OK?” pleaded another in pigtails, a tie-dyed tee shirt, and a bad case of acne.

  “I’ll try, girls!” Marv said, magnanimous, as he left them in a cloud of desert dust. All of Southern California was bone dry now – six months of no rain, and the last two weeks of the Santa Anas had denatured everything.

  Down in the plaza there was another group of about twenty kids bunched together, waiting for anything to happen. More fans! Bolder than the girls on the Pass Road, these girls - and a few boys - had all summoned the courage to march down to the ranch and find Charlie.

  As Marv parked his car and opened the door, the kids ran over to check him out – maybe he was somebody! Swarmed again, Marv laughed and struggled to make it up the stairs to the café. Klem and Steve stood at the café door like centurions protecting the sanctum from the Mongol horde of teen fans. They let Marv through.

  “What’s happening, man?” asked Klem.

  “Nothing much. Rock on, brother!” Marv answered, completing the usual hippie greeting.

  Inside Marv saw Charlie surveying the crowd through the saloon window, unseen by the fans. He shook his head. “Far out, man.”

  “Congratulations, Charlie! Real fans, my man!” Marv, ecstatic, slapped him on the back. His hand hit the buckskin vest with a sharp smack, and a little cloud of dust shot out. “This, I had nothing to do with, uh, except for maybe a little arm twisting at Teen Beat magazine!” Marv said.

  “It’s fucking freakin’ me out, Marv!” Manson shouted, turning to Marv. “How did they find me?” Marv saw that Manson was very angry – yet again.

  “It wasn’t me, Charlie – it wasn’t in the article. Some of these fans have supernatural powers, man!” Marv joked.

  “Well, how the hell do we get rid of ‘em? I can’t do anything with them. I can’t even give them all water!”

  Marv was taken aback. He had never thought about this kind of problem, never considered the downside of a gang of fans.

  “And they’re all under 17, man! I don’t need the pigs coming down here, hauling away kids left and right!” Manson exclaimed. He looked at Marv. “They gotta go! Take care of it, manager man!” Charlie commanded, and stomped off to the kitchen in back.

  Marv was stunned. Charlie didn’t even want to talk to them. As manager, it is my problem, he knew. But he had only seen cops and security guys handle crowds. He looked at Kat, who just shrugged.

  Marv walked out onto the porch railing, and the kids came running up.

  “CHARLEE!! WE WANT CHARLEE!!

  SING FOR US, MAN!”

  Marv held up his arms, palms out to the crowd- the ancient universal command to quiet crowds. He had picked a bad day to be an authority figure - he was wearing torn Bermuda shorts, sandals, and a KJH tee shirt. His unwashed black hair broke out from under a floppy sailor’s work hat, just like Gilligan’s.

  “Kids! Kids! Listen! Quiet down!” he yelled. As soon as there was a little less shouting from the fans, he continued. “I know you all want to see Charlie.”

  “CHARLEE!! COME OUT!!”

  Marv held his arms up again. “Charlie’s really busy right now, writing songs. We’re getting ready to record the new album …”

  Wild cheers erupted from the mob, and they started to move up onto the porch. Of one mind, they were fearless and determined. Klem and Steve stiffened and stood taller.

  “Kids! Hey!” Marv yelled, but the fans kept pressing in.

  “You can’t come up here!” Steve Corgan shouted. Klem started to laugh, but still kept his arms out.

  “CHARLEE!! COME OUT!! PLAY FOR US!!”

  Now the kids were bunched up around the door, pushing, Klem and Steve pushing them back. “Spence!” Steve called over his shoulder. “Help us out here, man!”

  A force came from inside and, like a bowling ball, scattered the teen bodies like pins. One girl fell down the three stairs to the dirt, shrieking. Spence stood up, towering over the kids. He grabbed one boy by the collar and belt and was about to throw him over the railing when Marv stopped him. Spence yelled at the fans: “We said get out, you little motherfuckers!”

  The kids stampeded in fear off the porch, but regrouped immediately.

  “FUCK YOU, MAN!!

  WE’RE CALLING THE COPS!

  CHARLEE!!”

  The girl who had tumbled down the stairs was wailing madly, holding her arm. Marv tried once again to quiet them, but they all just screamed at him.

  Manson pushed Marv aside, emerging before the fans like a hero in a movie. They all cheered louder than their earlier protests, grabbed each other, and bounced up and down. Like two year-olds, their emotions were now connected directly to their muscles. Happiness was driving their bodies to jump and spin.

&nb
sp; Charlie held his guitar in place, hit one chord and looked up to the sky. Instantly, the fans grew still, ready to receive Charlie’s song.

  “You found me, children!” The kids whooped and shouted and surged to the railing to be as close as possible.

  “I’m glad to see you guys, but - we got a lot of real work to do out here on this ranch. If I sing one song, will you hit the highway?” Manson asked.

  “Yeah!” they all shouted together.

  “Right on, children! OK. This is a song about finding what you need, if you try hard enough. It’s about getting your dinner from the grocery store dumpster.” A few kids giggled. “See,” Manson continued, “you may think it’s funny now, but someday you will all have to do what ya gotta do to survive. Even you might be with us, out there behind the grocery store.” He adjusted his guitar. “There’s a lot of great food that those pigs throw out just to keep the prices high – and to keep it out of the mouths of the people. Check it out.”

  “Oh garbage dump, oh garbage dump

  Why are you called a garbage dump?

  You could feed the world with my garbage dump

  You could feed the world with my garbage dump

  You could feed the world with my garbage dump

  That sums it up in one big lump

  When you’re livin’ on the road

  And you think sometimes you’re starvin’

  Get on off that trip my friend

  Just get in them cans and start carvin’

  Oh garbage dump, oh garbage dump

  Why are you called a garbage dump?”

  Charlie finished with a guitar flurry and a war whoop. The kids shrieked, laughed, and applauded.

  “Now – git! It’ll be gettin’ really dark out here pretty soon,” Charlie said, and hurried back inside the café. Klem and Steve resumed their guard poses, and Spence put his hands on his hips and glared at the fans as they started to trudge out of the plaza. Marv rushed up to the railing, cupping his hands around his mouth.