by Greg Kihn
“Don’t worry, Brian! We’re with you! They can’t get away with this!”
The next morning, he was released on bail awaiting appeal. The experience at Wormwood Scrubs had left Brian Jones a traumatized man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His hands trembled, and he smoked one cigarette after another.
Bobby and Clovis did their best to encourage him. They drove him to his doctor visits, his psychiatrists, his solicitor’s meetings, but it seemed that Brian’s life had become one long court case, followed by an endless cycle of rehabs.
When his psychiatrist testified that Brian should not be incarcerated because he would suffer a complete mental collapse, Bobby and Clovis believed it. When he testified that Brian was borderline suicidal, they nodded in agreement.
All Brian wanted to do was get back to playing music. But even that was threatening to collapse.
The Rolling Stones most recent album, Their Satanic Majesties Request, had been received poorly. Sales sagged, and it appeared that Brian had been right after all. The fans rejected their effort to become something they were not. The psychedelic Stones were no more. Now it was back to their R&B roots, a place Brian knew well. He saw it as his chance to prove himself to the band musically.
Brian had been showing up for Stones sessions whacked on an increasingly bizarre array of drugs. Even with Bobby and Clovis watching him like a hawk, he still managed to sneak things past them. He spent his days trying to escape reality. Brian hit rock bottom. His nickname became “Liability” Jones.
Clovis threw up his hands and shouted, “Brian! Get your shit together! You’ve got a session tonight and you’re drooling like a spastic leper.”
“That’s how they treat me. Like a leper.”
“Well, of course they treat you that way. Look at yourself. Don’t you have any self-respect? Shit, man! Sober up and start playing the kind of music I know you can play. Quit being such a pathetic loser.”
“How dare you talk to me like that!” Brian snapped. “You work for me.”
Clovis shook his head.
“Not anymore. I quit. You’ve changed, Brian. I used to be thrilled working for you, a real live Rolling Stone, a living legend. I was proud. Now look at you. You’re a fuckin’ joke. How long are Mick and Keith gonna put up with your shit? I give up. You wore me out.”
Brian watched him walk out and said nothing. What could he say? The man was right.
The next day, Brian appeared at Clovis’s apartment door in London. He was contrite and apologetic. He begged Clovis to come back.
“I can’t trust anybody else,” he whined. “Please don’t leave me. You and Dust Bin Bob are my last two real friends.”
Clovis kept a poker face. “If you want me to come back and work for you again, you’re gonna have to get your act together.”
“I promise I will. I’ve been going to the court-ordered psychiatrist, and he says I’m making genuine progress.”
Clovis voice was stern. “There’s a session tonight at Olympic Studios. I expect you to be there, be sober, and be ready to play. It’s up to you, Brian. The Stones are lost. It’s up to you to lead the band back their R&B roots and get this psychedelic shit off the table. That’s your mission.”
Brian clapped his hands. “Let’s do it!”
Sometimes, when musicians are at their lowest point, and you think there can’t possibly be anything left in the tank, they do their best work. Does genius love madness? Does the lowest point signal the highest creative peak? Bobby didn’t know. He’d seen the Beatles create, but that was usually a group effort. The Stones were harder to read.
Who knows what goes on in the minds of musicians?
Clovis and Bobby had never seen it before, but the exact moment when shit turns to gold was at hand. From fecal matter to twenty-four-carat gold ingots in a few short seconds.
That’s exactly what happened with Brian on the night they recorded a new song by Mick and Keith called “No Expectations.” Not expecting much, Mick and Keith had been vague in their instructions to Brian.
“Just play some bottleneck guitar … see how it sounds.”
Unknown to Brian, they already had another bottleneck slide track by American virtuoso Ry Cooder in the can in case it didn’t work out. Such was their faith in Brian.
A crew had been filming the Stones in the recording studio for a documentary by French filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard. Having the lights and cameras there created new problems. It was hot and crowded in the studio. The Stones hired Bobby as their photographer to shoot the session. He was also another set of hands.
Only a few days before, one of the lights had overheated and started a fire that halted recording. Bobby did his best to stay out of the way. Clovis stayed next to Brian, ready to spring into action. When he told Clovis to change the strings on the Gibson Hummingbird and tune it to a D chord, Clovis did as he was told and handed the guitar right back.
The Rolling Stones sat around a circle on the floor with open mics and messed around. Keith played in the same lonely guitar tuning he would later use on “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” It had a melancholy sound.
Brian tried not to sulk, but his mood couldn’t have been bleaker as he sat down to listen to the track he was supposed to overdub. Brian had been smoking like a chimney all night. He lit another cigarette and closed his eyes.
Something happened behind those eyelids. Brian listened to the whole song without saying a word. It was a beautiful twelve-bar blues, honest and pure, with meaningful lyrics. As Brian listened, he knew the song was about him. It was a song about being left behind.
Brian reached deep down into his soul and produced his finest moment as a member of the Rolling Stones since his slide guitar propelled them to number one on the English charts with “Little Red Rooster.”
When Brian started playing the bottleneck guitar, time stood still.
All of the magical musical moments he had absorbed in America came out in those tortured notes. It was a cry for help. It was declaration of love. It was Reverend Julius Cheeks, Ravi Shankar, Otis Redding, Janis, Jimi, and all his brothers and sisters around the world all rolled up together. It was all these things. It was pure music, the universal language of the heart.
Brian had a way of phrasing that was both haunting and familiar. He hunched over his guitar, the glass slide on his finger, and spun a web of beautiful simplicity. He swooped from note to note, the vibrato he created by rubbing the slide up and down the strings adding personality and depth. Plucking lush chords then sliding them up the neck made Bobby’s heart ache.
It was such a lonely sound, like someone crying into the darkest night of the soul.
Keith and Mick were transfixed. They looked at each other in astonishment. Brian’s slide guitar was brilliant. It was absolute magic. It was exactly what the song needed. Understated and elegant, it bridged all the gaps. Brian poured his heart and soul into that slide guitar. If Mick and Keith would follow, it would surely lead the Stones back their roots.
How a shattered man like Brian Jones could come up with something of such genius was beyond them. It just happened.
Mick sang the lyrics. The words hit Brian like an arrow in the heart.
“Take me to the station, and put me on a train, I’ve got no expectations, to pass through here again.”
Tears filled Brian’s eyes, well hidden by his long bangs. No one could see. Neither could they see the weight of the world on his heart. Brian always kept it all inside, only letting it come out now and then. Except, this solo was different. This solo was the one they’d remember.
“Once I was a rich man, and now I am so poor, but never in my sweet short life have I felt like this before.”
Mick’s vocal inspired Brian. His lyrics were true. That’s exactly how he felt. How could Mick know?
“Your heart is like a diamond, you throw your pearls at s
wine …”
Brian’s slide was so in-sync with the song that it lifted it to higher level. A song about being left behind. If there was one moment that defined what Brian Jones meant to his band, this was it.
He nailed it in one take, leaving Keith speechless. Mick just stared.
“Brian, that was incredible.”
Brian modestly took off his headphones and put down his guitar. He looked at Keith as only two men who were desperately in love with the same woman can look. Something passed between them, something that hadn’t been there for a long time.
The song was brilliant and Brian’s solo was a triumph.
“Nice song,” Brian said with a wry smile, and walked out of the room.
They left the studio after two o’clock in the morning. Clovis acted as chauffer and Brian sat in the backseat of the Rolls. The huge Rolls stood out like a sore thumb on the nearly deserted streets of late-night London.
As soon as the police car saw it leave the parking lot, it began to follow them. The cops knew it was Brian’s car. It was hard to miss. They flashed their lights and pulled them over.
A pair of cops strolled up on either side of the vehicle.
They indicated for Clovis to roll down the back windows so they could shine their flashlights inside.
“Good evening, Mr. Jones. How are we doing tonight?”
“Fine.”
“Have you ingested any illegal drugs this evening?”
“Just a Cadbury bar.”
“Ha! A Cadbury bar! I thought you Stones boys only loved Mars bars!” The cop sprayed the window with spittle as he laughed. “Get it?”
“Very funny.”
“Tell me, Mr. Jones, did she really have a candy bar in her pussy?”
“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there, remember?”
“Oh yeah, otherwise they’d have gotten you, too.”
“Right. Is this a friendly antidrug warning?”
Sparse late-night traffic swirled around them. The cops smiled at each other.
“You know what it’s about. Where’s the money?”
“I don’t have it on me.”
“Well, you better get it. The next time I pull you over, I’m taking you in.”
Brian frowned. “Are you blackmailing me?”
“You really have to ask that question? I think it’s obvious.”
“But I don’t even have any drugs on me.”
One of the cops reached in his pocket, pulled out a baggie of marijuana, and held it up. “I don’t care. I can always plant this on you and take you downtown.”
Brian frowned. “That shitty brown dirt weed? I wouldn’t be caught dead with that garbage. You know I only smoke the best.”
“Get the money, Brian.”
“Why do you guys always pick on me?”
“You know the game.”
The cops withdrew from Brian’s Rolls and faded back into the light in the rearview mirror. Clovis carefully put the car in gear and drove away.
“What was that all about?” Clovis asked.
“It’s a shakedown. They want a thousand quid a month.”
“That’s outrageous! We should turn them in.”
“That’s what I have to put up with. Now the cop on the beat wants a pay-off or he’ll bust me, too.”
“So, now we have this connection between Spangler, Silverman, Renee, and Skully. The un-Fab Four.”
Clovis was sipping some iced tea and making notes.
“What do we know about them?”
Bobby said, “We know that they’re all Americans. And they all seem to have some connections to the rock and roll underground. I saw Renee with Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Brian, of course. What do Hendrix, Joplin, and Brian Jones have in common?”
“They were all at Monterey.”
“Good! Yes, they were all at Monterey.”
Clovis wrote it all down.
Brian had been so paranoid about getting busted that he was afraid to return to Courtfield Road. He bounced around from place to place trying to stay one step ahead of the cops.
He rented a flat in Belgravia where he could stay in town after recording late. But even that became too hot for Brian. He took to staying in hotels.
He sent Clovis to Courtfield Road to collect some items. While Clovis was inside, Linda Keith, Brian’s part-time girlfriend, went into the Belgravia flat and took an overdose of sleeping pills. She stripped off all her clothes, lay down on his bed, and called everybody she knew to tell everyone what she’d done.
Eventually, an ambulance arrived and took her to the hospital. The newspapers went crazy with the story. stone girl naked in drug drama! screamed the headlines. Brian was shocked when he found out. Why would Linda do that? It seemed that everywhere Brian turned now was madness and chaos. His life was spinning out of control.
Bobby suggested that Brian get out of town for a while. He knew Brian loved the Moroccan musicians Brion Gysin had introduced him to. He’d already made some rough field recordings. He suggested going to Morocco to record an album with the Master Musicians of Joujouka. It was a project Gysin had started with William Burroughs in the fifties. It seemed like a perfect idea to Brian, and he was anxious to get out of London before something else happened.
He had taken refuge in another hideaway he’d rented in the Royal Avenue House on the King’s Road. One morning, he was rudely awakened by a loud and persistent pounding on his door at 7:20 a.m. Brian ignored it for as long as he could. It grew even more insistent. He dragged himself out of bed and looked through the peephole to see several uniformed cops outside his door.
Oh no! This can’t be happening again!
Brian sat on the living room floor and called Clovis. “They’re coming through the windows, Clovis!”
Clovis knew the drill. He called the Stones office and alerted Les Perrin, the official Stones publicist. Les began damage control even before the solicitors had responded. Brian swore that he had nothing in his flat, that there would nothing for the cops to find.
But Brian was cursed. The police searched his flat and found a ball of blue yarn in a dresser drawer. He’d been careful to keep all his places clean.
“Is this your yarn?’ they asked.
“I don’t knit. I don’t darn socks. I don’t have a girlfriend who does, either.”
They unraveled it to find a sizable lump of hashish. Brian’s heart sank. His probation was blown. His legal status would collapse like a house of cards now.
Once again, Brian was trundled down to the police station, booked, and fingerprinted. He couldn’t help but fall into a deep depression.
Bobby and Clovis arrived within minutes. The TV cameras were already there. It was obvious from the press turnout that they had been alerted ahead of time yet again. Among the cops, Clovis spotted Spangler and pointed him out to Bobby.
Les Perrin showed up to deal with the reporters. The Stones legal team swung into action. This was becoming routine for them.
And Brian continued to sink.
Chapter Sixteen
The Pipes of Pan
Preston Washington picked up the phone at the Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack in Baltimore. He could hear the crackle of the transatlantic phone connection before anyone said a word. He knew who it was.
“What the hell happened?” Bobby said. “I thought your guy was supposed to make him back off? Brian just got busted again. This time, it’s serious because he’s violating his probation. He won’t be able to tour in places like the America and Japan. He’s facing jail time.”
“I don’t know what to say. If Arnello says he’s taking care of it, it’s taken care of. Maybe Spangler is a hardhead.”
“Nobody’s head is that hard. He must have thought he could get away with it.”
The door to Preston’s shop opened, and Ar
nello came in with two bodyguards. He didn’t look happy.
Preston told Bobby, “Hold on, he just walked in right now.”
Arnello took the phone from Preston’s hand.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Bobby Dingle, sir. I work with Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones.”
“Oh, yeah. Robby the Limey. Okay, here’s the deal. I don’t know what kind of shit Spangler was tryin’ to pull, but it ain’t gonna work. It makes me look bad. So you tell your boss, the rock star with all the hair, I’m taking care of Spangler personally. Got that? I guarantee it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now hang up while I talk business with Mr. Washington.”
“Yes, s—”
Arnello hung up before Bobby could say good-bye. Preston took the phone.
Arnello was unhappy. His face seemed more comfortable scowling then smiling. He never looked happy.
“This asshole Spangler has pushed me too far. It’s time for some payback.”
Preston said, “Is he so thick that he thinks he can cross you and get away with it? Or is he so dumb he doesn’t realize what he’s doing?”
“I think he’s ahead of his time. He’s a new breed of troublemaker from the future. He’s stupid dangerous. Soon it’s gonna be like this all over unless we nip it in the bud.”
Arnello turned to his bodyguards. “Let’s pick him up, Carmine.”
“You got it, Boss.”
Spangler had just returned from England the day before Arnello intercepted him in front of his house. He was about to go to the grocery store for some hamburger. The barbecue was already smoking. His wife and kids were getting hungry. He stood next to his big red Chevy Bel Air station wagon, not knowing whether to duck, run, or be cool. Since there would be no running from Arnello, he tried to stay cool and kept his jittery hands in view.
