Raisin' Cain: The Wild and Raucous Story of Johnny Winter (Kindle Edition)

by Mary Lou Sullivan

  The lawsuit wended its way through the court system for seven years before reaching a final decision. Superior Court rejected their suit, stating the comics were protected from any right-of-publicity claim because the Autumn brothers were a “parody of some sort” of the Winters’ persona. The appeals court affirmed that decision. When the case was appealed to the California Supreme court, it dismissed the appeals court decision and ordered it to reconsider. The appeals court reversed its decision, and the case ended back in California’s Supreme Court, which ruled against the Winters, stating the comics contained “significant expressive content other than the plaintiff’s mere likenesses.”

  Johnny, who didn’t follow the case and was unaware of the legal costs, was philosophical about the verdict. “It was Teddy’s idea to sue them,” he says. “I thought it was too bad but I can understand why we lost. It’s all part of being a public figure.”

  Justice wasn’t served in terms of bootlegs either. Roy Ames, Johnny’s unscrupulous manager and producer from his early years in Texas, continued to sell unlicensed tracks to various labels, filling the market with bootleg recordings of music dating back to 1966 and keeping all of the profits. Ames’s bootlegs contained the same songs in varying order on more than a dozen labels, repackaged with different titles with different artwork. A 2003 search on amazon.com for Johnny’s music yielded 117 results; a 2008 search generated 330 recordings. Less than fifteen percent of those recordings are legitimate.

  “I love my fans and I feel sorry for them getting screwed on bootleg recordings,” Johnny says. “I hate those damn bootleg records because it hurts your reputation. I don’t know how these people get the material. It’s stealing. It’s just not right. Fans that sell pictures of me, sell my autographs, bootleg videos. That’s a drag too. It’s the same thing, it’s stealing from me.”

  When Ames died in August 2003, I read him the obituary from the Houston Press, entitled GOOD RIDDANCE TO BAD RUBBISH—ROY AMES, CHILD PORNOGRAPHER AND RECORD PRODUCER, DIES AT 66.

  “He died unhappy—at least that’s good,’ Johnny said. ”He died out of jail, though, that’s amazing. It’s funny he didn’t die of AIDS, as promiscuous as he was. He was promiscuous. One night, when I was eighteen or nineteen, he was taking me to a gig. He went to get gas, tried to put the make on the gas attendant, and the guy beat him up. I was in the car with him and I hated that. When there is this guy putting the make on you, you wonder about the guy who’s sittin’ in his car.”

  In the closing line of that article, John Nova Lomax wrote, “If Roy Ames somehow weaseled out of his ticket to hell, he’s no doubt up there in blues heaven bootlegging the celestial jam.”

  “I’m not worried about that—he definitely went to hell,” said Johnny. “I’m glad he’s gone. I couldn’t do nothing about Roy—he was just an asshole. A professional asshole.”

  Fans catching Johnny’s shows during the mid- to late 1990s were shocked and saddened by the changes in their hero. He moved slower and looked thirty years older than he did when he played Dylan’s anniversary concert. His growl had disappeared and his once guttural vocals sounded weak and strained. Johnny often missed or hit the wrong notes. His fiery riffs were gone, replaced by guitar playing that was tentative, repetitious, and lacking emotion.

  In January 1997, Slatus booked Derringer as the opener for Johnny’s shows in Detroit, Milwaukee, and Chicago. Those shows rejuvenated Johnny’s playing, but ended Derringer’s relationship with Slatus.

  “It brought Johnny back to life,” Derringer told writer/guitarist Tom Guerra, who interviewed him for Vintage Guitar in 2000. “Those shows allowed Johnny to hear me out there trying to do the best I could, every night before he went on. I’m a pretty competitive guy and Johnny responded. Each night, his solos got a little hotter and he got a little more energetic. It worked out really well. But it ended up with Teddy and I parting ways because Teddy saw Johnny getting more life. I don’t think that’s the direction Teddy wanted to see Johnny going in. We also saw some things backstage, saw money changing hands; saw a lot of stuff Teddy didn’t want us to see. That caused a bunch of problems between me and Teddy and we parted ways.”

  Derringer, like so many others who cared about Johnny, was appalled and felt helpless as he watched Johnny sink into a medicated haze. He blamed Slatus for Johnny’s overmedication and questioned his motivation.

  “I don’t think Teddy wants to see Johnny getting healthier; he wants to see him dying,” Derringer told Guerra. “Frankly, I don’t want to see Johnny dying. I don’t want to see him being cheated; I want to see Johnny getting everything he’s earned. I want to see him getting healthier and stronger—he’s not an old man and I don’t want to see the record business taking advantage of Johnny. I have a suspicion Teddy wants just the opposite of me. He wants to manipulate, he owns all the powers of attorney, all the rights to everything Johnny does. Johnny’s one of those guys whose stuff is going to skyrocket when he dies and Teddy is going to reap all the benefits.”

  Whether Slatus actually wanted Johnny dead is still up for debate. But he was well aware that Johnny’s overmedication affected his health and his performance, and did nothing to help. Johnny’s friends, who wanted him off of the drugs and questioned why he was still working with Slatus, were not allowed access to their old friend.

  “Johnny needs to get off methadone once and for all,” said Derringer. “The sad part about it is, I can’t talk to Teddy about that. You can’t talk to Johnny because he’s inside it; he needs somebody to help him. He’s still Johnny Winter. When you go to hear him play, part of you goes, ‘Oh man, what happened?’ and ‘This is sad.’ But the other half of you sees between the cracks and sees Johnny still inside there. And here’s this music creeping out, even though there’s only a little bit of it. ‘Oh man, this is still Johnny Winter; he is still just as great as ever.’ All he needs to do is check himself into the hospital for about six months and come out once and for all clean. It’ll help his health, his music, everything. Teddy doesn’t seem to encourage that. Somebody with the power has to be able to, but nobody else has the power to do that.”

  Johnny’s overmedication didn’t surprise Epstein. “You can see why he was on a lot of drugs because he is naturally a very nervous guy,” he said. “He would always say, ‘I’m vibrating right out of my skin.’ He is a nervous guy. It’s just a matter of how you deal with that. You’re talking about somebody who is -holic by nature; he doesn’t know how to do anything halfway. He can’t take a sip or take one pill; he’s got to have fifty.”

  As Slatus’s alcoholism continued to escalate, Johnny’s dependence on prescription drugs continued to diminish the quality and number of his shows. Slatus tried to cover up Johnny’s health problems by shutting off media access, and verbally attacking writers who tried to set up interviews. Josh Alan Friedman, a musician and writer for the Dallas Observer, experienced Slatus’s wrath. “I told Slatus Johnny Winter was my all-time number-one guitar hero, and I wanted to do a cover story for the Dallas Observer,” said Friedman. “But then I casually inquired about Winter’s health. Suddenly, like a psychopath, Slatus turned abusive over the phone—screaming, cursing, threatening—it was such an outrageous turn. Teddy Slatus was a monster. There’s no telling what damage he did to Winter’s career.”

  “Teddy had quite a temper and a hair trigger,” said Epstein. “If he was in a foul mood, it wouldn’t take much to set him off. Teddy was kind of psycho, you never knew. He used it to his advantage. You tried not to piss him off, because when he went off, it was just so ugly.”

  Epstein thought Slatus’s personality played into Johnny’s overmedication. “Teddy was an enabler,” he said. “He wasn’t the kind of guy that would say, ‘No, Johnny. No more of this, get your shit together.’ If Johnny felt bad, he would take him to another doctor.”

  Although Johnny was still under contract to Virgin/Pointblank, Slatus wanted to increase his own cut by starting his own label. In October 1996, he distributed a
press release entitled BLUES LEGEND JOHNNY WINTER AND MANAGER TEDDY SLATUS LAUNCHING CPW RECORDS WITH HIS FIRST RECORDING IN THREE YEARS. Slatus distributed the press release at Johnny’s gig at the Bottom Line in March 1997, a month before he was scheduled to record two live shows at that club for the Virgin/Pointblank label.

  “It was always Teddy’s thing to do an imprint label—like the Blue Sky deal with CBS,” said John Wooler of Pointblank Records. “But he couldn’t leave Virgin and start his own label for Johnny Winter. He legally had to provide an album for me, so that never happened.”

  Johnny was scheduled to play two consecutive shows at the Bottom Line, but the first show was rescheduled due to numbness in his right hand. “Johnny’s health wasn’t great,” said Epstein. “I think his numbness problem was leading up to the radial nerve palsy. His health always fluctuated. He had nights when he couldn’t make his hands work as well as he’d like. But he was never mentally at a loss onstage. Johnny is completely fearless, no matter what condition he’s in. He would musically jump off a cliff, go for it, and trust you are there. He’s a master, one of the most gifted guys I played with, who knew exactly when to do what to make the crowd go nuts.”

  Johnny Winter Live in New York City ’97, released in 1998, was produced by Dick Shurman, and included Epstein on bass and Compton on drums. Slatus claimed the song list was generated by requests from fans, but, in reality, it was the same set the band was playing on the road. Although that CD generated mixed reviews and speculation about Johnny’s health, Johnny ignored the bad press. “The record got a pretty good reception,” he says. “I thought it was a good showpiece of what we were doing at the time. We chose the Bottom Line because we’d played there a lot and the acoustics sound better in a small club. We recorded two shows and played the same songs every night, so we’d make sure we got something good out of the bunch.”

  Johnny’s relationship with Slatus, both personal and business, was a convoluted one that almost cost Johnny his career and his life. Unlike a professional arrangement where the artist and manager discuss options and make a mutual decision, Johnny called the shots. Slatus worked around that by lying to him, making decisions behind his back, and withholding information.

  Hiring Slatus, who had been a doorman and bartender at the Scene, and Johnny’s gofer and valet when working as his road manager, ensured it wouldn’t be an equal relationship. He pegged Slatus as “Steve Paul’s yes-man” when he met him, and wanted a manager who would do what he wanted. Even Johnny’s knowledge of Slatus’s bizarre behavior when the Scene closed, and his inability to be honest, didn’t seem to affect their relationship.

  “When Teddy started first going on the road, he was still putting on shows at the Scene, which had closed, with bands that were just in his mind,” says Johnny. “He was in his house in Manhattan and would bring on the band that wasn’t there, for the people that weren’t there. He was real crazy. He wanted to keep it going the way it always had been. When Teddy became my road manager-he didn’t have any confidence at all because he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He really had a hard time. He didn’t want to tell me if he was making any mistakes, so he was lying about them. It was three or four months before he knew what he was doing.”

  Another aspect that kept it unequal, and fueled Johnny’s isolation, was Slatus’s devotion to Johnny’s needs and his belief in a hierarchy in the music business.

  “Teddy was never a friend; he always treated me like a star,” says Johnny. “Sometimes that gets to be a real drag too. You’d like to be treated as a person, but Teddy thought there was a hierarchy; a class thing in music. He shouldn’t be going out and having dinner with me because he was working for me, and the people that worked for me shouldn’t be friends with me. You weren’t supposed to be friends with anybody.”

  Part of that star treatment was fussing over Johnny’s meals, a ritual that is still played out when Johnny is on the road. “Teddy used to make the crew nuts, because he would have them being valets and butlers to Johnny, which really isn’t crew work,” said Epstein. “Teddy always made such a huge production out of Johnny’s dinner, and he’d have the crew guys going mental about getting everything.”

  Johnny finally started thinking of Slatus as a friend, rather than just a manager, when he helped him during his breakdowns in the early 1990s. He was especially pleased when Slatus identified himself as Johnny’s friend when he took him to the doctor. Years later, when Johnny questioned the amount of money he was earning, Slatus used that act of friendship to his advantage.

  “I trusted him at first, but sometimes, I haven’t been sure,” says Johnny. “I remember telling him I didn’t trust him once and he said, ‘Well, I took care of you when you weren’t sure what you wanted to do with Susan and the other girlfriend in Texas. I always helped you, so I don’t see how you could think I would do anything against you.’ I agreed he was right. But then I wasn’t sure because I wasn’t making as much money as I thought I should.”

  Although Johnny met with Slatus once a week about business matters, and received profit and loss statements from his accountant, his failing vision and overmedication ensured that he accepted what he was told at face value. In 2003, when asked if he thought Slatus was ripping him off, Johnny hesitated before answering the question. “I wondered—I wasn’t sure, sometimes,” he said. “He gets a percentage of everything. Now, I feel like he’s doing the best he can. If I’m behind on my statements, and don’t have enough money to pay for everything, he lends me money from his account, and gets it back whenever I’m making some money. He’s real good about that. During the period I wasn’t working [because of my breakdown] he was paying for that with his own money.

  “Teddy does what I want him to do and that’s important. When I broke my hip, he made sure I had somebody to come over to help me. When I got radial nerve palsy, he took me to the doctors and stayed in my corner. He’s been there for me. When I went crazy, he went to the hospital with me and paid for everything till I could afford to pay for it. He’s always stuck by me when I went nuts. The last time I went crazy [1994], he paid for the original costs to get me in the hospital.”

  Because of his problems with managers in the past, Johnny practiced the “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t” philosophy with Slatus. “There’s so many bad ones out there, I’d hate to think about trying to get a new one,” he said. Johnny acknowledged Slatus kept him in the dark about a lot of dealings, and kept him away from reporters, filmmakers, and even his band mates.

  “That’s a drag,” he said. “Sometimes I talk to him about it but he says he’s just trying to do the best for me. He tries to keep people away from me that he doesn’t think should be around me. Sometimes I don’t agree with that, but in most cases, I think he’s right. I know Teddy overdoes that sometimes—keeping people away. That’s just Teddy.”

  “Getting together with Johnny was like having an audience with the Pope,” said Ganz. “It was, ‘You have to wait here, you have to do this, you can’t go here.’ Then Johnny says to me, ‘That’s ridiculous, come on.”’

  Keeping Johnny isolated went beyond star treatment; it was Slatus’s way of ensuring control and limiting information flow. By 2001, the band and crew weren’t allowed to see Johnny, unless it was a band rehearsal or a gig. Slatus totally controlled access to Johnny, and fired anyone who tried to work around him.

  Compton, who left the band in 1998, was another casualty of Slatus. He was replaced by Vito Liuzzi, a Connecticut drummer who had begun filling in for Compton at rehearsals the previous year. “Tom and Teddy had a falling out of some kind,” says Johnny. “Teddy wanted to get rid of Tom and Tom got tired of fighting it. It was too bad.”

  Although Johnny could have fought Slatus’s decisions, he never did. “Johnny’s relationship with Teddy was a marriage; it was way beyond business,” said Epstein. “‘They go back so far, they’ve been doing this dance for so long. It wasn’t just Teddy running Johnny around; Johnny
had to give him permission to do it because he could ultimately say no at any moment. I think Teddy cared about Johnny on some level, but not in a selfless way. Take Johnny away from Teddy and he crumbled. He wanted to be Johnny. When he walked him on the stage ... a lot of people in the music business who aren’t musicians are feeding off that same energy. They’d sure love to be [the artist]; that’s why they’re drawn to the whole scene.”

  Val Minett, who worked for Slatus from 1998 to 2002, agreed. “In Teddy’s mind, Teddy was the star,” she said. “Anybody he worked with, he only did things for them so he would look good. When we would go to Johnny’s house for meetings, he would say, ‘Look what I did for you!”’

  Although Johnny never said anything in public or on the record about Slatus’s misdealings, Epstein said he was well aware of what Slatus was doing.

  “Johnny knew what was going on the whole time—he wasn’t in the dark,” said Epstein. “In terms of when he was being taken advantage of, and any of the things Teddy was doing that Johnny didn’t want to happen. Johnny knew. He might not have been feeling up to making a change, but he knew. We caught Teddy in some lies and Johnny told me—and this is a quote—‘Teddy has a problem with the truth.’ Johnny is cagey. He’s not gonna let on what he knows, or even a tenth of what he knows. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t miss anything.”