by Shawn Inmon
“When you become a big star, and we hear you on the radio, we’ll say we knew you before you were a star,” Carol said.
“And I’ll say, ‘Carol who?’” Cassandra was trying to smile, but tears were in her eyes. “I love you guys. I’ll be back to visit. I suppose you’ll rent my couch out as soon as you can.”
“Are you kidding?” Dara said. “We never thought we’d find one sucker that would pay a full share and not have a bed. Where are we going to find another?”
They all laughed, and cried, then did a bit more of each. Curlee, who had been waiting in his car, knocked on the frame of the open door and looked pointedly at his watch.
Barbie ran to him and hugged him, then hit him hard in the arm. “That’s for being so cute and charming and taking our Cassie away.”
Curlee backed away from the door, hands raised.
“Bye, loves,” Cassandra said, and hurried out the door, wiping tears away as she went.
CASSANDRA HAD DRIVEN the fringes of San Francisco, but never through the city itself. She stuck close behind Curlee’s Ford, afraid that if she lost him, she would never find Billie’s apartment.
Billie’s apartment. Nope. Our apartment. I must be crazy.
Curlee drove confidently through the city. He almost lost Cassandra a few times, but she eventually managed to catch up. Finally, he pulled into a parking spot on the street and pointed Cassandra to another spot half a block down.
By the time she got the Mustang settled in to its spot—even with an extra lifetime to practice, she still wasn’t a great parallel parker—Curlee was there waiting for her. His cheeks were flushed with excitement.
“Leave all your stuff in the trunk. Wait until you see this place!”
Cassandra looked around the neighborhood. Haight-Ashbury was the trendiest neighborhood in the country, but it certainly wasn’t ostentatious. It was made up of older buildings, many of which seemed like they might be in need of repair. It wasn’t the buildings that made The Haight special. It was the people who lived there and the energy they brought.
If Daddy saw this neighborhood, he’d want to knock all these buildings down and put up ten-story condos.
Cassandra’s stomach was in knots. Curlee opened her door and kissed her lightly.
“It’s going to be great.”
Cassandra smiled and nodded, but she wasn’t sure. I’ll be more convinced of that once I see that your ex-girlfriend doesn’t hate me.
Curlee pointed toward the building where they would be living. It had a large bay window on the third floor and as Cassandra followed where he was pointing, she saw the window open. Billie opened the window and waved enthusiastically.
“Hurry up! I thought you guys were never going to get here!”
Just like that, Cassandra knew.
It’s going to be okay.
By the time they got to the main entrance, Billie had run down two flights of stairs and was holding the door open for them. She threw her arms around Cassandra and kissed her cheek.
“I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been just Raoul and me for days, and as pretty as he is to look at, he’s not much for conversation. Thank God you’re here so I have someone to gossip with.”
“Raoul?”
“Billie’s latest boy toy,” Curlee said with a smile.
“Wait ‘til you see him. To die for. Come on!”
There was no elevator in the building, but a wide staircase led up and up. They hiked up two flights and Billie pointed them toward the open door. “Mi casa es su casa.”
Cassandra stepped inside and saw why Billie and Curlee loved it. It was old, and there was a slightly funky smell that would never go away, but the ceilings were high, and huge windows let in tons of ambient light.
Billie pointed to the bay window and said, “Look at the way the sunshine pours in. You can set up your easel and paint over there.”
Cassandra wandered to the window and looked down on the street where they had come from. The whole neighborhood had a mellow, laid-back vibe. She loved it instantly.
“Thank you, Billie. You’re so sweet.”
“Well, that’s true. But I have an ulterior motive. I heard you sing. Between your voice and songwriting and whatever Curlee and I bring to the party, we’re gonna be the next big thing.” She leaned conspiratorially toward Cassandra. “There’s a Big Brother down the hall.”
“Like George Orwell?”
Billie fixed Curlee with a stern look and said, “You have got to get this girl out more.” She turned back to Cassandra. “No, like Big Brother and the Holding Company. The bass player for Jefferson Airplane lives across the street. We have some pretty good jam sessions here.”
“I can only imagine.”
And I will be here. Be a part of it. When I made the choice to leave home, I had an unrealistic dream that had no real shot of coming true. Somehow, I’ve stumbled into something that feels even better.
“Curlee, where’s your guitar? I want to hear this song of Cassie’s you keep telling me about.”
Curlee held his finger up. “Be right back.” He jogged out the door, and his footsteps echoed from the stairway.
“Good. While he’s gone, let’s sit down.”
Is this where the other shoe drops?
“I know it’s got to be uncomfortable coming into this situation. It’s a brave thing. I want you to know I really am happy you’re here.”
“I was so nervous on the drive here, I thought I might throw up.”
“Well, if you feel the need now, you won’t be the first person to throw up in that toilet. There are some pretty wild parties here.”
Billie looked at Cassandra. “You’ve changed a lot since I saw you in the plaza.”
“So have you,” Cassandra said.
Both were true. That day when they met in the plaza, Cassandra had still been in her cute high school clothes and Billie had been a perfect example of the no-nonsense protester.
Now, Cassandra had adopted the more serious style, and Billie had abandoned it. Billie was dressed in a flowing dress that went below her knees, sandals, and she wore a beaded headband with flowers that dangled down the left side of her face.
“I know a great shop where we can go pick you up a few things, if you want. They’re pretty anti-capitalism, so everything is super-cheap.”
“Which fits my non-existent budget perfectly.”
Footsteps once again echoed into the apartment and Curlee bounced in, a wide smile lighting his face.
“C’mon, let’s jam.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
That spring in Haight-Ashbury, the weather was mellow, and the time passed easily. Neither Curlee nor Cassandra had a lot of money, but Billie had some money she had inherited earlier that year and she covered the expenses for everyone.
That left them time to wander The Haight, practice their songs, and see acts at The Fillmore. In the space of just a few weeks, they were able to see The Grateful Dead, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and Jefferson Airplane, who had just added a dynamic new singer named Grace Slick.
Raoul soon disappeared from the apartment for good and Cassandra realized that he was likely just someone Billie had brought home with her so Cassandra would be comfortable when she moved in. After that, the three of them lived happily in the two-bedroom apartment.
Cassandra took over the cooking duties, Billie did whatever light housekeeping she felt like, and they ran Curlee all over the neighborhood like an errand boy.
More than anything, they rehearsed and rehearsed. After that first jam session, they had realized that they had something. Cassandra had a beautiful, warm tone to her voice and Billie and Curlee harmonized beneath her.
Cassandra and Billie wrote songs together, inspired by the creativity they saw all around them.
And, they did drugs.
In her previous life, Cassandra had never so much as gotten a contact high. Living in The Haight in the late spring of 1967, drugs were everywhere. Marijuana, of cour
se, but LSD and other hallucinogens were increasingly popular. Hard drugs were rare, but they were around, too.
Like many before her, Cassandra took it one slow step at a time. Marijuana mellowed her out, and she liked that. So, when Billie suggested they drop some acid, she agreed. While they tripped, they wrote a song, and knew it was brilliant.
The next morning, when they read the words and music they had written, it didn’t make any sense to them.
“Guess we’re gonna have to try again. Maybe you have to be tripping to understand it,” Curlee said.
It was all part of the scene.
Their favorite thing to do was walk to Buena Vista Park with a picnic, a couple of joints, and their guitars.
They would get stoned, eat sandwiches, and play their music. Often, other musicians would follow the siren’s call of their playing and sit in with them.
One warm Saturday in late May, they were at the park and were practicing the song Cassandra had been working on for months. She had finally come up with a title—Not for Marching—and a chorus.
Music is for listening
Music is for dancing
Music is for contemplating
Even for relaxing
The music of a symphony
Can make our hearts soar
But this music is not for marching
For there’s no glory in war
Cassandra sang lead alone on the verses, but Billie and Curlee harmonized with her on the chorus. Their voices rose and blended, carrying the words over the rolling hills and down to San Francisco Bay.
A few people who had been passing by stopped and listened.
When the last notes of the song died away, Curlee nodded at the half a dozen people who had gathered and said, “We should have put out a hat.”
“Yes,” Billie said, “We might have made enough to buy a loaf of bread on the way home.”
A man stepped away from the others and approached the three of them. He was dressed in business casual—slacks and an open-necked blue shirt—but he had shaggy hair that hung over his collar and stuck out at odd angles.
“I like your sound,” the man said.
“Thanks, man,” Curlee said, easily stepping into the spokesman role.
“I’m Thom Swenson. I work for KFRC.”
“Cool,” Curlee said. “On the air?”
“No, I leave that to people with good voices and a big personality. I work in the marketing and promotions department.”
“Good gig,” Curlee said.
“It is. Right now, I’m looking for a few bands.”
Curlee glanced at Billie and Cassandra, then back to Thom Swenson.
“We’ve got a big promotional concert coming up. Some big bands are going to play, but we’re going to have two stages going, so we’re looking for some up-and-coming musicians, too. What do you guys call yourselves?”
This had been the subject of much debate among the three of them. A thousand different names had been tossed around, but none had been settled on yet.
“We were going to call ourselves Two Mamas and a Papa, but I think the ship has sailed on that one.”
“Cute,” Thom said.
“Just kidding. We’re New Generation.” That had been one of the names they had talked about, but it hadn’t been chosen.
“New Generation. New Generation,” Thom said, letting it roll around on his tongue. “I like it.”
Curlee glanced at Cassandra and Billie again. A little smug, this time, as if to say, the man from the radio station likes it.
Swenson pulled a business card out and handed it to Curlee. “Where are you guys playing next?”
“We’re still just getting our shit together. We haven’t started booking gigs yet.”
Swenson shrugged. “If I were you, I’d get yourself a gig. Then I can get my boss to come and see you. I might be able to get you on the second stage. We’re calling it the Fantasy Fair and Magic Mountain Music Festival. It’s going to kick off the Summer of Love.
“Beautiful,” Curlee said softly. “Summer of Love. I dig it. Who else is going to be playing?”
“Oh, you know, Canned Heat, The Byrds, the Airplane, The Doors. Bands like that.” Swenson tried to appear casual as he rattled off the list of bands, but he couldn’t pull it off. Light My Fire had just been released and was in constant rotation at KFRC. Canned Heat, The Birds, and Jefferson Airplane were already huge.
Curlee lifted Thom Swenson’s business card up and waved it. “You’ll be hearing from us very soon.”
“Better not wait too long,” Swenson said. “Concert’s in just a few weeks.” He turned and walked away, whistling a tune that sounded suspiciously like Not for Marching.
Just before he disappeared over the hill, Curlee shouted after him, “Hey! What does it pay?”
Swenson turned around and squinted against the sun. “Pay? We’re gonna make people stars!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Curlee was typically a laid-back, take-it-as-it-comes sort of guy. Meeting Thom Swenson lit a fire under him.
Moments after the KFRC promo man had disappeared, Curlee started gathering the remains of their picnic lunch.
Billie looked on in bemusement. “That’s the most work I’ve ever seen you do. What got into you.”
“You heard the man,” he said, stuffing their leftovers back into a canvas bag. “We’ve got to get a gig, so they can come hear us. That’s not going to happen with us just sitting in the park playing.”
“It kind of just did,” Cassandra pointed out.
Curlee shot her a look, then sat cross-legged in between them. “This could be big for us.”
“And by ‘us’ I suppose you mean New Generation, the band name I didn’t know we had.”
Curlee had the good sense to look a little guilty. “We needed something. That was the first name that popped into my head.” He held the business card out in front of him again, like a magic talisman.
“Look, I didn’t dream it. A dude from KFRC just said that if we get our shit together, we can play with The Doors and The Byrds. I don’t know about you, but that’s pretty damn exciting to me.”
Billie squinted at Curlee, trying to make sure he was serious. “Not exactly playing with those guys. Playing on a small second stage somewhere far away from those guys.”
“Which seems pretty good for a band that didn’t even have a name ten minutes ago.”
Both women had to laugh and admit that he was right about that.
“Come on, let’s get packed up and head for home. You guys write down every song we know, including the ones Cass has written. See if we’ve got enough for a few legitimate sets without repeats. While you guys do that, I’m gonna beat the streets, see if I can find us a gig somewhere.”
His enthusiasm was infectious, and a moment later, they were all throwing things into the bag. Cassandra carried the bag, Curlee and Billie slung their guitars over their shoulders and they walked hand in hand in hand down the hill toward home.
A MOTIVATED CURLEE was a wonderful thing. Within 24 hours, he had found them a gig. “Gig” might be overstating it somewhat, if that construes being paid for what they did. They were being paid in that currency that is first offered to almost all bands—exposure.
It’s true that you can’t eat exposure or pay your rent with it. The truth is, though, it’s hard to make enough money to do anything without that elusive exposure. Making tapes and throwing them over the transom at record executives was difficult and an exercise in futility.
Tavern, coffee shop, and nightclub owners knew this harsh reality and on the slow nights of the week—Sunday through Wednesday—they leveraged that into free labor.
The old joke in musician’s circles was that only a musician would carry thousands of dollars in equipment in a van worth a couple of hundred dollars to do a job for free.
That didn’t really apply to New Generation—a name two-thirds of the band chafed against—as their instruments weren’t worth that much
, and they didn’t own a van. Their gig, at a small club called The Candy Jar, was within walking distance.
Curlee got them an hour’s worth of stage time the following Tuesday. He called Thom Swenson and alerted him of New Generation’s debut. He promised to not only be there, but to bring his boss along.
Cassandra, Billie, and Curlee spent long hours in the living room of the apartment they had taken to calling The Hovel. They opened the tall windows to the world and shared their music with passers-by, whether they wanted to hear it or not.
Billie was in charge of fashion and decided they would appear in all-black clothes, her statement of mourning for the continuing war in Vietnam. Curlee wore a black turtleneck and black slacks. Billie put Cassandra in a miniskirt to show off her long legs, while she herself wore a mid-calf black dress. The only part of any of their ensembles that wasn’t black was a small white peace symbol that Billie wore on her left shoulder.
When the night of the show arrived, Cassandra was so nervous she threw up the little she had eaten for lunch. She seriously contemplated climbing into the Mustang and heading onto the open road, forgetting all about any hopes of a music career.
An hour before they had to leave to walk to the show, Curlee rolled a joint and they sat around in silence, toking up and contemplating the set list. They had decided to lead off with We Shall Not be Moved, since that was the song that had brought the three of them together. The rest of the set was heavy on folk music standards, but they did mix in two of Cassandra’s original songs, Call to Peace, and Not for Marching, which they were going to close with.
When they got to the club, Curlee checked in with the club manager, who directed them to a table at the back of the room and said he’d let them know what time they’d be on. He was somewhat amused that they were there so early.
“I’m lucky if most bands show up at all and here you guys are, an hour early.”
To further calm their nerves, Curlee ordered a round of drinks for everyone and they surveyed the room. There was no backstage area. There was barely a stage area at all. A raised wooden structure, eight feet by ten feet stood in one corner, with several mic stands, and an array of floodlights pointed at it.
