Fortunately, in Mill Valley, a small town in Marin County, California, I ran into George Daly, who discovered the Cars and who had a connection with Ron Alexenberg of Epic Records in New York. After asking to manage me and Priscilla, he was able to convince Epic to give me a $75,000 fund to record a new solo LP.
The closest good studio was the Record Plant in Sausalito, but the vocals for “Jamaica Song” were recorded at San Francisco’s Columbia Studio on Howard. The album cover was shot by photographer Jim Marshall, who became a friend and confidant in the process. Jim and photographer Joel Bernstein became regulars, dropping by the studio and the house to snap pictures at all hours.
You could say the album was performed by my version of LA’s Wrecking Crew. I was a big fan of Bobby Hall’s percussion playing and used her on nearly all my productions. Jim Keltner was my go-to drummer even when John Robinson was available. David T. Walker was hands down LA’s tastiest session guitarist. Sammy Creason’s drums and Mike Utley’s keyboards were warm, familiar touches from Kris and Rita’s band, like family. Bob Glaub did Duck Dunn better than Duck Dunn on bass. It took some convincing to get the children, Paul, Laura, and T, to make the trip to a studio in San Francisco to sing on “Jamaica Song.” Still, the childlike innocence of their voices lent the cut a unique quality. Tender, precious, and inimitable.
That’s me playing the mandolin on “Mama Stewart.” Paying respect to my childhood influences from listening to John R. Richbourg on Nashville’s WLAC when I was a toddler. A white man speaking in the black vernacular, you would have thought he was a black man playing country music. It was my first exposure to Chet Atkins and his guitar picking.
Evergreen was no more a soul album than a mule is a horse, but they came out of the same stable. Regardless, it’s an accurate representation of my musical palate at the time. It’s roots music with a touch of folk and reggae. Calling it folk funk wouldn’t be wrong either.
SAN FRANCISCO AIRPORT—Fall 1975—6
The first year went quickly, and I was unprepared when I got the call from T’s mom that she wanted him returned to her immediately. Just when my son had assimilated into our family, when I was used to having him near, it was all upended. Everything was turned upside down. Having to let him go wounded both of us.
At the airport in San Francisco, walking T to the gate, I ran into Buddy Miles, who just happened to be flying to LA. I explained why we were there.
“No problem, man! I’ll watch after him on the flight down!”
I let go of T’s hand, and Buddy took his other hand.
So T took off—under the watchful eyes of none other than the great Buddy Miles.
There was no more soulful drummer in that period than Buddy. Hendrix hired him—and Buddy had his own band as well. I’m surprised he and my son didn’t record and mix a track on the flight down.
COMPTCHE, CA—Winter 1975—4
My relationship with Priscilla continued on shaky ground. One morning in Comptche, after Priscilla had stayed out all night and came home wearing a miniskirt that exposed her, Reverend Coolidge said to me, “She’s not my wife; I can’t slap her.”
I was so surprised to hear this kind of talk come from the minister. As if there were a street-thug type hidden under the self-righteous mask.
“You need to hit my daughter!” is what he was basically saying. “So she’ll behave, and your marriage will stay intact.”
But why would he go this far? Possibly he was concerned that the gravy train of money he was receiving from me every month would halt if my marriage to his daughter fell apart.
George Daly was managing both of us, but he had only obtained a solo record deal for me. Not one for Priscilla nor a joint deal for both of us. Maybe the last straw was the “boing” sound made by the strings of my Gibson J-45 hitting the door behind me when I left the house that morning. Priscilla had thrown it.
Within six months, I was spending more days away from the house. My usual destination was the bench outside the Comptche Store, where I sat for hours smoking cigarettes.
Once, a man with a bright smile sat down next to me.
“You can have anything I got. All you have to do is ask for it.”
I asked for, and got, an honest friend. Everything from advice on which hands to hire to which direction my house should face came from my new friend, Bob Evans. It got so that I could stroll into his front door without knocking, and vice versa.
“You know, Booker, you can’t keep on walking around like this,” Bob declared one day as we sat on the bench outside the store.
“Like what, Bob?”
“With your face down in the dirt all the time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Life’s too short, man.”
“Too short for what?”
“Not to feel good every day.”
There is no way to calculate the value of an honest friend.
His job with me done, Bob got up and ambled over to his truck. A cowboy with not a care in the world. I, on the other hand, had some hard choices ahead. I hadn’t noticed how much my down mood was affecting people around me.
Emotionally, I was constantly upended. Like a ship at sea in a storm that never ended. A series of visits with friends kept me afloat.
LOS ANGELES—September 1975—5
The meeting took place at Lee Housekeeper’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Lee was Steve Cropper’s friend and manager and had been instrumental in trying to get the MGs back together. It was a festive dinner, and Al had decided to seriously consider moving to the West Coast. He would go back to Memphis and talk to Barbara (his wife) about it. Just as we were leaving, I told him I loved him, and he took me out to the balcony. “I want to show you something, Jones.” He always called me Jones.
On the balcony, Al opened his shirt and exposed a bullet wound in his upper-right abdomen. I had never seen a bullet wound before. The sight of it shocked and scared me. It had healed quite a bit, but it looked horrible. We just stared at each other. His wife, Barbara, had shot him. I wondered what was in the future if he returned to Memphis. He buttoned up his shirt. We hugged and went back inside. I understood he was determined to start over, both with the MGs and with Barbara.
NEW YORK—October 1975—11
Reunited, the MGs made their debut at New York’s Bottom Line Club, where Stevie Wonder was sitting at the bar. It was hard not to recognize Stevie’s familiar form. I wandered over at the break to say hello. We had been periodic telephone buddies since the late sixties, and he had sent a tape of his song “The Thought of Loving You” when I was still at Stax. As I was walking away to go back onstage, he said, “Keep your spirits up!”
That same night, I had somehow managed to get my first synthesizer, a Maxi-Korg 800 DV, on the stage. Sitting side stage unseen to my left, it didn’t get used the whole set until the very end, when we closed with “Time Is Tight.” When we got to the coda, which I had written to extend the song, the key suddenly changed to F. That’s when I reached over with one finger of my left hand and hit a very low F on the Korg. The thing was duo phonic—the second voice entered the sound after my hand had left the keyboard.
The sound was very deep and strong and dramatic.
The band was so shocked that they just held the F chord and let the Korg do its thing, and its big sound progressed through the envelope and it billowed from a dark low tone all the way through the high brilliant overtones that only a powerful synth can create. I just sat there while the sound enveloped the stage and the entire room. Steve Cropper looked around and smiled…I had graduated from the Hammond B-3 with Stevie Wonder in the audience.
LOS ANGELES—October 1, 1975—6
The next time I heard anything about Al was a few weeks later when walking up to the porch of my dad’s house in LA. As we approached, I saw my name flash on the TV through the screen door. It was the evening news. “Booker T. & the MGs band member shot and killed in Memphis.” I went inside and watched in disbelief with m
y mom and dad.
We were all in shock. My mind raced. Had Barbara shot him again? What were the circumstances? What were the details? My mother was scared to death. She was afraid that if I went back to Memphis to attend Al’s funeral, something bad would happen to me there. After all, there had already been the ransom situation before we left Memphis.
Mama begged me not to go back to Memphis for the funeral, and I didn’t. We knew of all the guns at Stax Records.
I learned from Duck Dunn that Al had taken eight bullets in the back. Shot multiple times in the back and with a big, different gun.
One of the tragedies that marred my early childhood was the 1958 shooting of Dr. J. E. Walker, who lived ten houses away from me on the corner of Edith and Mississippi Avenues. This crime, along with the killing of Emmett Till in 1958 in Mississippi, terrified our neighborhood.
When I was growing up, if a report that a white man was shot came in to the police station in downtown Memphis, they would launch an investigation. If a black man shot a black man, they would just go out for more coffee.
It’s an outrage that the murder was never solved. No investment made. No further investigation. It remains a travesty and a charade of police work. Another black male life determined insignificant, not worthy of public concern. Case closed. But I, for one, will never let go of this.
This act robbed the world of its most talented drummer. Someone who spent hours being the creative genius at Stax from 11:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., had dinner, and then went on to write and play on some of the world’s best R & B at Hi Records with Al Green and Willie Mitchell.
This was on a daily basis.
The murder robbed his children of their father. Robbed me of my old roommate. He wasn’t perfect, but a lot of people loved him. Otis Redding loved him. Duck Dunn loved him. Women loved him. Jim Stewart loved him. I loved him. He was my best friend, even though we broke up over my departure from Stax Records, which he took personally.
I spoke at his class reunion in LA a few years after his death. Both surprising and painful was how few of Al’s classmates were aware of the huge contribution he had made to the world of music. Aspiring drummers the world over were trying to emulate his style. Years later, Steve Cropper took up the campaign with me and started to sing praises about Al’s musical prowess.
But now he was gone. Al’s death was a big shock. A hard blow to the chest. Other deaths, like my grandparents’, were expected. Now I had to look the unpredictability of life in the face.
Unfairly, I compare all other drummers to Al Jackson. To me, he is still the king.
I didn’t do much music for a while after Al’s death; however, Priscilla was busy pursuing her solo career with an independent producer in Nashville.
NASHVILLE—JANUARY 1976—9
“There’s a baby at the hospital in Willits,” Priscilla told me one night after her session. “I’m flying back to San Francisco to get the child early in the morning. You can take a later flight.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t know we were considering adoption,” I said.
“I meant to talk to you about it.”
“You knew all this while?” I asked, my mouth wide open. The news had come as a shock. I was astonished Priscilla would make such an important decision without so much as mentioning it to me. It was a bolt of lightning. I was appalled.
“I need to get some sleep,” Priscilla said from the bathroom, taking her makeup off. “There was only room for one on the flight. I’ll see you at home.”
I got very tired. I felt numb, deprived of the power to control my life. I didn’t sleep.
A few hours later, Priscilla hopped into a cab for the Nashville airport and left me a number to call her producer and cancel the day’s session. I got a much later flight but made it to Comptche in time to be there when she got home late that night with the baby. The tiny little newborn girl slept on my stomach. She was a beautiful, placid little thing. Priscilla named her Lonnie, after her maternal grandfather.
MALIBU, CA—1976—1
Early one morning in 1976, I stepped out onto the deck of my beachfront Malibu condo to get some fresh air and watch the waves crash onto the sand. A man with long red hair was running on the beach down below. I said to myself, “That looks like Willie Nelson.” He glanced up, smiled, and waved as he ran past. I waved back.
It was Willie Nelson. He had rented the condo just below mine. Introductions were made, and in no time Willie and I were spending time sitting on his deck or mine, guitars in hand, having fun going over old standards we both had loved and played in the past.
TUCSON, AZ—1976—9
In 1976, Kris Kristofferson contacted me about playing in his band in a movie with Barbra Streisand, and off I went to Tucson to appear in and play on the soundtrack for the Barbra Streisand film A Star Is Born.
Barbra had the voice. But that meant nothing without the material. And for that, she went to the source: Paul Williams. She wanted the best of everything and knew how to get it. She was the first one at the studio and the last to leave. Because of her working harder than everyone else, no one said no to her, except Kris Kristofferson. And not because of Rita. Kris was not acting the part; he had become John Norman Howard, and he was my brother-in-law at the time.
Kris came to my dressing room when he was sober. We talked about all the times and ways we had messed our lives up. He talked about Fran (his ex) and the kids, and I talked about Gigi and T. Riding in my truck with me, Kris pulled out a royalty check for $70,000. He laughed. “What the heck am I going to do with this?” Kris had never received that much money before. Then, Jon Peters, producer of A Star Is Born, gave him $800,000, and he was really lost. He wouldn’t even buy a ride.
“Kris, you can afford a nice car,” I told him, but he continued to drive a rented Chevy Impala. He never turned it in.
Priscilla had a key to their house, and the relationship became strained as more and more, Rita recognized her clothes in Priscilla’s closet. Kris also began to get drunk before he came home. I couldn’t drink with Kris. Couldn’t keep up with him. None of us could. Not Donnie Fritts or Mike Utley or Sammy Creason, not even Willie. Kris worshipped the ground Willie Nelson walked on and tended to behave around him.
Kris and I kept a good, respectful relationship, but around Rita and Priscilla, there was always a scene.
By the fall of 1976, Priscilla’s dad began complaining to me privately about Kris. “Doesn’t seem like much of a man to me. You?”
Kris had more courage than me. He left first.
BEVERLY HILLS—December 1977—7
I don’t know how they got the thing up the hill to Emmylou Harris’s house in the eastern part of Beverly Hills. It was a humongous steel animal, like you would find following circus trucks down the highway, filled with sensitive, temperamental, fragile recording equipment and couches. It rolled like it was filled with lead, weighing way more tons than the California DMV would allow. However, there it sat in Brian Ahern’s and Emmylou’s front yard, blocking the entrance to the front door—the Enactron Truck. Brian, Emmylou’s husband, was the owner of the mobile recording truck. If a truck could cause a divorce, this one would. The thing was that imposing.
It was Brian’s baby. The reason I used the Enactron Truck was because it housed an old Stephens twenty-four-track tape recorder and more vintage mikes than you could shake a stick at. A machine built to uncompromising standards, the Stephens was quiet without noise reduction, but the tape was always falling off the transport.
During playback, we would be listening, and the sound would stop. I’d look over, and our valuable tape would be reeling down off the machine onto the floor. The transport was operated by an old delicate servo with a take-up motor that would quit. Then Bradley, the engineer, would say over talkback, “Uh, could you guys do that again?”
He’d then hurry over, wrap the two-inch tape around his neck, rethread it onto the transport, and we’d continue like nothing happened.
I could tell b
y the notes Willie sang and played that he had a rare, innate, and effortless understanding of music. Like some people who just know what colors go together. All that belied his apparent nature, that of a happy-go-lucky guy out to have fun at any cost. Willie didn’t take music too seriously, but music took him seriously. Given those attributes, the two of us fit like a glove. I laughed at all the jokes he threw at me. Seriously.
When we were socializing, I let Willie take the lead. Which wasn’t so easy for me. The reason was I knew Willie knew how to play cards. Even when he was losing, he was playing to win. And win he did, in the most unconventional of ways.
Every one of Willie’s characters was there for a purpose. Each one had his place in the pecking order. It was amazing because none of this was arranged with words. Just silence, looks, laughs, and entrances to and from rooms. In every rock and roll retinue, there exists a pecking order—necessary for the survival of the group. A structure among the employees: musicians, managers, roadies, and so forth. An outside producer must find and make his place in that structure in order to produce a successful album. I didn’t understand the order at first, so I made missteps on a daily basis, which drew guffaws from the retinue. For one, I took too many hits on the joints. So much so that I regularly lost my place. As in, I really lost it. “Aw, that’s just Booker stoned.” I never correctly judged the potency of the grass.
On the warm Malibu nights, Willie would come up to visit, bringing his guitar, and we sat outside on my deck looking out at the waves. Just inside the door sat my electric piano, and sometimes I’d duck inside to hit a chord or two on it while Willie sat outside singing and playing. After a jam on “Moonlight in Vermont,” Willie said, “Booker, why don’t you do an arrangement of this for my band, and let’s just go into the studio and cut it?”
“Sure, Willie, let’s do it!”
After a couple more jams on the porch, he said, “Why don’t you just do a whole album of these, and let’s pick out a few more.”
Time Is Tight Page 21
