Street Player

by Danny Seraphine

  It didn’t take long for the bright lights of Sunset Boulevard to seduce our band. We were in awe of the free-spirited characters running around the scene—especially by the uninhibited groupies offering their free love. I tried to focus solely on the music, but as time wore on I got tired of saying no to girls. With Rose fifteen hundred miles away in Chicago, I got caught up in the scene and couldn’t help myself.

  We frequented clubs up and down the Strip like the Experience, the Aquarius Theater, the Starwood, the Troubadour, Gazarri’s, and the Whisky a Go Go. It was thrilling because in place of the Top 40 covers of the time, most bands were performing their own original music. An overwhelming feeling of expectation was in the air. Something special was taking place all around us—a genuine cultural awakening. We became friends with some of the other bands that were also trying to make a name for themselves out in California, like Three Dog Night, Blues Image, and a band called Black Pearl from Boston. Everyone had moved from their hometowns to pursue our dreams of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. And suddenly we were living it.

  The late sixties was a turbulent time for the country. We huddled around the television in horror to watch the news footage of the Vietnam War protestors clashing with Chicago police at the 1968 Democratic National Convention. We had already witnessed the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy. The violence was yet another indication that the country was in turmoil. Young people everywhere had reached their breaking point. As the protesters and police clashed back in Chicago, I was ashamed of my city and Mayor Daley. The chaotic images from the convention had a lasting effect on the band, especially Jimmy and Bobby. The events deeply influenced the music they were writing, and political themes were finding their way into our songs. Bobby began writing originals like “It Better End Soon” and “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” in support of the new consciousness among our generation. In many ways, the move to California gave every member of the band a fresh political awareness.

  At the same time, the guys and I ate, drank, and slept our music. We practiced day and night, much to the dislike of the neighborhood. There were regular visits from the cops telling us to turn it down. But aside from the unwelcome police visits, Guercio made sure there were no distractions: no day jobs for any of us to worry about and no rent or bills to pay. The arrangement allowed every one of us to make our playing a first priority. Being confined to the house on Holly Drive gave the band the freedom to concentrate on writing compelling original material. It was a nonstop jam session where everyone built upon each other’s ideas. We were pushing our art to a new level. The group was tighter than ever and the new originals sounded mind-blowing.

  With all of the material he had already written, Bobby single-handedly carried the band on his back. To his credit, he maintained an open-book approach to songwriting and arranging. Bobby was interested in how the rest of us interpreted his compositions. He trusted us as skilled players to help improve on the music.

  Jimmy continued to write groundbreaking horn arrangements, which were a signature of the band. Walt and Lee were diligently refining their own styles, while Terry was evolving into one of the greatest guitar players of all time. Peter, although he wasn’t being featured, stepped up as a bass player and showcased his incredible vocal ability. He was the unsung hero of the rhythm section. Because Peter sang so well, his playing was often overlooked.

  I was woodshedding and studying with the great jazz drummer Chuck Flores. Relying on influences like Gene Krupa, Buddy Rich, Mitch Mitchell, and Hal Blaine, I worked to stretch the limits of what I considered rock drumming and developed my jazz-rock style.

  Of course, there couldn’t always be a relaxed atmosphere in the house. Egos clashed and arguments broke out. Living with the same people twenty-four hours a day is a surefire way to develop mutual respect. We had to become family because we were practically living on top of each other. Petty squabbles broke out here and there, but if you weren’t getting along with one of the guys at the end of the day, there was always someone else who wasn’t pissed at you. That’s one of the hidden benefits of being in a band of seven musicians.

  It wasn’t long before Guercio made the decision to change the band’s name from the Big Thing to the Chicago Transit Authority in reference to the buses he used to ride to school every day. Thank God. No disrespect to Joe D, but I always hated the name he gave us. We were worlds away from gigging as the Big Thing back in Chicago, so the new moniker felt fresh and appropriate.

  A few weeks after we had arrived in Hollywood, Larry was able to book the band our first legitimate gig—a free show opening up for Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention on Venice Beach. Our friends Black Pearl were also on the bill. The band made the drive in two station wagons as Jack Goudie followed behind with our equipment in a yellow van we called “the Yellow Banana,” and we performed on a gorgeous California beach day in front of sixty thousand strong out by the Venice Pier. The whole event was set up as a “love-in” type of concert and packed with hippies in free-flowing clothing. Everywhere I looked, there were topless women smiling back at me. The strong smell of marijuana cascaded through the air. It looked like a fog had rolled in over the boardwalk, and you didn’t even have to smoke a joint to get high.

  Overall, we got a positive response from the crowd, but you could tell the audience was only biding their time, waiting for the main man to blow onto the scene.

  “Zappa,” I suddenly heard one of the stage crew guys say behind me.

  I turned around and watched in stoned awe as two sparkling white limousines pulled up the Venice boardwalk. There was murmuring throughout the crowd as word of his arrival spread.

  That’s Zappa!

  Hey man, Zappa’s here!

  Look, it’s Zappa!

  Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of him. A hush came over the crowd as the limousine driver walked to the rear door. He opened it slowly and, lo and behold, Frank Zappa stepped out dressed in white from head to toe. His gorgeous groupies, who were called the GTOs (for Girls Together Outrageously), soon joined him. Talk about being the hippest dude around. What a surreal scene!

  Zappa and his band took the stage and absolutely killed. The audience was out of its mind. After the show, I struck up a conversation with Zappa’s drummer, Jimmy Carl Black, and sax player, Motorhead Sherwood. It was hard to believe I was standing there talking with the guys from Zappa’s band. Terry was also particularly thrilled since he was the one who had really turned our band on to Zappa. Aside from the fact that Zappa was also a guitarist, Terry related to the abstract arrangements and experimental playing. In time we all did, and spent hours listening to his groundbreaking record Freak Out! Zappa proved to be one of our biggest influences.

  The dead-end clubs of Chicago felt as if they were a million miles away. I walked around the beach in the bright California sunshine smiling from ear to ear.

  Welcome to Los Angeles.

  7

  Making a Name

  The next gig booked for Chicago Transit Authority (or CTA, as we started calling ourselves) was at a venue called the Factory in Beverly Hills. The club was an exclusive hot spot for the movers and shakers in town and especially popular among the Hollywood elite. We went in with high expectations, but found the gig to be very restricting. The band knew we were in trouble before our first performance when the management of the club urged us to play as quietly as possible. Quietly? Didn’t they see our three-piece horn section walk in? They must have intended CTA to serve as a lounge act to provide background music for the dinner crowd. They didn’t even want us to tune up our instruments in between songs. When we weren’t onstage performing, we were instructed to stand in the corner and keep to ourselves. Although nobody wanted us mingling with the A-list clientele, we still found a way.

  One night after we finished our set, I walked off the stage and found myself face-to-face with none other than legendary comedian Bill Cosby. I had to do a double take to make sure it was
actually him standing in front of me.

  “Hey man,” Bill told me. “I really like your band.”

  I was caught off guard, because up until that point not one of the guests had ever spoken to us in the club. Bill was gracious enough to invite the band over to his table and bought us drinks. We spent time discussing jazz and R&B greats like James Brown, Otis Redding, Gene Krupa, Buddy Rich, and Max Roach. Bill was a true music lover and told me about Uni, the record company he owned. Later, Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner ended up joining us for a drink. Needless to say, I was starstruck by the celebrity activity.

  CTA found it increasingly difficult to tone our sound down night after night at the Factory. We went through the motions for four or five nights until the routine was too much to take. All the guys knew it was only a matter of time before our frustration boiled over. After all, the primary reason our band came out to Hollywood was to get people’s attention. What were we doing playing the part of a lounge band?

  One night, not long before we were about to take the stage, I looked out into the crowd and saw the faces of stars like Johnny Carson, Diana Ross, Doc Severinsen and Dean Martin. Dean Martin, I thought to myself. I reflected back on listening to his albums with my mother when I was just a kid. If only she could see me now.

  “Screw it,” I said to the rest of the guys. “Let’s turn it loose and show these people what we’ve got.”

  It didn’t take much convincing from me. The guys couldn’t wait. We went out and tore through our set with full intensity. The volume of our performance was loud, but we were tight and controlled. At the end of the night, we received a standing ovation from the crowd.

  But our excitement didn’t last. As soon as the band got off the stage, the manager walked up to Walt and told him we were fired. They had no interest in having us return to perform another night. In my mind, it didn’t matter. We had made our point. Nobody in the audience was going to mistake us for another lounge cover band. That was for sure. Showing off our full potential was more important than playing more dates in some pretentious club in Beverly Hills.

  Our next show was opening for the bands Love and the Chambers Brothers at the Earl Warren Showgrounds in Santa Barbara. Fronted by the dynamic singer and guitarist Albert Lee, Love was one of the first racially diverse bands on the psychedelic scene and performed an interesting mix of acid rock and folk. The soul act the Chambers Brothers were promoting their hit single “Time Has Come Today,” which was all over the pop charts. We hoped the show would give us some much-needed exposure.

  When we arrived at the showgrounds, we realized that more than fifty thousand people had shown up. Full of adrenaline, CTA took the stage and blazed through our first number, a new song called “Introduction.” When we finished, there was some scattered applause, but mostly awkward silence. The crowd had no idea what to make of us. Then we exploded into an energetic cover of the Spencer Davis Group’s “I’m a Man” and hurried offstage. Almost immediately, there were rumblings throughout the dressing room area that CTA was “just another horn band from the Midwest.”

  The mixed reaction from the crowd was disheartening, because our newly assembled management team was in the audience. Besides Larry and Jack, Guercio had brought in up-and-coming Beverly Hills talent agent Dan Winer and Jimmy’s personal accountant, a tough businessman named Howard Kaufman, to manage the band’s finances. Maybe we had let them down by laying an egg in front of such a large crowd, but the band had no control over the situation. Some crowds got us and some didn’t. Still, Larry was upbeat and philosophical about the show. He told us to chalk it up as nothing more than an off performance.

  We were making some progress, but landing regular gigs at the Whisky a Go Go on Sunset Boulevard proved to be a crucial turning point. The owners, Elmer Valentine and Mario Maglieri, were Italian ex-cops from Chicago who took our band under their wing. They gave us the incredible opportunity to play one of the prime venues on the Strip. We couldn’t have dreamed for better exposure. A powerful buzz began building throughout the local scene about us. As word spread, CTA started pulling in huge crowds. The lines outside the Whisky snaked around the block.

  Guercio had signed a production deal with CBS that allowed him three opportunities to arrange artist showcases. He wasted no time in booking a CTA show at the Whisky for the A&R people in the West Coast division. Unfortunately, the executives at CBS failed to show up for the gig. When Guercio arranged another showcase, the company brass pulled another disappearing act.

  Someone did manage to make an appearance, though. One night, the band walked backstage after the show to find none other than Jimi Hendrix and his drummer Mitch Mitchell standing in our dressing room. We had been listening to Jimi’s records Are You Experienced?, Axis: Bold As Love, and Electric Ladyland even before we had moved out to California. Jimi had on one of his signature hats, a vibrant crimson frilled shirt, and multicolored pants.

  “You guys are great, man,” he said with that cool voice of his, lighting up a cigarette. “I love you cats.”

  Terry was especially in awe of Jimi’s presence. “I’ve been listening to your records for years,” he told Jimi. “You’re my biggest influence, man.”

  Overall, it was an all-out lovefest between our bands. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but Jimi was exceedingly modest and respectful. After that night, he came back regularly with his entourage to check us out from his private booth at the Whisky. He also began mentioning CTA in every magazine and radio interview he did, urging people to come out to the shows. As if that wasn’t enough, Jimi never forgot to mention what a mind-blowing guitarist he considered Terry to be.

  Our group was picking up momentum and things were beginning to happen. A major shift was taking place, and it would only get better.

  When Larry broke the news that we would be opening up for Janis Joplin and her band Big Brother and the Holding Company at the Fillmore West in San Francisco, we were ecstatic. Janis was one of the biggest stars on the scene, with a larger-than-life reputation as a hard-drinking, tough-talking rock goddess. We were also looking forward to checking out San Francisco, because it had become the center of the counterculture movement in the country. Hippies were everywhere. The city fostered a melting pot of progressive politics, creative expression, psychedelic drugs, and free love. The neighborhood of Haight-Ashbury overflowed with young people who had a new mind-set and were searching for a different way of life. Kids everywhere connected through the new music. CTA couldn’t wait to experience Northern California and become a part of the scene.

  On the evening of the Fillmore West show, the opener was a little-known group called the Santana Blues Band. Not long before they were due to go on, the wild guitarist and frontman, Carlos Santana, came flying backstage in a panic.

  “Danny, Danny, Danny,” I could hear him yelling as he made his way across the room. I had heard of Carlos but we had never met before, so I didn’t know what to think.

  “Hey Danny! Listen man, can you play the blues?” Carlos asked, fighting to catch his breath.

  “I think so,” I told him. “After all, I’m from Chicago.” I was trying to disguise my anxiety with bravado.

  Carlos’s face lit up. “Cool, man! My drummer’s not showing up and I need to find someone to sit in. Can you come out and play the set with us?”

  Minutes later, I was onstage behind a drum kit with Carlos and his group. Luckily, their material was traditional blues-based jams, so there wasn’t much trouble keeping up on the fly. Carlos signaled me for any specific cues in the songs and we ended up pulling off a solid performance. The crowd was locked into the music and never knew the difference.

  At the end of the Santana Blues Band’s forty-five minutes, CTA took the stage and I stayed behind the drum kit for our set. The audience ate it up. As soon as we ended our last song, the crowd erupted. The room was electric.

  Once we exited the stage, Janis and her band kicked into their set. From the start, I was in awe of her enormous stage
presence and vocal range. Up until that point I had only heard her music on the radio. Although the studio material was intriguing, it paled in comparison to the passion Janis brought to her live performance. Her talent knocked me out.

  When her set was over, I began making my way back down the hallway toward the backstage area. Janis and her band rolled up behind me, still pumped from their breathtaking show. Before I had the chance to turn around, a familiar voice growled from over my shoulder.

  “Get the fuck out of the way, man!” Janis yelled. “We need to get to our dressing room!”

  I whipped around to face them and my blood began to boil. It was as if I was right back on the streets of Chicago and ready to throw down with anyone who stepped to me.

  “Fuck you!” I yelled back. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  Janis paused for a beat and returned my glare. It was obvious she wasn’t used to being spoken to that way, but I wasn’t backing down. The look on my face was sending out a pretty clear signal to the guys in her band not to mess with me. I was truly insulted and ready to fight. A couple of them initially tried to appear tough, but thought better of it. After a few tense moments, Janis and her group continued on, disappearing into the shadows at the far end of the hallway.

  “Bitch!” I hissed after her. I stood alone for a few moments still fuming from our exchange, then made my way to CTA’s dressing room in the back of the club.

  There was a knock on the door a few minutes later. Everyone was too preoccupied smoking joints or taking swigs off a wine bottle to notice. The door opened, and to my surprise, Janis entered the room. She tiptoed between and around the bodies splayed all over the floor and made her way to where I was standing. I had mellowed by then, but was ready to go at it for another round if she was. I wasn’t going to let some egomaniac singer disrespect me in front of my band.