Street Player

by Danny Seraphine

  Bad idea.

  Halfway through our trip, Bobby’s wife, Karen, and Terry’s wife, Pam, were at each other’s throats. Everything came to a head while we waited in the airport terminal in Stockholm, Sweden, for a departing flight. One of them called the other a “tramp” and chaos ensued. Before long, Bobby and Terry also jumped into the fray and started going at each other.

  “Fuck you, then,” Terry shouted at one point. “I quit!”

  “No way. I’m quitting!” Bobby yelled back.

  Larry and Jack attempted to step in and play the role of peacekeepers, but Larry also quickly became unraveled. “You guys are a bunch of goddamned kindergarten schoolchildren!” he yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I’m through taking any more of your bullshit. I’m out of here!”

  The band was imploding in front of my eyes. We had reached the point of total exhaustion, and I was next in line to lose it. I took off running through the airport and found Jimmy Pankow at a newsstand.

  “Jesus, man,” I told him in a panic. “These women are ruining our band! You have to do something quick. Everything is falling apart!” I ripped off the camera hanging around my neck and slammed it against the wall.

  Jimmy skillfully calmed me down and sorted everything out. Once we managed to get on our flight, everyone got some much-needed sleep and the ordeal was finally over.

  The fatigue of the road overcame us that day. Touring was difficult enough; adding wives and girlfriends to the equation was a recipe for disaster. We were a band of brothers out on the road. We could tell each other to go to hell once in a while. But you couldn’t just tell someone’s wife to fuck off if she got on your nerves. It was a different dynamic altogether. From that moment on, we had an unspoken rule that we wouldn’t bring our wives out for an entire tour. A few dates here and there were never a problem, but any more than that was too much. None of us ever wanted to see a repeat performance of what went down in Stockholm.

  After its release, Chicago V climbed the pop charts with the help of Bobby’s song “Dialogue (Part I & II)” and the smash single “Saturday in the Park,” and went on to become our group’s first No. 1 album. I was particularly proud of the drum part in “Saturday in the Park”. It was a tribute to Rascals drummer Dino Danelli, whom I listened to when I was younger.

  There was no doubt the hit single was an important commercial benchmark for us, but one of the absolute highlights in Chicago’s career came later that year. Our management was contacted by famed producer Quincy Jones and invited to play at a CBS television tribute in Los Angeles to jazz great Duke Ellington, called Duke Ellington . . . We Love You Madly. When I found out we would be sharing the stage with legends like Count Basie, Sarah Vaughan, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and Peggy Lee, I was thrilled. They were artists I looked up to immensely.

  Quincy took some heat from jazz purists who didn’t agree with Chicago’s spot in the lineup, but he didn’t let anything interfere with his decision. He was a big fan of our band. Being a skilled musician and composer himself, he had a tremendous respect for Jimmy’s horn arrangements. Above all, Quincy understood that having Chicago on the bill would open the tribute up to a larger white television audience. At the same time, our band would get some much-needed exposure to a wider black audience. It was a win-win for everybody.

  At rehearsal, I wandered around starstruck. The room was a who’s who of jazz greats and Hollywood stars. It wasn’t easy fitting in among so many accomplished entertainers. Not only was Chicago musically different from the rest of the big band talent on the bill, but our image was also in stark contrast. We walked around in our full ’70s hippie garb. Some artists might have felt out of place, but I was too young to let it affect me. I was just a twenty-four-year-old kid who was happy to be there.

  After Chicago tore through our version of Ellington’s “Jump for Joy,” I made my way down an aisle in front of the stage to my seat. A moment passed before I realized Count Basie was in the seat next to me. It was the ideal opportunity to make conversation.

  “I really love your song ‘Satin Doll,’” Ifinally piped up. It was true. The tune had been a mainstay in the Big Thing’s set list back in our early club days.

  “No, man,” he answered, shaking his head. “That’s the Duke’s. He wrote that number.”

  Talk about putting your foot in your mouth.

  “But thanks anyway,” the Count added with a smile.

  Count Basie was gracious about my mistake, but I still couldn’t have been more embarrassed. Looks like I should have done my homework, I thought to myself. I got up from my seat and slinked down the aisle, feeling almost like I was crawling away. Overall, though, it was just a hiccup in an otherwise mind-blowing experience. All the acts on the bill embraced our band and welcomed Chicago’s contribution to the tribute. We had connected with an audience that might have otherwise remained closed off to our music. The end result didn’t surprise me, because we were incredibly ambitious and persistent. If an audience didn’t gravitate toward our music, we brought it directly to their doorstep. Chicago wasn’t going to be overlooked.

  We traveled nonstop and toured across the country and overseas. We lived show to show and recording session to recording session. It was a constant routine: limos, airports, baggage claims, shows, hotels, and repeat. The days blurred into weeks, then faded into months. Aside from occasional visits home to California to spend time with Rose and the girls, my life seemed like one long, never-ending tour. Each morning I woke up in the same nondescript hotel room in a host of different cities. The repetition of the road lifestyle kept me locked into a semi-dream state. I was rarely home for those few years, and when I was it was for maybe a week or so at a time. Our band did not know when to stop.

  The road took its toll on my family life most of all. I was a caring father to my two little girls, Krissy and Danielle, but that side of me was in direct conflict with the side that was cheating while out on tour. There was more than enough free time out on the road. When it came down to it, I was obligated to be onstage for maybe a few hours a day. Being so far away from family and friends, some guys did drugs to pass the time and some drank. I chose to chase women. The guilt over my infidelity was a weight I carried around at all times. Instead of confronting the awkwardness and taking steps to repair my relationship with Rose, I pushed her further away and shut her out. I acted increasingly cold to her, but felt powerless over the situation. Temptation lurked around every corner. Although the constant touring was a necessity for the promotion of the band, I left part of my soul out on the road. And I had nobody to blame but myself.

  I thought back to the road trip Walt and I took out to California and remembered the dreams and expectations I had for our band. I desperately hoped we would be able to achieve some level of success. Well, only a few years later Chicago was everywhere and I was spread thinner than ever.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  10

  Caribou Ranch

  The band decided to record our sixth album in Colorado, where Jimmy Guercio had finished construction on a full recording studio at his Caribou Ranch high up in the Rocky Mountains. The property sat on over three thousand acres of land and had a main house with a series of guest cabins and a state-of-the-art recording studio in a converted back barn. It was one of the first “destination studios” of its kind and it let the band take a different approach to writing and recording.

  Chicago owed our sensational success to Guercio’s financial backing. He was the guy who made everything happen. Together with the top-notch management team of Howard and Larry, he had done remarkable things for the band—performed miracles even. But seeing firsthand the wealth Guercio had amassed up in the middle of the Colorado mountains didn’t sit well. I couldn’t stop thinking about how my family and I were living in a place that was basically the size of the living room of the main house at Caribou Ranch. What’s wrong with this picture?

  The experience of recording in Colorado was radically
different from working at an established studio in New York or Los Angeles. Those facilities were expensive and restrictive. When the band booked studio space, we were there for a certain amount of time at a set hourly rate. As soon as we walked into the building, the meter started running. Up at Caribou Ranch, there were no scheduling conflicts. There was no other band booked behind us waiting to come in. Chicago had total freedom to work for as long as we wanted at our own pace, and being so far removed from the hustle and bustle of New York or Los Angeles, the band stayed focused and concentrated on writing and recording.

  The converted back barn had three massive floors: the first was a tech room, the second was the main recording studio, and the third floor was a lounge area with a bar and a pool table. Guercio had spared no expense in developing the property. He knew what he was doing.

  For our new record, I brought in a brilliant Brazilian percussionist named Laudir de Oliveira to add dimension to the signature Chicago sound. We had previously jammed together while he was a part of Sergio Mendes’s group and immediately hit it off. Our styles fit together perfectly, creating a layered and full sound that reinforced the strong Latin influence that had been building in our music. The rest of the band welcomed Laudir, so it made for a smooth transition.

  Guercio was way ahead of his time as a music producer. Back in those days, it took forever to get a good sound quality and levels, but Jimmy had a great ear for getting full-bodied drum sounds and creating a signature horn sound. He knew what he wanted but also allowed us the freedom to follow our instincts. He often rolled tape during our practice sessions when he felt our playing was more relaxed and fluid, a smart choice because we never knew when that magical first take was going to occur. When it did, he wanted to be sure we captured it. Some of the rehearsal recordings, like the tracks for “Searchin’ So Long” and “Just You ’N’ Me,” were so good that we could never top them. In the end, with mistakes and all, they were solid enough to be included on the album.

  During the sessions at the Ranch, Dick Clark Productions came up to film for a CBS television special called Chicago in the Rockies. They joined us in the studio and recorded footage of the band hashing out the arrangements for songs such as “Feelin’ Stronger Every Day” and “What’s This World Coming To?” Also visiting the ranch was another group from Chicago that Guercio had been producing called Madura, formerly known as Bangor Flying Circus. They also lived up on the ranch recording an album, so we hung out in between sessions. Their drummer, Ross Salomone, and guitarist, Al DeCarlo, were from my neighborhood back home. The band’s songwriter and keyboardist was a guy named David “Hawk” Wolinski. Hawk buzzed around like he was always on speed and was pretty avant-garde, but we ended up hitting it off.

  It was an ideal atmosphere, but being up at Caribou was also a double-edged sword. The isolation cultivated many existing bad habits we had picked up over time. With our wives and children back in California, there were no rules. Chicago fell into a routine of recording in the afternoon and evening, then partying late into the night. The band broke up the boredom by flying in Playboy bunnies from Los Angeles and getting whatever drugs we wanted. Drug dealers, whom I considered to be hangers-on, frequented the ranch more than I would have liked. There was plenty of cocaine to go around and its use had become a regular activity. I hated the drug because it turned people ugly. Their personalities changed and they became selfish, irritable, and paranoid. It also had a negative effect on people’s work. Guys became sloppy about rehearsing. Because of my awful experience with coke back in New York City, I would excuse myself from the party and retreat back to my cabin. Typically, I was the lightweight of the group and couldn’t make it past midnight or one in the morning. I enjoyed the occasional joint or few cocktails, but I couldn’t function under the influence all the time. It wasn’t in my nature. Besides, women were my drug of choice. When I wasn’t flying a girl in for the weekend, I focused my attention on one of the Caribou Ranch maids. Over time, my ego inflated to the point where I didn’t even attempt to hide my cheating anymore. My habit was proving to be as destructive as any drug.

  That said, Terry’s hard partying disturbed me most of all. There was a side of him that was never at ease with the high level of success we had achieved. The whole idea of fame confused him on many levels, and he had trouble finding his comfort zone. As a result, he turned to substances and routinely stumbled around the ranch in a daze on pills and booze. To make matters worse, he had picked up a new hobby: guns. He took to wearing his pistols in holsters at his hips and fired at aluminum cans out in the field. I wasn’t a big fan of firearms and tried to convince Terry to leave them in his cabin when he was high, but he didn’t always want to listen. However, Terry never let his partying affect his playing. His unbelievable tolerance for substances was a blessing as well as a curse—in fact, much more of a curse. Unless he was completely out there, it was hard for any of the band to tell if he was using. Although he was able to perform at a high level on coke, it still took its toll on his body and mind. He was beginning to physically break down.

  The band and our management went to great lengths to keep our partying under wraps. Chicago was never identified with the outrageous sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyles of bands like Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones. We were widely known as the “Mercedes of Rock,” as one newspaper referred to us, and wanted to maintain our squeaky-clean image. We did most of our partying behind closed doors or out in the middle of nowhere at Caribou Ranch. None of us wanted anything to disrupt the hugely successful machine we had created together.

  As many members of the band drifted off into drugs and excess, I became kind of a designated driver in our group and the captain of what had become a ship of fools. I had always been the most vocal member, so it was only natural to eventually step into a leadership role. It wasn’t a position I exactly pursued, but I had no problem assuming it. Anybody who wanted to contact the band with a business matter knew to approach me first. I had a type A personality and admittedly had always been a natural control freak. Not many of the guys were interested in the business side of things anyway. They understood that I was on the prowl and left me to network my way though the industry. Whenever I had an idea for the band, I lobbied the rest of the guys like a politician to make sure I could count on their vote. Peter was typically the first member I consulted because he was the toughest nut to crack. It was wise to keep him in the know about all upcoming business issues first, then continue on to the rest of the guys.

  My position in the band might have been more stable than ever, but my personal life was a different story. After being away for long stretches of time, I struggled to find a comfort level around Rose and my girls. Whenever I went back home to Los Angeles, I was overcome by the same sense of guilt. Typically it took a few days for my anxiety to subside before I was able to settle back into home life. One evening, Rose and I went out to the theater to see a new movie called A Touch of Class, starring George Segal and Glenda Jackson. At one point in the film, one of the characters said, “I’ve been married for ten years and I’ve never cheated on my wife in the same town.” Without thinking, I guffawed in the theater. Luckily, I regained my composure before Rose shot me a look. I always figured I was fooling her, but now I got the feeling she saw right through me. As I have learned over time, women have a sixth sense about detecting cheating . . . or should I say a sick sense. But it seemed as long as we didn’t talk about it, it wasn’t happening.

  A month before Chicago VI was to be released, the band went back out on the road for a twelve-date tour and hired an up-and-coming musician named Bruce Springsteen as our opening act. Bruce had released his debut album, Greetings from Asbury Park N.J., to critical acclaim and we had heard great things about his live performances. Unfortunately, our audience did not respond well to Bruce’s music. It was difficult to watch him go out onstage night after night and get almost no crowd reaction in the packed venues. The audience seemed to be biding their time waiting for
him to finish his forty-minute set so Chicago could take the stage. Bruce misfired with our audiences, and I’m sure he found the twelve-show tour to be a very frustrating experience. But, of course, the tour didn’t have a lasting effect on his career. The next time I saw him perform, he was a completely new force onstage. He had become the Boss.

  When Chicago VI came out at the beginning of the summer of 1973, it proved to be yet another success. The album went gold in under a month and then platinum. Overall, it stayed at No. 1 on the Billboard pop charts for five weeks and the singles “Just You ’N’ Me” and “Feelin’ Stronger Every Day” made it into the Top 10.

  The band swapped our old prop plane with Captain Bob at the helm for a more luxurious private jet called a Falcon. Our new pilots were Vietnam veterans who were almost as crazy as our band, and the party raged on. To pass the travel time, we had the pilots do parabolic turns at high rates of speed and negative Gs, where they flew the jet straight up and then dove straight down. The result was around ten seconds of complete weightlessness in the passenger cabin, during which we all yelled and screamed. It was a little difficult to keep ahold of your cocktail. Talk about a wild party ten thousand feet up!

  Out on tour, Peter and I tended to keep similar hours and regularly got up to play tennis together in the morning. Bobby also joined us every so often. We tried to maintain this routine whenever we were out on the road to stay in shape. Typically, I found myself hanging out with Peter and Bobby during the day. Later in the evenings after shows, I’d switch gears and head out to the clubs with Walt and Jimmy Pankow. Terry and Lee joined us once in a while, but not often. They were mostly off doing their own thing.