Heaven and Hell: My Life in the Eagles (16 page)
Read Heaven and Hell: My Life in the Eagles Online
Authors: Don Felder,Wendy Holden
Tags: #Arts & Photography, #Music, #Musical Genres, #Popular, #Rock, #Biographies & Memoirs, #Arts & Literature, #Composers & Musicians, #Entertainers, #Memoirs, #Humor & Entertainment, #Theory; Composition & Performance, #Pop Culture
BOOK: Heaven and Hell: My Life in the Eagles
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“Pardon me?” I asked. Susan looked at her askance.
“When you walk up the stairs,” Marina explained, “you walk with rhythm.”
She fancied herself as a bit of a mystic and offered to read my tarot cards one afternoon. I agreed, more out of politeness than anything. “It can’t hurt,” I told Susan. “I mean, what can she tell me?”
I went to her apartment as arranged one afternoon and sat down opposite her at a small table. She shuffled the cards and spread them out in front of her.
“Oh my God!” she said, her accent as thick as butter, as her long fingers ran across the cards one by one.
“What?” I asked, concerned, looking helplessly at the table. “What is it?”
“You,” she said, looking up at me, her green eyes huge.
“What about me?” I was getting a little edgy. Maybe I was wrong, maybe there was something terrible she could tell me.
Her face broke into an enormous smile. “You, my darling,” she said, reaching across the table and squeezing my arm excitedly, “are going to be very famous and very, very wealthy.”
“Really?” I asked, wondering if she’d had a little too much Pernod.
“Absolutely,” she nodded firmly. “It’s written in the cards.”
EIGHT
David Geffen seemed to be the common denominator
with many of the new West Coast bands having the most success. Aggressively ambitious, having worked his way up from the mailroom at the William Morris agency, Geffen was reaching for the stars, and whoever was hanging onto his coattails was undoubtedly in for a ride. Bernie knew Geffen was the key, and so he took me along to his cramped second-floor offices in a building at the Beverly Hills end of Sunset Boulevard one day and plugged me as a “hot new guitar player.”
with many of the new West Coast bands having the most success. Aggressively ambitious, having worked his way up from the mailroom at the William Morris agency, Geffen was reaching for the stars, and whoever was hanging onto his coattails was undoubtedly in for a ride. Bernie knew Geffen was the key, and so he took me along to his cramped second-floor offices in a building at the Beverly Hills end of Sunset Boulevard one day and plugged me as a “hot new guitar player.”
I have always been eternally grateful to Bernie for the introduction. L.A. was teeming with people who’d have killed for such an opening. Here I was, the new kid in town, being hooked right up with an incredible power base in the industry. David was not that much older than I, but he was like a light bulb, radiant with energy, ideas, and excitement. Along with his partner, Elliot Roberts, he was a dynamic driving force, creating avenues for the artists who would come to define the Southern California music scene. There was a tremendous buzz around him and his company, with its laid-back approach and talented young stars. David’s office was a hotbed of creativity. He shrewdly took a unique combination of talented artists and combined them with great management skills. I don’t think either one would have survived without the other element—each one propelled them to international level. Whatever he was doing, it was working, and with the Eagles he seemed to be trying to create the quintessential American band. It seemed that everything Geffen touched turned to gold, although I’m sure he crushed a few golden toes along the way.
No one wore a suit and tie. Most of his employees were in jeans with long hair, giving his office an atmosphere that was casual, yet up-to-the-minute. The hierarchy was clear. Elliot Roberts was in charge of the company’s two biggest acts, Joni Mitchell and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, whom he’d personally managed from the start. Geffen ran the day-to-day side of the company and handled a few key players of his own. The man in charge of the new Eagles account—along with clients Dan Fogelberg and wild rocker Joe Walsh—was the management company’s number three, a brash, diminutive twenty-something firecracker named Irving Azoff who’d joined Geffen’s office the previous year.
Bernie introduced me to Irving, who was sitting at a desk in the middle of this large open-plan office, with dozens of telephones around him. He had long curly hair, enormous aviator glasses, and a beard. He was our age, from the Midwest, an obvious go-getter and, on first sight, less than impressive. David Geffen was of slight stature, but Irving was even smaller, around five feet. Bernie used to say “put them together and you get a pair of bookends.”
Besides some of the more recognizable names in Geffen’s stable of talent, there was also a young folk-rock artist named David Blue, who looked and sounded a bit like Bob Dylan. He was a friend of Dylan, and of Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell, and he’d just put out a solo album of original songs,
Nice Baby and the Angel,
on Asylum Records, starring and produced by Graham Nash and featuring Glenn Frey and Jennifer Warnes on backup vocals. The Eagles’ second album,
Desperado,
based loosely on the story of the Dalton Gang—former marshals turned outlaws—had featured a song called “Outlaw Man,” written by David Blue, which they’d released as a single. After that release, Geffen decided to promote David as the “West Coast Bob Dylan” and push him out on a tour of small clubs.
Nice Baby and the Angel,
on Asylum Records, starring and produced by Graham Nash and featuring Glenn Frey and Jennifer Warnes on backup vocals. The Eagles’ second album,
Desperado,
based loosely on the story of the Dalton Gang—former marshals turned outlaws—had featured a song called “Outlaw Man,” written by David Blue, which they’d released as a single. After that release, Geffen decided to promote David as the “West Coast Bob Dylan” and push him out on a tour of small clubs.
“So, Bernie tells me you can play guitar,” Irving said, looking me up and down. I could tell instantly he wasn’t the type to take prisoners. “Well, we’ll see about that. You never know, we might have something for you.”
New Yorker Elliot was far less dynamic, with red brown hair, but I liked him all the more for his common-sense, down-to-earth approach. “David Blue,” he told me, “is looking for someone to go on the road with him. David Lindley played all the string instruments on his album, but he’s on the road with Jackson Browne right now, so there might be an opening. Can you play lap slide and mandolin?”
“Sure,” I lied, hardly daring to look across at Bernie, the mandolin king.
“OK,” Elliot said, scribbling my number on a piece of paper. “I’ll get David to give you a call.”
The phone rang a couple of days later, one evening while Bernie was around having dinner with Susan and me. It was David Blue. “Come over and play for me tomorrow,” he told me. “I’ll give you the address. I’m living at Joni Mitchell’s apartment right now.”
Swallowing hard, I took my courage in both hands. “Mr. Blue?” I said.
“David,” he corrected me.
“Could I possibly postpone the audition until Saturday? Only because I’m working full-time until then.”
There was a pause on the phone and Bernie stared at me in astonishment. I think my old friend thought I was crazy.
“OK,” David said, eventually, “Saturday it is. Three o’clock.”
As I put down the telephone, Bernie said, “What are you doing? Postpone the audition to Saturday? Don’t you know what a great chance this is? Surely you can skip out of work for an hour or two.”
“I’m gonna have to take a lot more time off than that,” I replied, scratching my head. “I’ve only got four days to learn how to play lap slide and mandolin.”
Bernie took me to an amazing store
on Westwood Boulevard called Westwood Music, run by one of the friendliest people I’d ever met in the music business, a man named Fred Walecki. He reminded me a little of a younger version of Buster Lipham. Fred was a wannabe musician, the same age as me, who could hardly play a note, but who inadvertently found himself at the heart of the rock and roll industry. What began as a store that sold rare harps, Stradivarius violins, and orchestral instruments soon became the hub of the West Coast music scene when nineteen-year-old Fred took over from his ailing father in 1966 and gradually phased out the classical instruments in favor of the new sounds of the sixties.
on Westwood Boulevard called Westwood Music, run by one of the friendliest people I’d ever met in the music business, a man named Fred Walecki. He reminded me a little of a younger version of Buster Lipham. Fred was a wannabe musician, the same age as me, who could hardly play a note, but who inadvertently found himself at the heart of the rock and roll industry. What began as a store that sold rare harps, Stradivarius violins, and orchestral instruments soon became the hub of the West Coast music scene when nineteen-year-old Fred took over from his ailing father in 1966 and gradually phased out the classical instruments in favor of the new sounds of the sixties.
He particularly enjoyed helping struggling young musicians like me. It was vicarious enjoyment for him. He’d take personal calls at his home from anyone in desperate need of an instrument or a part and would turn up at rehearsal halls with some “new toys” for his friends to play with. He wasn’t in it for the money; often he’d just lend instruments out, to his own financial detriment. He simply loved music but didn’t have the skills or the dexterity himself. His friends included the Rolling Stones, Stephen Stills, Joni Mitchell, Emmylou Harris, Jackson Browne, David Lindley, and Linda Ronstadt. He lent me a C-quality mandolin and a lap slide guitar for three days, so that I could practice on them and take them along to the audition.
“Go ahead,” he told me, “take them, if you have the chance for a job.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. And good luck,” he added with a grin, as I walked out the door.
“Thanks,” I replied, half to myself, “I’ll need it.”
Geffen-Roberts Management sent me a tape of David Blue’s album, so I could listen to the parts I’d be required to play, and—in a throwback to my Voice of Music days in my parents’ living room—I plucked away at those instruments religiously, note by note, until I had the whole album note perfect. Closing my eyes, I was transported back to the time of Chet Atkins and that annoying “Yankee Doodle”/“Dixieland” number I’d been so determined to learn. Once again, it was Bernie who’d given me the courage to even try.
Joni Mitchell lived in an old Spanish-style building off Highland and Sunset in Hollywood. It was a five-story block structure and her apartment was on the top floor. There was even an elevator straight to her door. Joni was a giant in my eyes—a pioneer in the folk music scene, a poet, and a true star. Sadly, she was on tour and wouldn’t be walking in to say hello.
David Blue was quite a character. He’d been around the New York music scene for quite a while and felt it was his turn for success. Dylan and Joni were doing great, the other Geffen stars were in the ascendant, and now he wanted some of it. He had a considerable chip on his shoulder, but at the same time had commitment, a good sense of humor, and a willingness to lend a hand to a naïve newcomer like me.
I started out by playing some guitar for him, sitting cross-legged on the stripped wood floor of this huge, bright apartment. Then, we went through his album, number by number, and I played the mandolin and lap slide parts that multi-instrumentalist David Lindley had played. Between us, we worked out what I should play live to sound most like the record. There would only be the two of us onstage, so he’d have to decide which instruments he wanted for which parts, as I clearly couldn’t play them simultaneously. At the end of the audition, he shook my hand and said, “Okay, Don, you’re in. Let’s get started right away.”
I nearly collapsed with the shock. Someone actually thought that I had talent after all. Bernie was right all along, great opportunities were waiting for me in California, and now I was going to be on the road with someone who knew real stars in the business. Better still, they were going to pay me. The money on offer seemed like a lottery windfall compared with what I was getting at IBM and the accounting company. I quit both jobs without a second thought.
My first gig with David Blue
was in September 1973 at the opening night of a brand-new club on the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Hammond Street, which was partly owned by Geffen-Roberts. It was called the Roxy Theater, and it featured state-of-the-art acoustics. Neil Young was the main act, halfway through his
Tonight’s the Night
tour with the Santa Monica Flyers, and we were supporting him. David sat up at the front of the stage, playing guitar and singing in that half-speaking flat voice of his, and I sat beside him, playing guitar, mandolin, and slide, and singing harmonies. I was more nervous than I’d ever been in my life, even standing on the stage of the high school talent contest as a shy teenager.
was in September 1973 at the opening night of a brand-new club on the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Hammond Street, which was partly owned by Geffen-Roberts. It was called the Roxy Theater, and it featured state-of-the-art acoustics. Neil Young was the main act, halfway through his
Tonight’s the Night
tour with the Santa Monica Flyers, and we were supporting him. David sat up at the front of the stage, playing guitar and singing in that half-speaking flat voice of his, and I sat beside him, playing guitar, mandolin, and slide, and singing harmonies. I was more nervous than I’d ever been in my life, even standing on the stage of the high school talent contest as a shy teenager.
David deliberately adopted a Western look for his Outlaw Man image, with tailored boot-cut jeans, cowboy boots, a Western belt, a shirt with pockets, and a cowboy hat. He smoked cigarettes all the time, even onstage, blue smoke spiralling permanently from the tip he held between his nicotine-stained fingers. I knew people wouldn’t want to hear him play his original acoustic version of “Outlaw Man,” since the Eagles version was being played so much on the radio, so I plugged him into a Stratocaster and a nasty amp and made him play an electric rendition, with me providing the background guitar and vocals. The combination worked, and we were well received. When Neil Young took the stage after us with his band, David and I sat in the wings and were completely blown away. That guy had such an incredible voice and such a laid-back approach to playing music, he was a pleasure to listen to.
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