Heaven and Hell: My Life in the Eagles (20 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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The first band meeting we ever had with me as a member, shortly after the record had been cut, took place in Irving Azoff’s office. “His Shortness has summoned us,” Bernie told me. “We’d better not be late.” I wandered in, bemused by and more than a little fearful of the idea of a regular meeting at which all could air their grievances. I stood silently at the back, waiting for the fuse to be lit.
Irving explained that we’d set up a corporation called Eagles Limited, and would each own a fifth of it. All monies from touring, merchandising, and recording royalties would come direct to Eagles Ltd. and be divided equally.
We looked at each other for a moment, and there were a few murmurs of discontent. Bernie, as usual the most vocal, was the first to speak.
“When I came into this band, it was meant to be a four-way split, and now that Don’s arrived, the profits from this new album are gonna get split five ways. I don’t think that’s fair, when he only arrived at the last minute and didn’t put in the hard time like the rest of us.”
I agreed with him entirely, but was surprised and a little hurt that it was my old Gainesville friend who’d first raised the subject.
“There are no sidemen in this band,” Glenn said firmly, with his gruff voice. “We’ve all been there and we know what that’s like.” I was pleased and relieved to hear it.
There were some general murmurs of discontent, and Irving made a suggestion. “Well, I think the way we can work this out is if Don only gets paid a fifth of the profits on the cuts he played on and a fifth of all other profits from here on. How does that sound?”
“Seems fair to me,” I piped up, knowing what hell they’d all gone through in England with Glyn Johns and each other before I’d joined. The last thing I wanted at this stage was to rock the already unsteady boat still further. We all agreed to that arrangement and moved on to other business. Everything was done on a handshake and a promise. The common understanding was that the band, as a legal entity, was a joint, mutually owned, equally shared venture designed to make us more efficient in the industry. We appointed Glenn president and Don secretary. Later, at a lawyer’s office, we all signed the piece of paper making Eagles Ltd. a reality.
I listened to the subsequent fine-tuning of the deal and marveled at Irving’s mastery of all matters fiscal. I’d never been in a band at this level before, and I didn’t yet have a business manager. Irving recommended a guy named Gerry Breslauer. In the past, the only official document I’d had was a gig contract drawn up for me by a Gainesville attorney in return for guitar lessons. It would specify which dates, how many hours we’d play, and for how much. I’d sign it and the organizer would sign it, so if there was a dispute, we had a written agreement to refer back to. I used that contract until I signed with Creed Taylor when I was in Flow, a document I never even properly examined.
It was the same with the Eagles. I can remember sitting in the office of the attorney Irving hired to draft the contracts for Eagles Ltd., and he kept watching me as everything was being explained. “I can see the wheels turning, son,” he said. “You’ve got some questions, haven’t you?”
I didn’t even know what to ask, never mind being sophisticated enough to negotiate for myself. I think I inquired as to what publishing was and if he could explain record royalties, but I’m not sure I really understood his answers. I had no legal representation other than that which Irving had arranged, and I just had to trust that he and Irving were looking after my interests fairly. I was a musician, not a businessman, and I had no reason to doubt them. I couldn’t have afforded a lawyer, even if I’d realized I needed one. I could have called my brother Jerry and asked his advice, but I didn’t think it was necessary.
Come what may, Eagles Ltd. was born. I was an equal partner with Bernie, Randy, Don, and Glenn in a chart-topping band. There had been surprisingly little disagreement during the process, and the new album went on to be a big hit, so I kept my fingers crossed and hoped for the best.
However unstable the band was, I was suddenly a major player in one of America’s up-and-coming rock bands. It had taken some pain to get here, but the hard times were finally over, for a while, anyway. Best of all, they were over just as my first child was expected. Once again, my prayers had been answered.
Susan and I bought our first little house
together with the money we made in those early days. We found a small three-story property set on two acres in a remote part of Topanga Canyon, on a road called Everding Motorway, with spectacular views of the ocean. Marvin Gaye had rented it before we paid the princely sum of seventy thousand dollars, and it was ours.
together with the money we made in those early days. We found a small three-story property set on two acres in a remote part of Topanga Canyon, on a road called Everding Motorway, with spectacular views of the ocean. Marvin Gaye had rented it before we paid the princely sum of seventy thousand dollars, and it was ours.
We soon realized what a huge mistake we’d made. It was a hopeless house for a child, with its open-plan design and ladders to the loft, set on a steep hill at the end of a dirt road on top of a mountain, but we were new to this parenting thing. We’d fallen in love with the view and not realized that we were buying a place designed for a single guy, not a family. Its only plus was its location. I never tired of the view or watching the fog roll in from the ocean and creep up the valley beneath us and stop, so that we were above the clouds.
I’d hoped to be around to help in the final stages of Susan’s pregnancy, but the
On the Border
tour began and, with it, the madness. The idea was that we’d start off in the States and follow with a world tour, but the album was selling so well that the pace quickly accelerated. Almost daily, we experienced an enervating and dizzying succession of airports, hotels, screaming crowds, and limousines speeding away from backstage doors behind the flashing blue lights of police escorts. With connecting flights, layovers, and long journeys by car, entire days were consumed by traveling. Irving and his team of managers suddenly accounted for every minute of our time. No one had any privacy. We hurtled from city to city at a breakneck clip. We’d arrive in town, sometimes by car, sometimes by plane, check into the hotel, hold some press interviews, do the sound check, perform the show, watch the others argue with each other or party with groupies all night, then fly on to the next town.
On the Border
tour began and, with it, the madness. The idea was that we’d start off in the States and follow with a world tour, but the album was selling so well that the pace quickly accelerated. Almost daily, we experienced an enervating and dizzying succession of airports, hotels, screaming crowds, and limousines speeding away from backstage doors behind the flashing blue lights of police escorts. With connecting flights, layovers, and long journeys by car, entire days were consumed by traveling. Irving and his team of managers suddenly accounted for every minute of our time. No one had any privacy. We hurtled from city to city at a breakneck clip. We’d arrive in town, sometimes by car, sometimes by plane, check into the hotel, hold some press interviews, do the sound check, perform the show, watch the others argue with each other or party with groupies all night, then fly on to the next town.
The backstage life was wild. Willing young women surrounded us constantly, virtually begging us to bed them. I quickly discovered there were large groups of bored young women in almost every town whose biggest kick was to sleep with a rock star. They even chalked them up, like plane spotters, bragging about how many they’d slept with and who. I kept urging myself to resist temptation. Like some of the other band members, I took full advantage of the uniquely carefree atmosphere with the weed and the blow yet did my best to ignore the girls, but the more the opportunity presented itself, the more normal it seemed. It was such an extreme, high-octane situation, and the girls were less than one-night stands to those who partook. There was something horribly clinical about it—fucking a groupie while stoned and then throwing her out. Every night, I’d go back to my hotel room alone, and whenever I could, I’d reach for the telephone and call Susan.
“Hey, honey, how you doing?”
“We’re fine,” she’d say, sleepily. “The baby’s been kicking a lot today. I think he’s going to be a quarterback.”
“I wish I could be there to feel it.”
“Me too.”
Hanging around us a lot at that time was a quirky teenage boy named Cameron Crowe, working on assignment for
Rolling Stone
. He looked about thirteen but was probably older, and he seemed to be watching our every move, which was more than a little unnerving. He was a young kid in frumpy clothes, very shy and nervous, and he was witnessing all that was going on with the drugs, women, and booze. I wasn’t the only one who was spooked by his presence. He was like a little doorstop, always in the corner, a weird-looking kind of gnome, nice but strange.
Rolling Stone
. He looked about thirteen but was probably older, and he seemed to be watching our every move, which was more than a little unnerving. He was a young kid in frumpy clothes, very shy and nervous, and he was witnessing all that was going on with the drugs, women, and booze. I wasn’t the only one who was spooked by his presence. He was like a little doorstop, always in the corner, a weird-looking kind of gnome, nice but strange.
To his credit, he kept right up with us—although he did have youth on his side, while we had the Peruvian marching powder, youth in a bottle. Nobody had to wet-nurse him; he was very self-sufficient and self-aware. Most of the time he seemed harmless, like some innocent kid on a high school project following us around. He didn’t seem like some big shot reporter, and none of us could understand why they’d sent a child and not a real writer, although Don and Glenn did keep a close eye on him. It was kind of interesting to see him witnessing all this stuff for the first time, watching him watching us.
If ever any of us stopped to talk to him, he’d whip out his notepad and scribble down every word furiously, as if he was afraid he’d forget what we’d said and didn’t want to lose a single gem. “You don’t have to take it down verbatim, kid,” I’d tell him, placing my hand over his notebook. “We’re just chatting, right?”
“Sure,” he’d say, swallowing and looking up at me with those baby eyes. “Whatever you say.” I got the distinct impression that the minute my back was turned, he’d jot down every word anyway.
We never knew what might show up in print, and he made it difficult for us to completely relax when he was around, but he was a nice enough kid, and I knew if
Rolling Stone
had hired him so young, he was probably going to go far. He did, and years later he made the brilliant movie
Almost Famous,
based I believe, partially on our crazy life, but mostly on his experiences on the road with Led Zeppelin and my old friends the Allman Brothers.
Rolling Stone
had hired him so young, he was probably going to go far. He did, and years later he made the brilliant movie
Almost Famous,
based I believe, partially on our crazy life, but mostly on his experiences on the road with Led Zeppelin and my old friends the Allman Brothers.
One day blurred into the other,
but the barnstorming did the trick. We were a huge success. More and more T-shirts, tickets, and albums sold. The touring went on and on. If a radio station played even one of our songs, Irving rushed us into that region as well. Soon, our opening acts, Dan Fogelberg and Jimmy Buffett—both Irving’s clients—couldn’t even finish their set without being drowned out to cries of, “We want the Eagles! We want the Eagles!”
but the barnstorming did the trick. We were a huge success. More and more T-shirts, tickets, and albums sold. The touring went on and on. If a radio station played even one of our songs, Irving rushed us into that region as well. Soon, our opening acts, Dan Fogelberg and Jimmy Buffett—both Irving’s clients—couldn’t even finish their set without being drowned out to cries of, “We want the Eagles! We want the Eagles!”
We were thrilled to see the crowd accepting our new sound, some of which I was responsible for. To make the band a little tougher, I replaced its softer textures with much harder sounds. The first thing I did was to suggest that “Take It Easy” become a three-electric-guitar song with Bernie playing all the B-string bender stuff, me playing a Strat or something stronger, and Glenn also playing electric. The song was just too puny otherwise, and the larger venues we were now playing really didn’t have good acoustic pickups. In those days, it was hard to stand onstage strumming an acoustic guitar and expect to fill a two- or three-thousand-seat auditorium.
Now, whenever I’d step into the spotlight to play my solos, even in the middle of a show, the cheers were overpowering. I realized with a mixture of humility and awe that the applause was in recognition of me and my guitar playing, not just the band. Life never felt as good as it did then.
It was surprising that we received so much airplay. Part of our success came from the openness of the AM band. Radio was truly diverse in the seventies. A station would play a rock track, then a country track, then something else. You didn’t have to change the dial if you wanted to hear a certain kind of sound. We knew we had a good shot at getting on the radio with the original Eagles sound, but we also knew the best-selling hit songs were all rock-oriented, which was why everyone but Bernie wanted to head in this direction.
Despite the pressure and the ever-present threat of an argument simmering away somewhere in the background, we did have a lot of fun together on that tour. There are no words to describe the feeling of having made it to the big time and knowing that thousands of fans are waiting out there to listen to your music. Every night, just before we’d go onstage, we’d gather together for a voice rehearsal in the locker room of what was usually a sports arena. We chose the locker room for its privacy and the natural echo it provided. Huddling together, we’d open our mouths in unison and practice several ooohs and aaaahs from specific songs, like “Take It Easy.” Once we’d opened our throats and warmed up, we’d all sing “Seven Bridges Road,” a Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young-style a cappella song written by Steve Young. No matter what the mood between band members or how bad things were, we always had that private rehearsal together, and then when we went out onto the stage, the lights would come up and we’d be standing there at a single microphone to open the show with that same melodic, lilting song. It blew people away. It was always a vocally unifying moment, all five voices coming together in harmony.
I’d get goose bumps every night.
Cocaine abuse continued to be rife.
In those years, nearly everyone was doing it, from members of the band to the crew to the record executives. People would wander around asking, “Hey, you holding? You got any?” At various times, they’d disappear off into the men’s room and come back with white powder rings around their nostrils, a sure indication of what they’d been up to.
In those years, nearly everyone was doing it, from members of the band to the crew to the record executives. People would wander around asking, “Hey, you holding? You got any?” At various times, they’d disappear off into the men’s room and come back with white powder rings around their nostrils, a sure indication of what they’d been up to.
“Hey, buddy, you’re showing,” one of us would say, pointing to the other’s nose. A quick wipe on the back of the hand would solve the problem.
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