Chapter 28- Dark Horses

THERE WAS THIS French gentleman, Daniel, who had a luxury apartment in West Hollywood and a pretty French wife. He was interested in producing a piece of music written in a stream of consciousness mode by Stephen and Blair. I don't know if they were trying to branch out on their own to see what they could come up with musically or if they were intentionally trying to block me from the project, but it hurt me, nonetheless. It was a reminder of growing up in a home with two other siblings. Sometimes they would gang up against me, not maliciously, but still trying to gain an advantage or an upper hand. Maybe I was just being a bit paranoid thinking I was losing my grasp as a band member. Anyway, Stephen and Blair had written this quasi-classical instrumental piece they had dubbed The May Symphony. They had recorded the piece on a cheap cassette player and then went into fly-by-night recording studio to have the track transferred to an acetate. An acetate was a temporary vinyl record that would only be good for ten or twenty plays and then it would be rendered useless. After Daniel heard the music in all its scratchy glory, he decided to financially back the two of them. As Blair recalls, “Daniel had set up appointments for us to find an apartment and was willing to pay our rent. In the lobby of an apartment building on, or just off Sunset in West Hollywood, Stephen was reading a comic book left out on a table in the foyer.” This was the same kind of behavior I was familiar with, and it reminded me of his antics at the Rainbow the night I was introduced to John Lennon.

When Blair had urged Stephen to put down the comic book and try to take things seriously, after all they were on thin ice with Daniel as it was, he continued reading. I'm sure it was a long day and nerves were being tested but Daniel had reached his limit and told Stephen to forget the whole thing and walked out. I guess it was more important for Stephen to maintain his rock star image by not conforming to the pleas of the business establishment instead of realizing that he hadn't earned it. Daniel was gone and Stephen was still in the high back chair reading his little book thinking he was acting in a movie. This was no movie, which infuriated Blair who finally left the building and went back to Rainbow to drown his sorrows with a few shots of Jack Daniel's along with a pack Marlboro red, as he used to say, “Roll to the Bow and smoke a bro.”

This would be a behavior that Stephen would develop and intensify over the years that put me off and was driving a nail in the coffin of the band. I know we all supplied our own nails that were intruding into the resting place, the crumbling tomb known as Silverspoon, and I was no exception to that rule. Yes we were talented, and had gobs of potential but had not, in my opinion and in the opinion of others, earned the right to behave like that. We were not God's gift to the universe and by no means were we the saviors of the world, the same world that brought The Beatles in to fruition. What was once funny was becoming old quickly and I had glimpses of future catastrophes on the horizon. This is about the time when his OCD (obsessive compulsion disorder) kicked in. Even though his immediate surroundings became increasingly unkempt, and his fingernails were always dirtier than mine, he started using isopropyl alcohol wiping everything before and after he encountered it. He was turning into a poor man’s Howard Hughes. Doorknobs, coffee cups, guitars, you name it, he was wiping it off. I really didn't mind that so much because the smell reminded me of vodka and made me thirsty for a screwdriver or a vodka and tonic. At this point in my life alcohol wasn't as big a problem as it would prove to be later, but that’s another story which I will get to later. Yes, I was hurt and offended that because I was still on the edge of the cliff, Stephen and Blair were hanging on a limb by their fingernails and the former had just about let go of the branch.

This was the first time I had seriously considered going solo, but I needed help. Being the type of person that hated to blow his own horn, I needed a promoter. Unfortunately, one must be in the right place for people to hear the songs. That's where I thought BJ would come in handy. Whenever I got frustrated with the Spoon, and I felt like I was near the end of my rope, I would escape to Malibu beach.

BJ was house sitting for Denny Cordell’s beach house. He was one of the founders of Shelter Records. He had met Denny through his association with Evelyn, the other girl from Doheny Towers we met with Pam Norman and the adventures with the infamous Red Cake. Anyway, Evelyn ended up marrying Denny a few years later and BJ was still on their good side. This was just after the summer of 75, I remember this because the movie, Jaws had just come out, and after seeing it, I was scared to go into the ocean. BJ and I would just sit there roasting on the sand with our funky acoustics in our hands afraid to go in the water thinking that a shark might be lurking there. I kept hearing those low throbbing notes, da-da-dum-dum-da-da-dum-dum reverberating in my skull and I had visions of a great white invading the shores of Malibu. How stupid was that?

Around this time BJ was rehearsing his band at the A&M studios lot at La Brea near Sunset and I was asked to play guitar. There being a lull in the Spoon activities, I could participate without any problems or guilt that would be dumped on me by my mates. BJ had borrowed the PA system from Billy Joel, and I was playing my newly acquired Gibson J-200 which I had traded for my Martin D-18 and $600 at West LA Music. As I said before, BJ was a positive thinker, maybe a bit delusional, but he was positive I could get that guitar. I didn't have more than forty dollars in my bank account when I asked BJ how in the world I can write a check for six hundred bucks. He told me not to worry because he would cover the check the next day when money would arrive from Philadelphia. I felt horrible and when the phone calls started coming in, first from the bank and second from the music store. I knew it was going to be awkward. BJ kept assuring me the money would be there soon, but time had run out. I had to crawl back to the sanctity and security of mom and dad with my tail between my legs and tell them the truth about my dilemma, but first I would receive a lecture from Johnny on honesty and integrity that lasted more than two hours. I sat there and took it all. I deserved every caustic tone and grumble in his stern scoldings. I was devastated and felt taken advantage of, but I didn't want to incriminate BJ who I still felt a twisted loyalty. I genuinely believed that he believed the money was going to come in but, as so often happens, Murphy's law kicks in and things get delayed for no apparent reason. I should have known better, I see that now, but I wanted that blonde guitar with the with the white poppies etched into that black pickguard. As fate would have it, I ended up selling the guitar after the airport baggage handlers didn't handle it so well on an ill-fated trip to Detroit in 1985. The headstock snapped off after being flung into the belly of the aircraft or some other mishap. Although Art Valdez did an exemplary job fixing it, I sold it on eBay for $1800 in 1999.

Back at A&M sound stage, I was sitting on a stool next to my cousin, Bobby Graff, who had come down from Detroit to visit his Uncle Johnny and Aunt Helyn, not to mention his cousin's Susan, Jimmy, and Robbie. After living in LA for some time a person can get a little jaded with fame and celebrity. Movie stars and rock stars seemed to line the streets of Hollywood and could be seen at exclusive restaurants and venues. You never know when one might appear, even at the cleaners or the grocery store. While I was playing my guitar on that stool I noticed that Bobby's jaw had dropped, and his eyes were like saucers. He leaned over to me and whispered in my ear that Quincy Jones was sitting in a chair not more than three feet away watching me play. I was amazed. I wasn't playing anything spectacular, or so I thought, and couldn't believe that such a master of music was interested in my playing. I was proud that Bobby got to witness that scene and would report back to the folks in Detroit that his cousin Jimmy was on his way to the big-time.

          The A&M lot was now home to Dark Horse Records owned and operated by the ex-Beatle, George Harrison. A few days earlier, Stephen and Blair had seen him in the courtyard below from their vantage point on the second floor. They were hanging around having meeting with people like Alan McDougal, an English fellow of high regard, who with Terry Doran were friends with Mal Evans. One day while BJ was in the rehearsal room I went searching the lot to see if George might be around. What would I say to him if I saw him anyway? I looked in the offices at Dark Horse and saw posters of him and the band he was working with called Splinter, but not George. In my mind I had fantasized about bumping into him but alas it became another dream of mine that was never fulfilled.