Word spread quickly of Janis Joplin's departure from Big Brother & the Holding Company
among the musicians in Greenwich Village. I can't say the announcement created
the same impact as the Beatles' imminent break-up or Bob Dylan converting to
electric. Nevertheless, it did reverberate along Bleecker and McDougall streets,
attracting further attention among working musicians and less between street
buskers. I, for one, reacted swiftly to the rumour. Janis was assembling a
rhythm & blues band, much like those high-flying Memphis bands: somewhere
between Sam and Dave and Otis Redding. A sound originated in
Soulsville USA Studios in Memphis, Tennessee, and reproduced on vinyl by
Stax/Volt records.
It's 1968, and I stroll into a record store on 8th Avenue,
one I frequented for its diversity and rarities, then scan the cover jacket of Cheap Thrills, Joplin's most recent
recording. I searched along the back-side of the sleeve, looking for
information concerning Joplin's management team. A clerk nearby offers to
assist - points to a recording by the Electric
Flag, he says shared the same management. It turned out to be Albert
Grossman, noted for his successful campaigns on behalf of and among others: Bob Dylan, Paul Butterfield, and Peter, Paul
and Mary. I dialled Grossman's
office and parleyed with associates Vinnie Fusco and Elliot Mazer, who was intimately
involved in Joplin's affairs. An audition arranged at A-1 Studios, the original
home of Atlantic Records. Before the hook-up, I'm summoned for an informal
meeting with Albert Grossman. I await outside Grossman's office, clutch the
sole documented recording of my piano/organ playing, a B-side instrumental
single released by California soul unit, Kent & The Candidates, "Whatcha
Trying to Do." The song an ode to pianist Ramsey Lewis of "In-Crowd"
fame - a mix of country blues and gospel piano.
On entry to Grossman's office, I catch a glimpse of the man surrounded
by towering stacks of papers; positioned around him like a walled fortress. In a
soft-whisper, Grossman speaks and waves me forward. I listen to his take on
Joplin's radical new plan. I also observe how much he resembled founding father,
Ben Franklin, with flowing white locks of hair tied into a ponytail and small,
wire-framed glasses. Grossman could have been one of the original signatories
on the Declaration of Independence. I
can't remember much of that conversation, but it landed me a plum gig - double
duty as Joplin's keyboardist and music director for a new band about to be assembled,
The Kozmic Blues Band.
The first audition was little more than a formality meant to assess the
compatibility of the players. The second audition involved recording the
soulful number, "Piece of My Heart," at the Hit Factory with our trio
- a final mix sent to Janis for approval. We kept close to the original version
by Irma Franklin. Drummer Roy Markowitz and I landed the gig, with bassist Stu
Woods going on to work as a sideman, recording with Bob Dylan, Don McLean, the
Pozo Seco Singers, Tony Orlando & Dawn, Janice Ian and others. In many ways,
his career fared better.
After agreeing on wages, management arranged a flight to San Francisco
for Roy and me and no accommodations other than a few nights at a studio
apartment courtesy, Janis's road manager's mother in North Beach. That was cool
with me. I'd pretty much lived out of a suitcase the past couple of years. We
soon connect with bassist Brad Campbell of the Toronto based Last Words, the only Canadian in the
group, at our temporary digs. Rolling
Stone magazine had announced the hiring of both Brad and drummer Skip
Prokop from Lighthouse, but the
latter player never materialized. Just as well. The three of us had spent our
young lives in the shadows beyond the glare of spotlights, and this was indeed
Janis's show.
The following day, Janis invites the three of us to her Noe Street
apartment for a 'get-to-know-you' session. After dragging our bodies up San
Francisco's impossible steep terrain, we arrive at Joplin's front door, where
we are greeted by a snarling dog. Joplin's live-in mate and ex-wife of blues
singer Nick Gravenites collects the dog, then directs us to a small sitting
room; resplendent in Salvation Army home furnishings. Joplin enters laughing
and joking from a side hallway with the force of a Texas "dust devil."
Joplin was the perfect host, serving up shots of Southern Comfort whiskey and
reefer sticks. I passed on the refreshments. Janis pauses, smiles - then comments,
"Who did Albert send me, "Jesus Christ?" Assuring her I wasn't
one of those 'Bible-thumping' southerners sent to recuse her from a host of
demons, Janis laughs and quickly gets comfortable with me. She then invites
Brad, Roy and I back for dinner later that evening, saying: "I've got a
few friends I want you to meet."
The party was already brewing when we arrived. The soulful voice of Carla Thomas blared in the background
over the conversation between a few "denim-clad" men. Janis charges
in from the dining room and steers us toward something that resembles a large
stalagmite ripped from a cave. On closer inspection, it becomes apparent the
item was a polished sculpture of a snow-white penis, a gift from a local
Haight-Ashbury artist. The coveted centrepiece remained the focal point of
conversation throughout the evening.
More guests arrive. With each rap
at the door, another group of tattooed 'denim-jockeys' enter each grimier than
the last. We looked like choirboys at a prison picnic compared to this. Janis
journeyed from lap to lap, kissing and hugging each scraggy guy. The room now
overflowing with crazies, Janis introduces her new hand-picked band. The men in
denim? The Oakland Chapter of the Hell's Angels. I was out of my element when the drugs
started flowing, and music intensified and booze splashing about. The biker's
party escalated at a different temperature than most musicians 'get-togethers,'
and through Janis's actions and excitement, we recognized debauchery was about
to reach an unforeseen level. The three of us politely excuse ourselves -
informed Janis, and told her we'd meet again at rehearsal.
Rehearsals were put on standby as we awaited
the arrival of the two horn players who'd just completed service in the Electric Flag.
Brad, Roy and I killed time scouring the pool halls of North Beach playing
snooker long past midnight. We listened to jazz, traded road stories
accompanied by crippling laughter as we relived Janis' dinner-less, dinner
party. We also speculated about the future. Roy and I never took rock music
seriously. Miles and Coltrane were the most talked-about players in our sphere.
Joplin was merely a quirky individualist with a wide following. For the two of
us, it was a better gig than lounging about Grossinger's in the Catskills.
Rehearsals began early December 1968 at the old Fillmore Auditorium. A
floor below us, Carlos Santana was rehearsing his band through final
preparations for his Columbia recording debut: Santana. A level below him, It's
A Beautiful Day, was putting
the finishing touches on material for their first recording under the same
title. We shared a great rapport with Carlos and the company. During breaks,
each band would filter in, listen to one another restructure tunes. Santana was
miles ahead of our newly assembled unit. The group was well-rehearsed, loved
playing and did it with precision and commitment. We, on the other hand, had
had barely enough time to acquaint ourselves with unfinished and untried
material before pressing ahead.
Day one of rehearsals, band members stroll in just past noon and take
their places. As a leader, my job was to bring order to the proceedings and a
buffer between band and Janis, a role I'd played many times before, but never
on such a grand scale. Eventually, Janis slips in, introduces herself -trades
hugs with the horn players before inching my way. Joplin then slides next to me
along the organ bench and introduces a modest list of tunes. The message? Janis
is hoping to bridge the raw elements of her persona with that of classic soul
and rhythm & blues. The marriage arranged in her head had yet to be
consummated by the band. First up, Gershwin's "Summertime," her
signature wail. Guitarist Sam Andrews played fugue-like intro riff Joplin had
grown accustomed to hearing. I then write a counterpoint line meant to
embellish. It soon becomes apparent the organ doesn't sonically cut the same as
an amplified guitar, causing Janis to rethink the intro. When the full band
enters, Joplin all but forgets the odd colouring. I knew it would take some
adjustment with her ears accustomed to Big
Brother & the Holding Company's version.
During the rehearsal, I craft horn lines for the Bee Gee's "To Love
Somebody," which Joplin quickly transforms into a blues ballad - ripe with
guttural cries and evangelical testifying. The song was chosen for its show
potential and emotional temperature: great words, good mood and soulful melody.
I then convince Janis to give a listen to the old Eddie Floyd soul hit, "Raise
Your Hand." It was a crack staple from my days with Kent & The
Candidates. The song had the same fat groove found in Wilson Pickett's "Midnight
Hour" and "Mustang Sally," with a memorable, gospel-style shout
chorus. Joplin listens, smiles, then asks me to script an arrangement. Then the
great implosion. "Ball and Chain," another squealing testimonial. Too
jazzy? Overdone?
Rehearsals began to lose their lustre the following week. Gone were the
rock celebrities and energized sessions. Trumpeter Marcus Doubleday starts
showing up late. Doubleday found a heroin connection, which eventually took
precedent over-scheduled rehearsals. Janis was getting agitated, spending more
time in pool halls and nightspots than rehearsing. She was also drinking
heavily. You could see the welts swell
beneath her deep-set eyes. Joplin was also plagued by acne - nearly every pore
of her face scarred. I was beginning to
dread the daily sessions with her.
Around December 18, guitarist Mike Bloomfield noted for his
ground-breaking work with the Blues
Project, Paul Butterfield and others, unexpectedly appear. Bloomfield's
turf was Greenwich Village, which led me to question his presence here. Janis
arrives, introduces Bloomfield, then asks us to jam a few tunes with him. Before
Janis's arrival, we'd already made the Bloomfield connection with a shuttle
blues that lasted twenty-something minutes. Roy recorded the jam. She then
instructs us to play, "Piece of My Heart." Bloomfield plugs the holes
with stinging blues lines and extended chords as we stay relatively close to
the original. Once the test was complete, Janis confers in private with
Bloomfield, emerges and delivers the verdict: "Mike likes the band."
Our momentary reprieve lasted until drummer Levon Helm of The Band fame arrives, and Janis
instructs us to play once again. Levon listens, then awards the band a second
vote of confidence. I could sense uncertainty in Janis's body language. This
radical change and Janis' call, exposing her vulnerability. Gone was the
certainty and comfort of Big Brother's blaring amps, plodding rhythms and close
relationships. It made me recall a conversation I'd had with producer John
Simon, who once confided that it had cost him six months of edit time just to
give Cheap Thrills a consistent flow.
Steady tempos were foreign to that band.
Nighttime was Janis' time to
roar. Brad and I piled into the back seat of her "psychedelic embellished"
Porsche and cruised the seedier pool halls around the Bay Area. Joplin knew
every oddball and misfit on the circuit and treated each the same as her band
members. To Janis, if you were a friend, you remained a friend. We'd drop-in
Country Billiards and the staff would bristle with excitement. Brad and I
played snooker regularly, of which I was never able to overcome his skill.
Janis wanted the same competitive game with her in the mix. "Don't let me
win – make me win on my own will," she would insist. We never backed off.
One occasion, I accompanied her
to the Kaleidoscope Club to hear Texas native, the Johnny Winters band; shortly after, she'd extorted a
fur coat from Southern Comfort - payback for her campaign and preference for
and in behalf of the beverage. Janis had caught up with her fellow Port Arthur,
Texas native Winter, the night before. Throughout the evening, the luxury fur served
as a seat cushion and an impromptu floor duster, never a treasured garment.
Afterwards, Joplin drags me backstage to greet the musicians before departing.
Late evening, we surface at the Fillmore to catch the Small Faces, when after, Joplin again
pulls me backstage, this time to meet Rod Stewart and Ron Wood, who were performing. Joplin used her quick wit and undeniable charm to break through the
indifference of the reticent British imports. She tried to seduce with laughter
and genuine warmth with little success. It was an uneasy meet and greeted, one
she walked away commenting: "What a bunch of 'tight-asses' these British
bands are."
After receiving an invite to play at the second annual Stax/Volt
Yuletide Thing at the Memphis Mid-South Coliseum with stars: Isaac Hayes, Rufus
and Carla Thomas, Johnny Taylor, the Bar-Kays, Booker T and the MGs and Eddie
Floyd; productive rehearsals soon became imperative. Janis was eager to
introduce her new band in an area rich in folk and blues history. After landing
and during the Sunday drive from the airport, Janis requests the limousine
driver to make an unusual turn and chart a path towards Jackson, Mississippi,
where supposedly a bottle of liquor could be purchased on a Sunday. Janis was
in severe need of a drink. The mission became more confusing as urgency in her voice
increased. A few terse words between driver and Joplin nearly escalates into a full-on
confrontation. The escort didn't see driving out of the way for alcohol on the
Lord's day of rest, part of the gig. A compromise was struck to let the band
off at the hotel, and Janis enlists a driver willing to continue the search for
libations. More lousy karma was in store. We are booked into the Lorraine
Motel, where only months before Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was gunned down.
Even creepier, we were booked in adjacent rooms on the same landing. The
thought gave me chills. It wasn't until I mentioned at the soundcheck we were
staying at the Lorraine someone reminded me of his historical significance.
Little fanfare greeted our arrival, leaving Janis free to pursue her
vices. As we strolled back to our rooms, Mike Bloomfield walks past toting a
garbage bag full of pot. Roy stops and asks him for a joint. Bloomfield throws
Roy a look of contempt and says, "I don't have enough." A startled
Roy looks back at me – busts a devious grin, and the two of us howl with
laughter. Then off to rehearsal – Soulsville, USA.
From the street, it looked like a broken-down cinema. The marquee
lettering was cracked and shattered, most likely by kids with rocks in hand.
Nothing about the exterior spoke to its recent glorious history.
We set-up in
the main studio with enough gear to run through an abbreviated set. As I roam room to room, there was ample evidence of those grand soul recordings. Down one hall
and rehearsing, Booker T & the MG's.
This was a rush. I saw the drum set most prominent on those Sam & Dave recordings. The big
deep military-style snare and what looked to be a bass drum the size carried
about in marching bands.
Further down the hall – the Bar-Keys laying down some smacking
funk. I no sooner take a seat at the grand piano when singer/songwriter Isaac Hayes squeezes in next to me
and smiles. I play a couple of blues chords, and he answers with a riff or two
and smiles. I have no recollection after that of the rehearsal. This was all I
wanted to remember.
The Stax/Volt concert takes place. I look across the spacious auditorium
packed with a good portion of the black populous of Memphis. This was a hometown,
and the hometown heroes were about to take the stage. Enter the Staples Singers. Moments in I detect
a flaw in the sound system - intermittent crackling and voices cutting in and
out. The system was borrowed from a local church - suitable for a room of 250
parishioners but not the sonic quality to carry the sound of a high-energy
Bar-Kays, front to the back of the stadium. The system was atrocious. Locals
didn't sit idly by and refrain from expressing their displeasure. They stood
and yelled – "fix the sound; I didn't pay all of this money for this."
We were wedged near the middle of the concert, between Memphis's most
excellent blues guitarist Albert King
and Carla Thomas. I remember standing nearby and watching King's organist. My
main concern was the organ and a reason for that, once on stage, I noticed the
organ had been unplugged and needed to be rolled back into position and
switched on again. My next concern, the plastic rod leading to one of my
preferred draw-bar settings kept popping up, and the manual would go silent. "Tape,
please!"
We played three or four number the
finale an original I wrote and recorded by Herb Abramson at A1 Sound in
Manhattan, "Hurtin' World." Janis learned from an acetate I cherished - recorded
by singer Charlotte Stokes with
Bernard Purdy and J.J. Johnson. Janis loved it. - a slow, 6/8 feel and 'churchified.'
The performance, with all of Joplin's antics and mad passion, passes
with little response. I write it off as retaliation for the shit sound system.
Surely, we didn't sound that bad. I would learn there was more in play here.
Janis's face was pasted all over
Memphis. She took prominence over all the local heroes and found her image
blown up larger than that of Pops
Staples and Carla Thomas
and the others. She was truly embarrassed. One end of Memphis, to the other,
her image penetrated the retail landscape. After the concert, a distraught
Janis asked around and was told folks were pissed. She was devastated. She then
found out the insensitive act was crafted and insistence of her management.
Joplin's spirit was renewed later that evening at a party hosted by Stax/Volt
President Jimmy Stewart.
Stewart's sprawling ranch-style house, situated among lush tree-lined
surroundings were the social epicentre for invitation-only guests from both the
black and white communities. Behind these doors, people could mingle without
prejudice. The greats - the Memphis singers and musicians, were present.
Stewart had rigged various rooms with monster-sized Voice of the Theater speakers.
Throughout the night, Stewart played
unreleased tapes of Otis Redding, who had perished two years earlier, along
with four of the original Bar-Kays, in a plane crash on December 10, 1967.
Rivers of tears were shed. As much as it was an occasion to celebrate, it was
nearing Christmas Eve, one in which everyone understood only the ghost of the
great singer would be able to attend. Otis' music played and played, making the
night a sombre and tender occasion. I
walked about shaking hands and putting faces to album covers.
Janis calls for the band. We gather at a long table in an adjacent room
with Stax president Jimmy Stewart at the helm. I recognize bassist Donald "Duck"
Dunn, guitarist Steve Cropper, Booker T, and beyond that - the night goes dim.
Janis introduces each member of the band by name except me – I'm Jesus to her. "Can
you believe, I hired Jesus Christ?" she says with great warmth and humour.
The place erupts.
The following morning, this band meets for a final get together. It was indeed
one of the saddest moments of my entire life. After returning from the gig, we
heard Janis and Marcus Doubleday had shot up heroin and passed out atop each
other were found the next morning in the same position. Several days prior, Janis briefly stopped
over in Dallas to meet a young band she had recently befriended and presented a
gift box of twelve syringes. She remarked that she and Doubleday fought over
the distribution of the prize. The thought sickened me. I decided I was out of
here!
My new bride Kristine and I would catch up with Janis in 1970, backstage
at the Festival Express in Toronto
when I was with the opening band, Homestead,
booked the same day. The first person I recognize from the Kozmic Blues Band is Brad Campbell,
the bassist, now a member of Janis's new band, then the road manager who
eventually escorts Janis over.
Janis was all laughter and hugs---totally
optimistic. She told us of a new boyfriend and spoke passionately about
detoxing from drugs and only sipping a bit of wine. She appeared happier than I ever
believed possible. Janis loved her new group, the Full Tilt Boogie Band and seemed to have a bit more control over
where she wanted to go with her career. The blues, folk, rock and soul music
concealed in her heart had found a genuine medium for expression. Full Tilt Boogie was the perfect
conduit.
Janis Joplin died later that year, at age 27. The time I spent with her
covered a month of a life barely lived, yet so much transpired during that
eventful period. Her open-hearted kindness, as well as her naked insecurities,
linger in my mind. Above all, I'll remember and cherish the sincerity and joy
she brought to the music she loved.
