It's been 25 years since I've smoked a bowl of hashish, and
none more exquisite than shared in January of 1971 with Little Richard, the
Bronze Liberace. At that time, I was the keyboardist and vocalist for
Homestead, a Toronto act that caught the attention of Guess Who producer Jack
Richardson in 1970.
Homestead concerts were testimonials against the Vietnam War
and the degradation of the environment. I wore more Canadian flags than seen
springtime on Parliament Hill. Jack
understood my position and my opposition to the war. He rolled with the
situation, doing all he could to calm me --although I made the task nearly
impossible.
We’re booked to do a 7:30 pm set at Queen’s University,
opening for Little Richard on a stage outfitted with humongous Traynor
speakers. Back then, the size of a mid-size car, with sound quality
when fully exercised akin to blowing wax paper through a comb.
We’re playing the opening set, at first received as if
sentenced to public embalming. Then I gave my “save the planet” pitch, and
things began to warm up. Round one: we scored.
Downstairs in the dressing area, Little Richard has yet to
show, owing to a bomb scare somewhere over Cleveland. Richard refuses a
chartered flight to London, Ontario, apparently fearing the plane would crash.
11 pm, he arrives by car, half an hour after the second set scheduled.
I'm killing time with a quarter ounce of Lebanese hashish.
Suddenly, Little Richard's band arrives and catches the action.
“Hey, bro,' what's smoking," says a member
of the horn section.
“Hashish,” I reply.
“Les’ has some.”
Smooth talkers? I cut
a couple of grams loose, and the horn guys disappear into the men’s room - unloosen
a toilet roll, untangle foil from a cigarette pack, punch a few holes--et voila
- big high.
I'm chatting with the promoter when Little Richard walks up
and demands his pay. The promoter turns and instructs Richards to play first. Nearby,
Richard’s bodyguard looks on taps at his shoulder-holster under his suit jacket
as if to say, “listen up.”
“Pay me, motherfucker or I don't play," says Richard.
“Pay me, motherfucker or I don't play," says Richard.
The promoter pauses. “This isn’t good; I have to go up to
the box office and count the money. I hope they’ll agree to do this."
“Get moving," urges Richard.
I'm sitting, staring at this rock & roll icon, baked in
heavy pancake makeup, not knowing what to expect. In a huff, Richards starts
lecturing about “taking care of business.” Then the first trumpet player
returns hovers above, and says to me -, "Give me more of that good
shit." I couldn’t believe the audacity of this snake. Richard jumps
into the conversation, "What shit?”
“The hippie got some bad hashish," says viper man.
Richards looks at me. “Is that so, I ain't never smoked
hashish - is it any good?"
I look at him, thinking: fuck me, it’s Little Richard!
"Yeah, man, this is Lebanese. It's
got a nice froth on it," I say.
“Light me some, hippie guy - I need to get high." I do
just that, and LR gets his love on. "This shit is outrageous," he
says, wearing a big broad smile. The next 30 minutes, we continue bowl lighting.
"What's your
name? It's Bill! Your band? Homestead, huh? Tell you what Bill - I like you,
man. Paul McCartney is playing on my next album and me on his - then I'm
playing on yours." I'm young - cynical and don't give a shit. Little Richard is
in the house and playing me for my remaining gram.
The promoter returns, Richard collects half-pay, hits the
stage, and rocks the room. Next to Little Richard, I felt like a curio
figurine, a miniature entertainer – him - long, bold history, and I'm a
witness.
The amplified sound was horrible, but who gave a damn.
Richard's foot hits the floor like a sledgehammer - he sings in ungodly tones:
first “Lucille,” then “Blueberry Hill,”
“Bebop A Lula,” “Good Golly Miss Molly,” “Midnight Special,” “Tutti
Frutti” and on and on. Three years earlier, I'd rocked with Chuck Berry, but in
no way did it compare to this jam.
Half time! We're back
in the waiting room.
"Hey B, got anymore of that killing shit,” Richard's
inquires.
“Sure do.”
“Then, light me a bowl." That I do, as his band quickly
shows up sounding a chorus of “give us more." Are you kidding? I'm with the man, and I ain't blowing the
remains on a greedy horn section.
Richard seats himself next to the paymaster, who says,
“Sorry, Mr. Richard. We have to wait until closing time to pay you.”
Get my money, or the night is over,” says Richard.
The dude reaches over and touches Little Richard.
“Get your fucking fingers off me, queer boy,” says Richard, alerting the bodyguard who moves in clutching a hidden gun.
“Get your fucking fingers off me, queer boy,” says Richard, alerting the bodyguard who moves in clutching a hidden gun.
Richard nods, says to the paymaster, “You get the message?
Get my money.” Bronze Liberace looks over at me and says, “Fill the bowl,
Bill---looks like a long night. You say that shit is Hebanese?” Eventually, the promoter pays, and Richard rips through a
second show.
Afterwards, we're on our way home and stop at one of those
unfriendly late-night diners. I walk in with my partner Kristine, and the
catcalls start. “Hippie, dick sucker, fuck face...” Suddenly a tall, lanky
black man in full pimp stride strolls towards the men's room. It’s Little
Richard’s enforcer. All talk ceases.
Catcalls cease as all eyes follow. Minutes
pass, and the guy reappears. You can see the gun protrude under his short
jacket. He taps, swings around, gives us one of those stares that freezes the
fearful, then exits.
The last words I heard that evening were: "Fuck me, who
the hell was that?” I look at Kristine and say, “Shaft!”
Looking out for Little Richard and other black musicians of
the time was a full-time job. If you wanted to get paid, you had to have
someone with a cold, cold look, an intimidating bulge under the vest and
willingness to use it.