Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt.5

There are some people you just know are going to be great to interview.

They have a reputation for outlandish quotes, or good give-and-take, or are just flat-out interesting.

Frank Zappa was one of those people.

Zappa went through bouts of not talking to anybody, then talking to everybody. He was having a problem with Warner Brothers, his record label. In fact, he was pissed off because to fulfill a contract, they issued a series of three albums in rapid fire. Frank was, apparently, taking too long to fill the contract so the label did what most labels used to do -- take outtakes, live stuff and create an album out of it.

So, I get a phone call from his publicist.

"Frank's mad at the label and he wants to talk about it," I was told.

OK, a little tension in the creative world was not that unique, but, well, it was Frank Zappa, so we set a day and time.

"Where?" I asked.

"His house up near Mulhulland, on Woodrow Wilson Drive," I was told, with an exact address given.

Turns out I didn't need an exact address. The Zappa abode was easily identifiable. It was the only purple house on the block. No, really purple. Bright purple. The kind of purple that hurts your eyes. But, nobody really seemed to care. A bunch of rock stars and record company bigshots lived in the neighborhood at the time and, well, it was Frank Zappa after all.

I pull into the driveway, knock on the door and he answers. He was a tall, lanky guy with an impish grin and the wildest eyes I think I have ever seen. He spoke slowly in a deep voice that resonated and welcomed me to his home. There was no manager or publicist present to oversee the interview, just Zappa hanging out at home.

I walked into the house and realized that, for the most part, there was no house. The living room was jammed with state-of-the-art video equipment where Zappa was experimenting with claymation figures. On one wall was a piece of art, Zappa called it, consisting of the hood of an old automobile, the guitar Jimi Hendrix played at Woodstock and some other odd ornamentation. In a side room was a table with one of those old 45 rpm record players on top. It was like one I remember from when I was a kid. You could put a stack of 45s on the thing and listen for about five or six songs through a cheap little eight-inch speaker. On the floor were stacks and stacks and stacks of old 45 records from the '50s and very early '60s.

"Captain Beefheart comes over and we listen to those all the time," Zappa told me.

"Cool," I thought.

Then the room was filled with the shrill of banshees. Well, actually two kids -- Dweezil and Moon Unit. Dweezil came running through the door screaming.

"Frank! Frank! Frank! Stop her! She's going to kill me!" the boy -- he was just a little kid then -- said, running for his father.

In hot pursuit was his sister Moon, a pair of heavy drumsticks in her hand.

"He called me a fuckin' bitch, Frank!" she said.

"Dweezil, why did you call your sister a fucking bitch?" Frank asked calmly.

"Because she is!" the kid said, diving behind his father to avoid the beating he was sure would come from his sister.

About then, Zappa's wife Gail walked in with a tray, glasses and pitcher of lemonade.

"Care for a drink?" she asked, the epitome of calm, cool and serene despite the noise surrounding her.

She poured us a couple glasses, hustled the kids off and, suddenly, it was quiet.

Zappa explained his beef with the record label.

"Tell people not to buy my albums," he said. "I will be releasing better versions of them on my own soon and I'd rather have the money."

I asked Zappa about the business end of music and he fumed about label executives who had no clue about what music was really about, promotion teams that were always looking for money on the backside to ensure airplay and touring, which is what he seemed to like the best. He was a player, not a business guy. He liked the studio, but loved the stage. At least that was my impression.

Then he dropped a line on me that went on to become one of his most quoted ever. I'm really not sure if he said it to me first, but it was outside my world of knowledge at that point and in those days, there was no Internet to search to see how fresh it might actually be.

"Rock journalism is people who can't write doing interviews with people who can't think in order to prepare stories for people who can't read," he said.

Hmmm.

"You're a rock star, we're talking and I don't think I've asked you anything stupid," I countered.

"I am not a rock star," Zappa insisted. "If I was, I wouldn't be talking to you. I'd be in my room putting funny powders in my nose."

I had never been a huge fan of Zappa's music. Although I did have a healthy respect for what he was doing, it just wasn't my cup of tea. But, he was gaining quite a following among some of the more avant garde members of the classical music establishment. Zubin Mehta, who conducted the L.A. Philharmonic Orchestra, had been called upon to conduct the score to Zappa's hilarious film "200 Motels," with Flo and Eddie, Keith Moon and other lunatics who travelled in the Zappa universe at that time.

Mehta was doing a good job of talking Zappa up among his peers and the classical world -- at least a segment of it -- was interested in this guy who wrote songs with very innovative chord changes and time signatures.

And, they liked him because radio didn't play much of his stuff, either.

The real weirdness actually came after the interview.

I had recently bought a new tape recorder to help with my notes when I did interviews. Being old school, I also used a notebook as well, just because it was how I had done it for years and I never really trusted tape machines, even though I had used this one for a couple of other interviews.

We sit down to do the interview in adjoining chairs with the tape recorder between us. I tested the levels, everything seemed cool. Well, it's a good thing that I took notes because when I got back to the office to transcribe them, the only voice on the tape player was mine. I would ask Zappa a question and there would be this long, muffled gap until I asked another.

I know he didn't fiddle with the controls because his hand never went near them. Maybe he was speaking softly, but I was able to hear him.

Still haven't figured how that one went down, but it was the perfect ending to my interview with the legendary Frank Zappa.

Looking at the U.S. from a thousand miles away

The United States is an interesting place from a thousand miles away.

Since arriving here at Land's End at the southernmost tip of Baja California six weeks ago, the view north has changed considerably.

Having just come from the news business, I spent a fair chunk of each day combing resources, looking for different angles and perspectives about what was going on in our world.

"Our world" has a whole new meaning to me since moving here.

If you live in the United States the "our world" concept pretty much begins and ends at the U.S. border. People in the U.S. are suspicious of the Canadians because they are so liberal and dislike the Mexicans because they believe they are trying to over-run the country. These decades-old mindsets have created a mentality of "what's good for the United States is good for the world." Put a little distance in there, experience life in a different culture and see how quickly your perspective shifts from the tired old cliches to a new reality, a larger world view.

Now, the U.S. is, without doubt, the power hitter in the lineup. It has military might and despite some economically disasterous decisions the last decade, still wields some financial clout. Not as much as the Chinese, but enough to still sit at the big stakes table. There are freedoms in the U.S. that are not enjoyed everywhere and, well, it's a pretty groovy existence, right?

In some respects, yes. The standard of living is greater than in many other nations. There are more freedoms, but there is also less tolerance of others, less willingness to embrace individuality. Just because the United States was once considered the world's melting pot doesn't mean it really was. All it means is that all of the different cultures, traditions and styles have been boiled away to a tepid broth. When compared with the rest of the world, the United States is a bologna sandwich on white bread with mayo. I mean can you really tell much difference between most cities and towns in the U.S.? They all have an Olive Garden, McDonald's, mega-mall and cineplex theaters. There is really nothing indiginous to any particular region any more and except for the various accents, little to differentiate the people. There is a real identity crisis, which is why foreigners are viewed with so much suspicion.

Move away or visit some place where the little towns and villages are independent of each other, the people have different regional traditions, historic districts are treasured instead of razed and rebuilt into shiny concrete and glass fortresses. But, they think on a grander scale, even if they are living in a village where their great-great-grandparents were born and raised.

I remember the first time I referenced "Americans" in a conversation down here. The person I was speaking with was very, very polite, but I could detect a bit of body language that made me, immediately, stop and rewind the tape in my head to reconsider what I had just said.

Ahhh...there it was! I used the word "Americans" as if the only "Americans" in the world were from the United States. It was a lesson quickly learned.

People from the United States tend to be a bit myopic. They don't see far beyond their borders and, now that I am in a place where I have more access to international news and rely more on the Internet than other sources for my information, I can understand why. They have been spoonfed so much they have become shallow thinkers, which explains why there is no real independent political movement in this country. The Left hates the Right; the Right hates the Left; and they both hate anybody who comes up with an original thought. That's why even with all of the First Amendment freedoms in place, there is a sense, when watching, reading or listening to news from the United States, that there is a lot of propagandizing going on.

The story angles I see taken by the international media are broader and have deeper context than what is reported in the United States. That's not something totally new to me, just something that is more apparent as I seperate myself more from the traditional sources so many people rely on for their fix of current events. I find more of my questions answered on the foreign broadcasts where more time is spent on the story than in chasing a few hollow soundbites; where there is less sensationalism, fewer histrionics (think Olbermann or O'Reilly).

Don't believe me?

Tune in to CNN International. Check out the BBC news broadcasts. You will get a much different story than what the homespun media pitches your way.

We were here only a short time when the Navy SEALS took down bin Laden. Most U.S. reports had to do with celebrations in the streets; revenge for the terror attacks; snapshots of gleeful, happy people. Few, save for the Washington Post, New York Times and L.A. Times, ventured beyond all that with pieces on what this could really mean in worldly terms. While homegrown media gave you timelines, photos, and offered television the excuse to rerun the sickening videos of the Twin Towers under attack, there were questions asked elsewhere that remain unanswered. Some wanted to know if this meant the United States would soon remove its troops from Afghanistan. Others asked if the nation ever came up with a legitimate answer for invading Iraq in the aftermath of the terror attacks while some had the audacity to ask the White House and military why its stories about how the deal went down seemed to change every few hours.

Sitting in a foreign country, I can't help but be embarrassed at how some U.S. political figures are perceived. Although I have not had many political discussions down here, I gather that George W. Bush was thought of as a moron, people think Barack Obama is untrustworthy and the voters are pretty dopey for electing so many Congressional leaders who are, as we said during the '60s, are so "plastic" (think Mitt Romney).

U.S. politics is pretthy well looked upon as a freak show, so how do I explain Sarah Palin riding in on the back of a Harley and crashing a biker run to raise funds for the Missing in Action families other than to use it as an illustration of why bikers call the second seat "riding bitch."

And, without the many buffers I used to go through each day, it becomes increasingly clear to me that the Huffington Post thinks Jon Huntsman, Jr. has a legitimate shot at the GOP presidential nomination. Why? Because they have been butchering him on the website, launching a smear campaign against him with pieces that are not terribly well balanced or credible and are filled with pejorative, inflammatory prose. On the other side, it becomes increasingly clear that The Drudge Report thinks Newt Gingrich is the Savior, here to deliver the United States from all evil. The only thing they agree on? Both believe Barack Obama is the anti-Christ.

There's a lot of anger in the stateside reporting and a lot of closed minds doing the reporting, nearly every one with an agenda in their hip pocket. I'm not talking columnists and bloggers here, I'm talking reporters.

This is a very big world we live in and, like it or not, the United states is part of a global community it simply does not dominate any longer, no matter how many second-rate dictators it bumps off or has deposed.

The world no longer needs a big brother. There are no world wars to fight, only guerilla insurgencies that we have no concept of dealing with and we don't make a damned thing except for some automobiles and trucks people don't seem to like that much any more.

It's a different world, a different time. but it takes a different mindset to understand that.

Why Rapture business was big business

I really don't care much about what your religious beliefs are.
They are yours, and probably not mine, but know what? As long as you don't advocate molesting some little girl in the guise of "spiritual marriage," crash an airplane into a building because of some radical fundamentalism or are deeply rooted in some of that spiritual nonsense about a woman's place in marriage or society, I don't care what brand of spirituality you embrace.
That's why watching this whole business about Harold Camping and his prediction about the Rapture was so interesting.
I don't know about you, but I have a number of fairly literate Facebook friends who kept asking me why "the media" was "wasting" so much time on Camping and his followers.
It is a legitimate question, one I can only answer with a couple of questions of my own, like did you try to maneuver the Internet Friday or Saturday? Did you go to youtube for any reason? Did you see how many of your FB friends were posting messages, songs, and all kinds of other stuff about Camping and his prediction? Personally, I wish there was a way for Michael Stipe and REM to get a royalty for each time "It's The End of the World as We Know It" was posted on FB over the weekend. I guarantee it would have set up their great-great-great-great-grandkids for eternity. Or, at least until the real Rapture takes place, whichever comes first.
And, reputable media -- Associated Press, Reuters, The Los Angeles Times, NPR and most others -- were posting stories as well.
Why?
Because the media has become so market driven.
Having just come from that world, I can tell you that inside the media, a close eye is focused on FB and Twitter, studying what is trending, what is drawing people into conversation.
It's studied closely, with the daily question: "What are people interested in today?"
Back in the old days, when there were three major television networks, radio and newsprint as the only media outlets, we printed all the news we thought was important. It really was never a matter of the old "all the news that's fit to print" ideal. We were the experts. We KNEW what the public wanted. Or, at least, what was "important." And, that is how we planned our daily content.
Our stories were much longer than they are today because, well, we just knew that our readers waited with baited breath to read our latest treatise. Truthfully, a lot of what we did back then was over-blown, ego-centric blather, with a touch of sensationalism. The thing is, we can now track what people are interested in thanks to social media, and feed the intellectual(?) fires. Go to Twitter and see what is "trending," find a story angle and run with it. Go to FB and see what your friends are talking about and use it for the root of a story. It is a guaranteed way to hit those important online numbers advertising staffs like to shove in the faces of prospective customers. The higher the online readership, the more the ads will cost.
It's supply and demand journalism. If there is a demand for a certain kind of story, the media jumps on it to ensure there is a ready supply. Online readers will go somewhere for that stuff, might as well offer something on your site.
It doesn't mean that all of the coverage is legitimate, of course. I mean, back in the "old days," would we have saturated coverage of Camping and his bunch? I don't think so. Only thing I can compare it with is the coverage of the Moonies many years ago, which had a relatively -- in comparison -- short lifespan. Until the Boss Moonie ended up in tax trouble. Then it became real news.
When I was still in school, one of the first things we learned was developing news judgment.
The example, of course, was "Dog bites man is not news, man bites dog is."
Now?
"Man bites dog...good piece...but do you have an online element to go with your story?"
Some people made a fortune over the weekend.
And, it wasn't only Harold Camping.

Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 4

I really don't care much about who is chosen this year's new American Idol.

In fact, I couldn't tell you the names of the finalists, but I know who the winner is. The viewing public.

Not because of a plethora of talent by the contestants, not because of great production values or any of that, but because of Steven Tyler.

He's engaging, quick, funny, charismaic, daring -- all those things the "Idol" producers were looking for when they signed him to do the show.

The first time I saw Tyler perform was in 1974 when Aerosmith opened a show at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, followed by the New York Dolls and Mott The Hoople.

There was little in the way of props and costuming. Still, Aerosmith blew the doors off the house when Tyler exploded onto the stage dressed from head to toe in black.

The critics were harsh, calling him a "poor man's Mick Jagger." I've seen Jagger perform at least eight times and I never once saw him as animated as Tyler. Sorry, old-school rockers, I love The Stones and really enjoy Jagger's work, but I was always more interested in watching and listening to Keith Richards than Jagger whenever I saw The Stones, and, given the choice of seeing Tyler or Jagger perform live, I'd go see Tyler.

As a result, the band was often unfairly slammed by the critics. I never understood why. It's a tight little outfit that always rocked to the max with steady rhythm and nice guitar lines by Joe Perry backing up Tyler's aerobatic vocals.

That's why getting an interview with Tyler was one of the most difficult things I did as a rock critic for the Herald-Examiner.

My friend, Peter Starr, was a publicist for The Gibson Group, associated with Rogers & Cowan, the biggest, most powerful, best PR firm in the world.

Bob Gibson was a legend in his own right from his days as partner with Gibson & Stromberg, a pretty well-known PR firm from the golden days. His stories of doing tour press for The Stones were incredible, outrageous, funny, sad.

His company was handling Aerosmith, which had just come off making the film "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" with The BeeGees and Peter Frampton, who was getting carved up by the media as a "sell-out" for becoming a bit too much of a pop star -- the death knell was when he co-hosted an awards show with Olivia Neutron Bomb and pundits joked that they couldn't tell one fluff head from the other. But, more on that at another time.

While mainstream press was doing a pretty good hatchet job on Aerosmith the band was selling out concert halls and record stores could not keep the album on the shelves.

I wanted to do the interview. Starr wanted me to do the interview. The band? "No press," the manager said.

The band members had taken a position that if mainstream media was going to snub them, they would snub the media. No interviews was the policy. Period.

I told Peter that was fine, but that I really liked the band, had seen it a couple times already and understood.

Unknown to me, he worked on it for a couple months behind the scenes, sending letters back and forth, making telephone calls.

The band was in the middle of a pretty big tour, had done its bit for the "Sgt. Pepper" film and was on a roll. The crowds were good, the music tight and, somehow, I got my interview. I'm not sure how, but it happened other than Peter's long, hard work.

"You're the first newspaper guy they'll talk to in years," Peter told me.

I got to the arena, picked up my backstage pass and was taken directly to the band's dressing room. The door was shut behind me and sitting, in a row on a couch, was Aerosmith. Five sets of eyeballs looked me over silently and there was an awkward moment or two before Tyler finally smiled and said, "Have a seat," motioning to a nearby chair.

The entire band was there, but it was Tyler who was up-front and animated. The other guys, to be honest, were pretty dull and uninteresting. Tyler? Well, as we talked, and he realized I wasn't going to waste time on comparisons with Jagger, he opened up.

We talked about the road, music and, by the time we got around to talking about the film, he was in full-tilt mode, standing up, gesturing wildly, eyes wide.

"Man...it was sooooo cool," he said. "We got to off Peter Frampton," he said at one point. He was talking about scenes, doing stunt stuff -- he did a somersault on the dressing room floor -- and lit up as much baskstage as he would a few moments later on stage. Formerly a drummer himself, Tyler exuded a natural rhythm in his speech and movement that struck me. He was perpetual motion once he warmed up to the interview, gave great quotes and was genuinely friendly.

The other band members? Not so much. All the while, Perry, Joey Kramer, Tom Hamilton and Brad Whitford sat rather sullenly, barely responding when a question was directed at them. It really didn't matter, I got what I needed from Tyler.

I saw the band several times after -- once when they headlined a concert called California Jam before 250,000 fans at the Ontario Motor Speeway. They rocked the joint.

I remember seeing Tyler do a duet with Willie Nelson on a hidden gem called "Once Is Enough," a very cool country rocker. He's got some great musical chops.

Aerosmith has broken up and reformed a couple of times over the years, each time threatening to replace Tyler with another frontman.

It would be a huge mistake. Without Tyler, Aerosmith would be little more than a second-rate bar band.

Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 3

Once in a very great while, you meet somebody who is so outgoing, so friendly, so funny, warm and charming you feel as if you've known them forever.

That's the way it was with Edward Joseph Mahoney, better known in rock 'n' roll circles as Eddie Money.

His first album had come out and he was heavy into doing all the promotion/publicity stuff that accompanies it. One of those gigs was a free, morning show at Santa Monica Community College, where he did a set at about 9 a.m.

I was set to do an interview afterward and we met up, along with Columbia Records publicist David Budge, at Harry's All-American Bar and Grill in Century City.

It was a pretty cool joint, a couple blocks from the record label office and a lot of interviews took place there.

The restaurant/bar had barely opened when we got there.

Eddie was all over the place, a ball of energy. His fingers tapped the table to an invisible beat rolling through his head, he was smiling, enjoying the life of newfound success.

"Can I bum a smoke?" he asked.

"Sure," I said.

Back then, of course, you could smoke in restaurants. And, like most of the other rock 'n' roll guys I met, none of them ever had their own cigarettes.

"So, we go into the studio...Bill Graham (the legendary rock 'n' roll concert promoter and manager who was handling Eddie's career) sets it up...Bill's a great guy...Know him? He likes the way I dance...Bill was a dancer, too, ya know?" Eddie begins. "Man, it was great. First thing we did was empty all the water out of the water coolers and fill 'em with Stolie and lemons."

Stolie?

Yeah, Stolie. It was short for Stolichnaya, a Russian vodka that was new to the market and sort of the mother's milk for that generation of rock stars.

"How long did the album take?" I asked.

"I dunno," he said. "We just kept goin' 'til it was done."

"Stolie, eh?" I asked.

"Yeah...Hey (he said summoning a waiter), a bottle a Stolie, 'kay?" he said.

Budge was driving Money around, so he took it easy on the vodka. Eddie and I, on the other hand, were sampling generously from the bottle.

"Yeah...I come from Brooklyn. My old man was a cop," he said. "I did it for awhile, but I gave it up. Wanted to do the music. Besides, I was always the first one over the wall, know what I mean? And they were always on me to get a haircut."

So, he moved to Berkeley, set up a band and started gigging the Bay Area, which was still a tough nut to crack, even in the late 1970s.

The bottle's about half empty -- or filled, depending on point of view -- and Eddie's in overdrive.

"They're playin' my record on the radio...I'm travelin' all over the country...singin' my songs...playin' my music...I got five girlfriends all across the country...and I'm gettin' paid for it," he says, arms flailing, eyes wide as he relates his transition from little dives and clubs to progressively bigger gigs.

The Stolie is cool and smooth -- over ice with a twist of lemon.

The stories get longer and louder.

"Got another smoke?" he asks.

"Sure, here you go," I said, passing him a Winston.

A woman at a nearby table waves her hand to clear the cloud of smoke, looks over and explains that we're being a "little too loud" for her liking.

"Hey, baby...it's rock 'n' roll...we're doin' an interview...Just havin' some fun," he says, trying to calm her a bit.

"Yeah? Who are you?" she shoots back icily in an obvious attempt at a putdown.

"Me? I'm Freddy Foodstamps...the next big thing...you'll love me," he says.

She turns away, shakes her head and cuts into a grilled something ion her plate as he goes on.

"Yeah...Bill's takin' me to Europe soon...introducin' me over there...should be a blast," he says. "They don't know me there yet, but they will."

There's maybe a quarter of the bottle remaining when a waiter comes over and starts whispering in Budge's ear. I'm not quite sure exactly what was said, but I got the impression we were about to be asked to leave. We'd been there about 90 minutes or so, had insulted at least one customer and were roaring about the volume of a 747 on takeoff.

Budge said something to the waiter who grudgingly nodded and went away. I think he reminded the guy how much money he and Columbia Records spent at his establishment and that it might not be good for business if we were tossed out. Although the publicist in Budge also knew that if we were, it would make for a decent note to send out to the media about his new client at the label. Either way, it works, right?

Bottle's empty. Stories continue. But, time is not on our side. Eddie's got other interviews to do. About time to go.

"Yeah...here's my phone number in Berkeley...that's where I live now," he says. "Got a little place over a store on the street there...my neighbors are all cool...my TV's hot, but I know a guy who can fix it if it breaks...but I'm not there much right now...Bill's takin' me to Europe to introduce me over there, ya know?"

So, we part, shake hands. A really great interview, even if my notes are a little bit scrawly and smudged with Stolie stains.

About a week later, my telelphone rings at work.

"Hey, Ed...just saw the story...thanks man...it was great...Bill likes it, too...We're goin' to Europe, ya know...Bill wants to get me known over there..." he says. "We're gonna take the story with us. This will help. Thanks, man."

But, before Europe, there are a couple other gigs coming up. He has a date opening for a beleaguered Foghat, which he blows away with his opening set, at The Forum. Then he has a date at Universal Amphitheatre, which was a very cool outdoors venue at the movie studio once upon a time, where he kicks some major ass. The next day, Graham had booked him as one of the acts on a big stadium show at the Oakland Coliseum, headlined by the Rolling Stones.

Now Graham, the wizard promoter that he was, worked it out with Stones manager Peter Rudge to have Eddie come out and jam on saxophone on a couple songs with the band during the stadium gig.

"Awwww, man!" Eddie said later. "I was up there with the Stones! It was unreal, man!"

Like a lot of guys from that era, he had his share of addiction problems, but has pulled through.

He's married with five kids, including a daughter who sings backup for him now.

But, he's still gigging.

Of course he is.

He's a survivor, a tough-as-nails kid born in Brooklyn and raised on the streets of New York.

And, even though it might take him a little longer to climb the fee, I'll bet he's still the first one over it.

Rock 'n' Roll Never Forgets, Pt. 2

They were metal monsters fronted by a mental midget.

The band was Journey and, for a short time, it was one of the hottest acts in the world.

I interviewed the band at a seedy hotel in Hollywood one day in the late 70s. Steve Perry had recently joined the group and "Wheel In The Sky" was getting a lot of airplay on the radio. The band was selling out fairly decent-sized hockey/basketball arenas and was well on its way to commercial success.

Now, I was not totally unfamiliar with Journey.

About four years earlier, my roommate Rod and I saw the band open for Emerson, Lake and Palmer at the Long Beach Arena, a fairly dumpy arena on the waterfront, not far from where drunken sailors would go for tattoos. The band was far from a commercial success at the time, but it was still a really tight little rock 'n' roll outfit.

At that time, organ player Gregg Rolie and guitarist Neal Schon, who had left Santana -- Rolie played with that band at Woodstock -- were joined by bass player Ross Vallory from the Steve Miller Band and drummer Aynsley Dunbar, who had worked with John Lennon and Frank Zappa.

It was a good little band, playing a lot of hippie/blues/rock stuff very well. Rolie handled the vocals, Schon, who a couple years before turned down an offer to be part of Eric Clapton's Derek and The Dominos band -- the outfit that recorded the incredible "Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs" -- proved that he learned his chops well playing side-by-side with Carlos, and Vallory was playing a pumping bass line, creating, with Dunbar, what I call an "in the pocket" rhythm section.

The song I remember most from that night was their version of "Taxman," done in a smoky, hemp-induced style that was certainly San Francisco influenced.

Next time I saw them, they were a brash, loud pop machine with a string of made-for-radio songs that were somewhat anthem-like.

The four guys I saw in 1974 -- Rolie, Schon, Vallory and Dunbar -- were still part of the band when I hooked up with them poolside at the dive in Hollywood. The fifth spoke in the wheel was an arrogant little shit named Steve Perry.

Perry had made a decent living singing commercials. He had just finished up a Toyota gig when he got the call to audition for Journey. The record company, you see, didn't think Rolie's voice was "commercial" enough and wanted something with a little more appeal. Nevermind that he was good enough to sing for Carlos Santana. For Christ's sake, that's him doing the lead vocals on "Black Magic Woman," a song written by Peter Green and recorded in 1968 by a very good Fleetwood Mac -- pre-Buckingham-Nicks when the band played some very challenging music before also opting for crossover pop dollars.

Perry, who had the penultimate overnight success story, refused to talk about his past, as if those in the business didn't know where he came from, where his roots were. He ignored questions about his history, was rude, arrogant and a genuine pain in the ass.

I remember, at the time, thinking that Dunbar, Rolie and Vallory were not particularly fond of the guy they were forced to play behind because of a decision made in an upper office at Columbia Records. Schon? Any reservations he had about the deal were hidden. Seemed as long as he got to pick up a guitar and play, he was happy.

The band went through the motions talking about their change in direction. Vallory and Rolie seemed the most pissed. I got the impression they looked at the band simply as a way to earn enough money, go home and do the kind of music they really wanted to do while Perry played the part of rock star.

We did theinterviews at the hotel and it was all sort of so-so. Then Schon and Dunbar invited me to hang with them the next day duringt their soundcheck and during the show at Long Beach.

Since I was reviewing the gig anyway I said, "Sure," and they hooked me up with my backstage pass.

Got there about the time the band did. Perry quickly went one way while the other guys went another. I was hanging out with Schon in the arena while Ronnie Montrose, an opening act, went through his sound check. He was playing some stuff that was definitely not metal. It was beautiful, serene, gorgeous music. He and his band had done a quick run-through of a song or two and his players split. Ronnie hung on the stage, hooked through his empty reel-to-reel tape player -- a technique that gave players extra tone boost in those days -- and picked some of the most beautiful, soft music I have ever heard to this day.

"It's like that every night," Schon said, admiring the music echoing through the empty arena.

It's very weird, you know, hanging with a band during its sound check. You never know what to expect. I've heard country guys do heavy metal; rockers do covers of some of their favorite songs; metal giants playing soft and tender tunes they pick out of the air.

Montrose finished, the sound guys got their levels on Journey and it was about a half an hour until the doors opened.

Dunbar sought me out and we chatted about the rock 'n' roll lifestyle.

"This guy wants to just make a lot of money," he said candidly about Perry. "Doesn't wanna spend a dime, it's a job to him, mate." Of course, Dunbar, like the others, had real gigs in their resume. I mean, you didn't play with Zappa and Lennon if you weren't the real deal, a musician's musician. Those guys were pros and they did not suffer fools gladly.

"So, what did you do with your first royalty check from the new album?" I asked him.

"Nothin' yet...maybe a Ferrari...I don't know," Dunbar said.

"Yeah...what's the use having it if you don't enjoy at least some of it?" I said.

I was told later that Schon and, particularly Dunbar, enjoyed hanging with me. In fact, a few months later, we had a birthday party for a dear friend and I invited Aynsley to what turned out to be a drunken lunch bash at Harry's All-American Grill, a rock 'n' roll hangout in Century City that Eddie Money and I nearly got thrown out of a couple seeks before. When they saw me and my buddy coming with Aynsley, they put us in a back room, away from the other diners. But, that's another story.

The band played a decent show that night. The songs were tight, they got their encores and the little teen-aged girls in the audience got all aflutter over Steve Perry.

Since then, the band has undergone many changes, including hiring Randy Jackson, now a judge for "American Idol," to play bass. Guys from The Babys wandered in and out of the band. Now, they've got some guy who they found doing Journey covers on youtube.

Sad, how a journey can become so misdirected.

Bin Laden dead, what's next?

"Elvis" has left the building, this time for good.

Osama bin Laden is dead, killed Sunday morning after a 40-minute firefight with a U.S. special forces team.

During the 10 years terror leader bin Laden was on the lam, the CIA and other operatives tagged him with the code name "Elvis" because there were so many bogus sightings throughout the Middle East.

There had been several close calls, particularly near Tora Bora, where United States forces tried to bomb the mountains into rubble to no avail. Finally, a handful of Navy Seals did the job early Sunday morning. President Obama broke the news late last night.

Several years ago I wrote a column about the search for the most hunted man in the world, saying he'd be found in the penthouse of the Hilton in some big Pakistani city. It was, of course, a poke at the CIA and other members of the intelligence community for being unable to find the man. Turns out I wasn't far from the truth as bin Laden was killed while staying in an opulent, $1 million-plus compound near Islamabad, hiding in plain view.

And, it turns out my jibe was not exactly accurate because special forces units had him cornered several times over the last decade but were ordered off the target by Bush administration officials for reasons unknown. One time they had him in their crosshairs but were told not to drop the hammer. Another time they were ordered to stand down from a plan to drop land mines through a mountain pass leading to a cave where bin Laden was hiding.

The compound where bin Laden met his end was built about five years ago. For some time, the intelligence community believed somebody of "importance" was staying there. In February they learned it was bin Laden. Proceeding cautiously, Obama waited until Friday to give the Seals the OK to go after their target. Early Sunday morning, one of those Seals put a bullet in Obama's head after a 40-minute firefight. It cost the U.S. a helicopter, but nobody was injured.

There was much jubilation in New York City after the announcement, as well there should be. There's still a gaping hole in the ground and wounds to the heart in the aftermath of the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks on the city and Washington, D.C. and reason to celebrate the demise of the man responsible.

But, the death of bin Laden most certainly does not spell the demise of al-Qaeda. In fact, if there was ever a time for more vigilance in the homeland, it is now because the terrorists now have a full-fledged martyr, whose ideals and principles will only fortify the spiritual and political roots of this jihad.

You see, whether we are from the Western world or Middle East, we tend to honor our heroes and, like it or not, bin Laden was a hero in the eyes of his followers, who died during combat in a holy war against an enemy described as the "American infidels."

This is a much different situation than the capture and execution of Saddam Hussein and Americans and residents of the Western world need to understand that. Bin Laden was not a strongman, or dictator as Hussein or Libyan leader Moammar Gadhafi were described throughout history, he was viewed as a spiritual leader, rebelling against a Western lifestyle that was the antithesis of radical Islamic tenets. He died in a jihad, or holy war, which elevated him to martyrdom, was looked upon as the spiritual point man fighting what this element of the Islamic world viewed as a corrupt and immoral Westernization of their world and values.

We know, of course, that this stance is not typical of the Islamic world, despite rhetoric to the contrary. But, there is that radical element that bought into the whole concept and that is why today, we find ourselves in a heightened state of terror alert because of the threat of reprisals, which will surely come.

Al-Qaeda's numbers are unknown. Bin Laden's influence on the Muslim world is known. All that is sure is that he has enough followers to do harm to U.S. troops on the ground in Afghanistan and that they continue to fight an almost impossible to combat guerilla-style war that we have had a tough time dealing with since the conflict in Korea.

The over-arching question is, what do we do now in Afghanistan? Do we continue our military operations there? Do we suspend them? Is the war over or has it just begun?

Unfortunately, we won't know for quite some time.

So while we can close the books on bin Laden, we will have to wait awhile to see what the next chapter has to say about al-Qaeda.

Rock 'n' roll never forgets

Blame it on Eddie Money. Or Mick Jagger. Maybe Dennis Wilson.
Nah, level the blame where it really belongs: The Beatles.
I can still remember seeing The Beatles when they made their first American television appearance on Ed Sullivan's Sunday night variety show.
Sullivan did blockbuster business in the Nielsen ratings. Everybody watched him religiously on Sunday night.
Looking back, there was some cutting edge stuff on his show. I can remember a very young Richard Pryor and George Carlin starting out in show business. Joan Rivers was on the show. You usually had to wade through Topo Gigio -- the mouse puppett -- or some dancers, maybe acrobats or elephant acts, but there was usually something of substance.
Sullivan was a wily former newspaper columnist who had an eye for talent and how to make a buck. His columns translated into a popularity that got the dour-faced, curmudgeonly looking old guy the gig on TV. He was actually, from what I understand, a very shrewd businessman and pretty decent guy beneath the sourpuss demeanor.
In February 1964 he booked The Beatles for several performances on his show. The band had a large European following, but had not quite broken through in the United States.
Sullivan had a gut feeling about the band and signed them, exclusively, to a string of performances. He unleashed what would become the most culturally powerful force on the nation's youth by bringing The Beatles to American TV.
Suddenly, little girls were screaming at their television sets and every boy wanted to grow his hair long, pick up a guitar and sing.
And, why not? Sinatra was for the older crowd, Elvis had forsaken rock 'n' roll for movies and soundtracks that featured songs like "Do The Clam" and we, as a nation, were rebounding from the assassination of John Kennedy just months before.
The Beatles were fresh, energetic...magical. Just what we needed to rise from the gloom and learn how to smile again.
And, my fascination with rock 'n' roll was ratcheted up about a million notches.
I had long been a fan of artists like Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis. Trouble was, the radio stations in my then hometown of St. Louis wouldn't play their stuff. Berry was in trouble for transporting an underage girl across state lines, Richard Penniman was a bit, let's say, "flamboyant" and his songs were denied airplay, although cleaned-up versions by pretty boy singers like Pat Boone were on the air. And, Jerry Lee? He had married his 14-year-old cousin. They all contributed to what was deemed "The Devil's Music" and KMOX, WIL and the others would not air them.
So, my cousins and I would listen at night to our transistor radios, tuning in the stations from Chicago and Memphis after dark for some "real" music.
That was in the pre-Beatles days.
Musically inclined, I wanted to immediately give up the saxophone for the drums. I got a little snare drum and tiny cymbal to pound on and learn how to keep a beat. Sat in with a little band at a cousin's wedding reception. Then we moved to California and I got a real drum set, found some like-minded kids and we were gonna be stars.
Meanwhile I studied writing and, well, just in case, figured it was a great way to meet some of these folks. It took some time, but after a few years in the newspaper business, I moved from covering sports to being a rock critic -- whatever that is.
I've shared some stories with family and friends who have often urged to hear more. We'll start doing that off and on here.
I think the most startling thing I can recall was Mick Jagger and his stage fright. It was the late 1970s and the Stones were doing their "Some Girls" tour. I had been doing the critic gig for awhile and become sort of friendly with some people who I really admired, like Spencer Davis, who had a nice, tidy little rock band during the 1960s.
Spencer had become a record label executive. One of the acts he had under his wing was Bob Marley and The Wailers.
Mick and Keith were huge fans of reggae in general, Marley in particular, and Mick had been talking about how he wanted to jam with Marley onstage.
At the Herald-Examiner, where I worked at the time, we were doing full-court press coverage on the Stones. They hadn't had an album in awhile, but were still considered the "best damn rock 'n' roll band in the world." I was flown to Philadelphia for their first major gig on the tour, a huge concert at JFK Stadium -- a rat-infested, decrepit old stadium used then primarily for the annual Army-Navy football game. The show was fantastic. Keith was in fine form,pushing the band madly. Woody was dancing around the stage. Bill Wyman stood, Stone alone, in a corner of the stage, laying down a steady rhythm with Charlie Watts, the dead-on drummer who is truly the backbone of the Stones.
Watching from my backstage vantage point, I saw the band climb the stairs to the stage. Keith was first up, taking it two steps at a time, eager to hit the stage. Woody followed. next came Charlie and Bill. Finally, there was Mick who paused behind the huge bank of amps. He hesitated, turned and looked at manager Peter Rudge and stood frozen.
Rudge turned him to the stge and literally pushed him out in front of the crowd. Once in the spotlight, everything was cool. Mick spun, danced, cavorted, mugged with Woody and Keith and was his usual effervescent self.
A couple weeks later, however, I had an even closer encounter of the weird kind.
Spencer told me Mick was going to show up at the Marley concert and invited me and my good friend, writer Harvey Kubernick, to watch the show from backstage.
I arrived at the Burbank Starlight Amphitheatre early and wandered. I was unfamiliar with the building and started opening doors, looking for the way to the stage. I opened one and peered into a darkened room. The marijuana smoke was thick and all I could really see was about six sets of eyes -- Marley and his band -- looking up from what looked like a football-sized spliff they were passing around at this white-boy intruder.
"Oops...sorry guys," and off I went, eventually finding the backstage area.
The roadies had a couple of trash bags filled with ganja piled up at the back of the stage. Some guy was rolling numbers as the sound crew made its final tweaks. The Imperials went on as opening act while Harvey, Spencer and I found a comfortble nook to watch from.
During intermission, a thuggish-looking guy -- about 8-freet, 14-inches tall and 357 tons, walked through the backstage area, telling everybody to leave and, some did. When he approached our little party of three, Spencer, an Eglish gentleman in his own right, politely told the bodyguard: "You see, Bob Marley works for me. I am here to see his show. If my friends and I are forced to leave, there is no show and you will have a crowd of very angry people on your hands, so I suggest you leave us alone, sir. I know who is coming and he, too, is a dear friend."
The bodyguard grudgingly walked away, allowing us to stay.
About five minutes later, the backstage door opened up and in walked Jagger with his wife Jerry Hall and daughter Jade -- just a little one at the time. They walk straight over to us, shooks hands with Spencer and introductions were made. He was wearing a tweed jacket and taxi driver's cap, all fashionable at the time, with his trademark Capezio dance shoes -- jazz shoes, I believe they are called -- and the three of them took up a spot next to me to watch Marley.
Jerry was snobbish in a rock star sort of way and Jade was a precocious little girl. As the music began, Mick pulled a joint out of his pocket, lit it and passed it to me. I, in turn, handed it to Harvey, who then passed it to Spencer. Spencer politely handed it back to Harvey who snuffed it and put it in his pocket. "Don't often get passed a joint from Mick Jagger...I'm keeping this," he said.
Now, if you've ever been to a reggae show, you know it takes awhile for the band to hit its groove. Marley and The Wailers were no exception. But, about three songs into the set, magic started happening and the band found its groove. It was incredible.
Jagger started dancing, Jerry started swaying and little Jade tried some awkward steps. Mick turned her around and gave her a quick lesson in footwork. Before long, she got it down and was dancing in time to the music. Must have been something in the blood, I guess.
It wasn't long before one of Marley's roadies started putting out an amp and tuning a Gibson SG. He had the rig set and ready to go and Marley was, in the middle of the song, making hand gestures to Jagger to come out and join him.
That's when I saw "The Fear" up close. The roadie came up to Mick, put a pick in his hand and said, "You've been talking a lot of shit about jammin' with Bob. Now's your chance."
Almost reduced to tears, Jagger could only shake his head and mumble, "no...no..."
The roadie poked a finger in his chest and told him, "Then shut the fuck up about it! It's all we heard about for weeks now. Do it or shut up."
Never heard a word about him wanting to jam with Marley again.
Where do Eddie Money and Dennis Wilson fit in?
Future blogs, friends...future blogs.