Even though my grades were sure to suffer (and they did), I was determined to make the most of my opportunity to become BMOC when it came to hooking up with music VIPs.

Pulling a few strings, I managed to arrange a phone interview with Joan Jett, shortly before she and the Blackhearts were about to release Glorious Results of a Misspent Youth.

Three years earlier, Jett had sat atop the pop world with her hits “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” and “Crimson and Clover.” It was never a perch that was apparently very comfortable for her. The idea of being a pop star didn’t exactly square with an artist who started out playing raucous live shows in cheap bars – and never got over that adrenaline rush.

By 1984, the fervor had died down and Top 40 radio had forgotten about Jett. In fact, the only places where she got regular airplay were adventurous AOR stations and college radio outlets like ours.

The interview didn’t exactly start out auspiciously. Phone-line hook-ups at our small carrier-current facility were never a breeze. Whatever Jett started out saying was not being recorded, but I didn’t want to waste her time. So we started talking about her recent concerts in Eastern Europe, which was still under Communist control.

According to Wikipedia, Jett was only the second American act of any kind to perform behind the Iron Curtain (The first? Believe it not, Blood Sweat & Tears in Romania in 1969). Towards the end of that conversation, the difficulties had been solved and you get to hear about the kind of crazy reaction she and the Blackhearts received.

Mostly, however, we spend our time talking about her new album, which many now regard as one of Jett’s finest. She talked about how “Frustrated” and “Talkin’ About My Baby” were her two favorite tracks at that time – even admitting that the latter tune was pretty sexual in nature.

“Frustrated” (download)

“Talkin’ About My Baby” (download)

I asked her about cover tunes, expecting her to talk about the closet thing to a hit that the album would have, her “remake” of the song she made famous with the Runaways “Cherry Bomb.” Or at least Gary Glitter’s “I Love You Love Me Love.”

Instead, she discussed “New Orleans” and an interesting story I had all but forgotten about until I heard the tape.

Apparently, the subject of the Gary U.S. Bonds original arose and everyone was talking about how much they liked it.

Except no one remembered all the lyrics.

By sheer coincidence (and I have my doubts that it was a true coincidence) Bonds happened to be around the studio one day. And the band got up the nerve first to ask him to write out the lyrics and secondly, to sing backing vocals on the song. “That was a real thrill,” she said. “That was a lot of fun.”

“New Orleans” (download)

The final part of our interview featured Jett struggling with our station ID – basically because the doofus on the other end of the phone (that would be me) kept on offering inane suggestions. Listen to how reluctant she is when I ask her to say something like “I love WROX” a la “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll.” Clearly, she hadn’t made her peace with that tune yet. She did come up with an ID, but sadly it was cut off at the last moment –because I taped a subsequent station ID with someone else over it. (Don’t worry. You’ll hear that too in coming weeks – and it’s a doozy)

Like I said, I’m a doofus.

I wound up editing down the interview for the newspaper, but I can’t remember whether it ever made the air. In any case, here’s a chance to hear the queen of rock ‘n’ roll talk shop during her prime.

Joan Jett interview: (download)

Then again, maybe not.

Somewhere in my basement, I just found a box of cassette tapes. Not just dubs of albums or promo mix tapes distributed at the New Music Seminars and CMJ conventions I used to attend during the 80s – but some highly unique stuff from my days as both a college radio music director and arts editor at the Georgetown University campus paper.

The tapes say things like “T-Bone Burnett interview.” Or “The dBs.” Or “Interview with Peter Garrett of Midnight Oil.”

You know what? I recall every single one of these interviews.

You see, back in the day, I was pretty aggressive when it came to whatever cool acts came to town. Plus I had the added bonus of representing both Georgetown’s newspaper and radio station. Bands could do the equivalent of killing two birds with one stone.

Never mind that the paper was the secondary one on campus and the station was distributed via carrier current i.e. only on campus as a weak AM feed. Nobody needed to know that.

So I made plenty of friends with record company reps and got them to promise me interviews when one of their bands came to town. Or sometimes I would just attend the concert and see if I could wheedle myself backstage with my tape recorder.

Burnett was a lengthy conversation recorded in the basement dressing room of the old 9:30 club, in which he not only talked about his latest album “Proof Through the Night” but waxed philosophically about music and life. Garrett and I discussed politics, perched on two bar stools in the backroom of the Bayou. My friends and I followed the dBs to Charlottesville, VA, when they opened for R.E.M.

The most memorable interview, however, was about as unexpected as a certain bassist showing up in  a Michael J. Fox movie one day.

I can’t even remember how I got in to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers on Dec. 6, 1984 at the old Ontario Theater in D.C.’s Adams Morgan neighborhood. Their first album had just been released and they were opening up for General Public. I think an EMI rep called me up and offered me both tickets and an interview, Frankly, as a fan of the English Beat, I was more excited to see Dave Wakeling and Ranking Roger for the first time than these guys. I mean, for even in that era of free-form college radio programming, their first album was definitely different. Songs like “Real Men Don’t Kill Coyotes” were an acquired taste. You could definitely count me as among those only lukewarm to their unorthodox style.

The show turned out to pretty raucous. As you can imagine, this wasn’t exactly a match made in heaven. Though they didn’t do anything too outrageous from their immediate past, such as wearing nothing but socks over their genitals when they performed, the band shouted obscenities at the audience from the get-go and were pretty much booed off the stage. Once the set was over, I rushed back to do my interview, wondering whether I could complete it before General Public took the stage.

I needn’t have worried. The minute I announced whom I was and presented my small Sony handheld tape recorder, Flea, the band’s bassist, swiped it from my hands. If I didn’t mind, he announced, he would be the one conducting the interview with Anthony Kiedis, the singer.

A little bit stunned but also curious as to what would follow, I didn’t protest at all.

The next four-plus minutes were pretty wild. My guess is that Flea and Kiedis were frustrated from the show, already sick of the tour and wanted to have some fun for a change.

With Flea as the interviewer and Kiedis as the interviewee, a rapid fire conversation ensued. They insulted each other and other members of the band. They each claimed responsibility for being the true brains behind the Red Hot Chili Peppers. They bragged wildly about how successful their songs had become,. They used words like “bonecrunching mayhem funkish” and “psychedelic groovebath” to describe their music. They did a short rap together, They even found time to insult my radio station for not playing enough of their music. (Truth is, I was probably the only DJ who played them at all).

Flea’s initial questions wre probably repeats of the same queries they had been getting the last few weeks from clueless college kids. Deciding enough was enough, Kiedis departed from the usual script and gave the answers he truly wanted to give.

At least at first. Then the two buddies simply decided to try outdo each other with escalating outrageous claims.

Flea in 2006

And then it was over. Flea handed me back the tape recorder and more or less ordered me out of the dressing room. As far as my involvement was concerned, we were not going to have a traditional interview.

I never did anything with the interview other than to play it for a few friends over the next few days. Because the band hadn’t quite hit it big yet, the main reaction was a lot of shrugs. Here was another asshole band that thought it was hot shit. We had seen too many of them to be excited about what the two musicians had to say, as amusing as the conversation was.

Truth is, I probably thought so too.

Then, a funny thing happened: The Red Hot Chili Peppers started getting bigger. And bigger. And bigger.

Fully a quarter of century later, they are still among the biggest alternative bands in music, leaving their fellow 80s acts in the dust – including General Public, the band that they opened for that night.

A postscript: Thanks to that brief encounter with Kiedis and Flea, I didn’t wind up missing a song from Dave and Roger.

I never wrote an article based on this interview (I mean, who could?) And it never aired on the radio station. (For one thing, Kiedis uses the F word at one point – pretty verboten at a Jesuit school where the previous FM station, WGTB, had been shut down by the Georgetown priests for airing a simulated orgasm). But thanks to the magic of the Internet and mp3 ripping software, you can now hear it in its entirety.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be going through my tapes, ripping some of the interviews and seeing what interesting things I can glean from them.

But I can promise you this.

There’s nothing quite like this “interview” in my collection.

Flea Interviews Anthony Kiedis (download)

The weekend began on a deceptively subdued note, but this would change.

My alarm clock performed its temporal duty, jolting me a deep slumber at the unearthly hour of 5:30 A.M. A shower washed the crunchy crystals of sleep from the corners of my eyes, and two 16-ounce mugs of coffee helped me keep them open. I phoned Edward to let him know I was on the way. No answer. Mild panic. Did he already leave? Had he changed his mind about taking me with him? Those were just a couple of the thoughts scurrying through my brain, accelerated and exacerbated by the caffeine coursing through my veins.

A day earlier, Edward Van Halen had invited me to accompany him to the NAMM Show (National Association of Music Merchants) in New Orleans. This is an annual convention where retailers, manufacturers, et al, get together to preview their new lines of guitars, amplifiers, drums, and any other musically-related gadgets and gewgaws. More than anything, though, it’s a chance to drink yourself unconscious on someone else’s dime.

I call again five minutes later and a voice answers, “Yeah.” Ed rarely says “Hello.” “Where are ya? Well, hurry up!”

And I do. Grabbing my bag, I toss it into the RX-7 and depart. No warm up, no idle time; just jump in and drive. At 6:30 A.M., the Hollywood Hills are still deserted. The fog drifts up from the valley below and covers the road in vapor. The Mazda whips around the corners, startling a jogger into curse mode and raising similar choruses of protest from nesting fowl. Speed limit signs flash by, and since I’m doing twice the posted maximum, I can only assume the warnings are meant for fleeing strangers and scuttled crows (I mean, I’m the one in the car).

Nine minutes later (my fastest drive time so far if you discount the 8 ½ minute run a week earlier when I accidentally squished a squirrel) and my tender blue Mazda screeches to a stop outside his gates. I press the buzzer and…no answer. He probably didn’t hear, probably grew tired waiting for me. I ring again and … silence. The caffeine now percolating in my veins makes me think I should have made it here in 8 minutes, roadkill or not. At that moment, the gates slide open and I cruise in. I audibly sigh. Edward emerges from the front door, tells me he is just now jumping in the shower, and has me wait in the kitchen.

I mull over what is in store for us the next two days: The NAMM show proper; a special “All-Industry” dinner extravaganza to be held at the Louisiana Superdome; Bourbon Street; a riverboat ride down the ol’ Mississippi; gumbo; and Hurricanes (alcoholic, not atmospheric).

A taxi in the driveway puts an end to the reverie. A can of Schlitz Malt Liquor in his hand, he gives me a hug, I hug him back, and we climb in the backseat of the cab. I can’t help but stare at the blue and gold can when I ask him, “Is that breakfast?”

“No, I had a tuna sandwich,” he says, that peculiar high-pitched nasal voice still laced with early morning residue.

Andy, the cab driver, is visibly enamored. He discretely steals glances in his rearview mirror, sizing up the passenger dressed in red, High Top Converse, black and white golfer’s pants, and a black sports jacket. Between sips of Schlitz, Eddie engages Andy in conversation. He tells him about the guy in prison who kept writing to him, informing Edward of what a “bad job he was doing impersonating” Valerie’s husband. And he told him how people stole letters from his mailbox and then finally stole the mailbox itself.

The taxi heads south on the San Diego Freeway and after a near collision with a Mercedes Benz, it pulls outside the Delta gate at the Los Angeles International Airport. After all of my agonizing, amazingly enough, we’re ahead of schedule. We make our way – where else? – to the bar. Ed peers through dark, dark sunglasses, and orders a Bloody Mary; I’m jacked on adrenaline but still fatigued and order coffee. He removes the shades and rubs bloodshot eyes, commenting, “I either look like shit or I can’t see for shit.”

A Sony FM Walkman is removed from his bag and Edward slips in a couple of cassettes. Titled “Le’s Pers” and “You Want It When – Ha! Ha! Ha!” they are examples of his “research” at 5150 (the home studio). Flight 514 to New Orleans is ready for boarding and we take seats 3A and 3B in the first class section. Doc Severinsen and Arlen Roth are on the same flight. Edward orders up another beer, me a gin and tonic. The guitarist falls asleep immediately, a talent honed after spending thousands of hours in the sky. Two girls at the front huddle nervously to discuss the sleeping star. He wakes intermittently, passes on breakfast (cheese omelet), and opens his eyes upon touchdown.

Dennis Berardi, president of Kramer guitars, is waiting at the terminal. His rent-a-car transports us to the New Orleans Hilton, a centrally located hotel just minutes away from the NAMM Show convention hall and, more importantly, Bourbon Street. We check into our rooms; Edward is out before his head hits the pillow and I saunter over to the convention hall. It is two o’clock Saturday afternoon and already there is a buzz around the Kramer booth that Van Halen may show up on Sunday. No announcements, no press releases, just hushed anticipation that he may make an appearance.

I return to my room and after mangling one of those credit card-like door keys for ten minutes (you push it in a slot and the door supposedly opens), finally enter. An hour later, we’re ushered to a special fete dubbed the “NAMM All-Industry Dinner Spectacular” featuring Pete Fountain’s Gumbo Ya Ya Show. Edward, amidst rumbles and grumbles, reluctantly attends. Berardi has told him that he’ll have to take a bow during the evening and he refuses. But when the MC addresses the more than 1,000 retailers and manufacturers seated here inside the Louisiana Superdome and expresses “A special thanks to Eddie Van Halen,” the guitarist stands, drink raised in hand, and acknowledges the applause. Edward eyes Dennis venomously and mutters, sotto voce, “I’ll get you for this.” We make our way for the exit.

A quick return to the Hilton for a change of clothes and it’s off (at my bequest) to Bourbon Street. The street Bourbon is a combination of Disneyland, Hollywood Boulevard, the red light district, and every tourist trap in America. Next to a store selling I Love New Orleans t-shirts is a bar featuring ladies in various stages of undress, and a band in the corner blazing through Top 40 hits. After a wonderful dinner of gumbo and Creole at the Gumbo House (Edward ordered chicken gumbo and did not take a single bite), we wander the street that is packed with bodies. People passing by go through double takes, pretty certain of who it is but not positive. Edward hands out some guitar picks and the recipients are ecstatic. He hugs one girl and she (nearly) faints. Another one walks up to him, asks him to smile, and he obliges. There is no mistaking that grin. Edward is goofing with people, joking around with the midnight ramblers. He pokes his head inside a bar and break into “Jump.” Had they known who was listening, the combo would certainly have gone into hysterics. We make the obligatory stop at Carlos O’Brien’s (a famous bar) and after downing yet another Hurricane (a lethal rum cocktail), head back to the hotel. I am clutching a tourist glass from O’Brien’s and I am happy.

It is 1:00 A.M. and I accompany Edward to the Hilton bar. The late-nighters are huddled around the circular liquor-dispensing area. I order another gin/tonic and as this drink climbs on top of every other one imbibed tonight, I begin to feel a little twisted. One of the NAMM show attendees is walking around with a hat in the likeness of a pair of rather well-developed female breasts. Mammary memory. Edward snatches it and calls it his. 4:00 A.M., the bar closes and we walk back to his room. Edward walks, I stumble. Somehow, the simple act of balance has become a calculation I cannot figure out.

He, too, had shredded one of the paper keys and after fumbling with his lock, we go in. It is still a sensible hour for the guitarist, who has spent the better part of the last seven years on the road. For me, 4:00 A.M. or 5:00 A.M., whatever it is, is the twilight hour, that no man’s land when it’s too late to try and sleep at all and too early to do anything of value. Though my body is asleep, my eyes remain open, stapled there by all the caffeine consumed that day and whatever adrenaline reserves still remain. A knock at the door and Twisted Sister’s Eddie Ojeda gives greeting.

For Ojeda, it is a truly special moment. He must have been standing down the hall just waiting for Van Halen to return. Trying to remain nonchalant, he is too quick to respond to Edward’s questions and too reluctant to give up the floor. Edward let Ojeda listen to the “research” tapes and Eddie is in total awe. Van Halen tried to explain the process of his writing: how his “favorite guitars are shitty guitars” (as opposed to expensive, custom models off the rack); how he loves to work with keyboards; and his philosophy, which he verbalized as “I don’t try to impress anybody.” The evening ends with an arm-wrestling challenge match between the two Eddies; as official referee, I call it a draw. Ojeda returns to his room, his feet barely touching the carpet. The clock reads 8 A.M. and I fall into a coma back in my own room.

Sunday morning, I return to the show and run into Brian May, Allan Holdsworth, Ted Nugent, and John Entwistle. I hang out for a while and then go back for a little more rest. The Kramer booth is even more crowded today than it was yesterday afternoon. There is little doubt that Van Halen is the most important figure attending the festivities. Due to rise at 2:00 P.M., he finally falls out of bed two hours later. A taxi takes us to a side entrance and we’re escorted to a waiting room while final preparations are made at the booth. The entire area has been cordoned off. By this time, the Kramer stall is completely surrounded. A phone rings, the OK is given, and we walk the distance. There are shouts, cries, hoots, and hollers as Edward is recognized by the assembly. He stands idly, gazing about with a look, which reads, “What the hell am I doing here?” He edges closely to the ropes, shakes a few hands, signs several autographs. Someone hands him a note which says, “Eddie: Shannon Lowe is your #2 fan; Valerie is #1.” From a bird’s eye view, the rest of the hall is empty. Screams of “Play the guitar, Eddie” fall on deaf ears; he is in no mood to pick up an instrument. Nonetheless, he hoists one of the Kramers, plays through two perfunctory runs, and returns it. He has been there less than 30 minutes and he is already growing agitated, caged in. Brian May’s head bobs up in the audience and he is quickly engulfed by the human tide. John Entwistle makes his way through the partition and Van Halen is pleased to see a recognizable face. Several minutes later he is gone, returned via taxi to his hotel room for two needed hours of sleep.

Sunday evening found us on a riverboat cruise up the Mississippi. May and Entwistle were on board and there was talk of a late night jam back at the hotel. And it happened. Back at the Hilton Ballroom, Bugs Henderson and the Stratoblasters (in reality Seymour Duncan and friends) were performing, and when word passed around that Van Halen, Entwistle, Nugent, and Julian Lennon’s guitarist were going to play, the stage was cleared. Backstage the make-shift band (dubbed The Unrehearsed Scumbags) tried to choose a number they all knew and finally decided on “Wild Thing.”

The event was more memorable than it was musical, each guitarist attempting to out-volume and out-solo the other. Edward, grin on his face, enjoyed himself and thrilled the lucky ones in attendance. After the show he went up to Entwistle and in a humility-laden voice said, “Sorry.” Someone handed Edward an instrument that resembled more a fish skeleton than it did a guitar and commenting, “Looks like it would hurt,” returned arm-in-arm with Brian May to his room. They played around for several hours, May’s eyes absolutely transfixed while Edward played his homemade guitar. Van Halen mentioned he would like to do something with Brian sometime (May played with Edward on the Starfleet Project). Edward said he could play keyboards and Brian would play guitar. Brian, with an exaggerated “Oh, sure” look on his face, couldn’t believe what he’d heard. And what is even more amazing is that Van Halen was dead serious.

It was 5 A.M. and Brian exited. Edward came next door to my room and we talked for a while longer. Of the jam he said, “That was a perfect example of the Over The Hill Gang” and laughed. Shutting the door, he went back to his room. Five seconds later he was pounding on my door. He had lost his second room card key and wanted to phone down to the next for another. “Nah, I’ll just walk down,” he decided. Forty-five minutes later he was beating my door again (I knew there would be no sleep on this voyage). They did not believe who he was at the front desk and for the past forty-five minutes he had been doing his best to convince them. He finally did.

We returned early Monday evening. It was obvious Edward had enjoyed the late nights in the hotel rooms more than he did being put on display at the dinners and show. Valerie picked us up at LAX (she drove right past us one time), Bryan Adams blaring out of the speakers. We enter the gates back at their home and my tender blue chariot is parked right where I left it. Valerie asks if I had a good time. I numbly nod yes, staring blankly out of my sunglasses (it is dark outside, mind you). Between the lack of sleep, Hurricanes, running around, and general high levels of excitement, I’m sure I had a good time. I must have had a good time. I’ll call Edward tomorrow and find out.

Showdown
You bet
And I haven’t saddled my pony yet

Well, I wasn’t heading for a showdown, exactly, more like a stimulating and witty exchange of musical theories; and, no, no pony to speak of, but there was some horsepower under the hood of my RX7 and the truth was, I hadn’t yet saddled up. I mainlined a cup of coffee, gathered up my cassette player and the band’s Deguello album, jumped in the car and as Horatio Alger urged, headed west.

Laurel Canyon lies at the eastern end of the Sunset Strip, a mile-and-a-half stretch of Sunset Boulevard real estate that was/is home to record labels, management companies, famous eateries, infamous hotels/motels, and an assortment of clubs, record stores, book shops, bars, and miscellaneous businesses. I passed the Hyatt West Hollywood, an upscale hotel now located on the same spot where the Continental Hyatt House once sat, the infamous and legendary home-away-from-home for visiting rock bands. Here, six years earlier in 1973, is where I first met the group. Tres Hombres had just been released and the Hyatt House was a reasonably priced facility for a band still counting pesos. Today, however, I pass right by the chrome and glass structure, crossing Doheny Drive, the Strip’s western boundary, and make my way to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Opened on May 12, 1912, the facility is now considered one of the most exclusive establishments in the city. Private bungalows attracted music and movie elite and the one-bedroom Presidential suite priced out at $3,400 per night. And that’s where I found Billy and the boys. Not bad for a Little ol’ Band from Texas who, in the previous half-decade plus, had recorded five albums, risen from a regional blues band into an international hitmaking machine, and were then just a couple days away from headlining the 12,000-seat Long Beach Arena.

I pulled into the front parking area of the great and gilded palace, obtained a parking receipt from the attendant, and made my way to the secluded residences at the rear of the hotel. A gentle knock on the appropriate door and I was greeted by the great, bearded Gibbons, the Grand Wazoo, Guitar Wizard, and Thinker Extraordinaire. Dusty Hill wrangled himself out of an oversized chair, shuffled on over, and gave me a warm Texas howdy.

Though the distance from the Continental “Riot” House (riot as in every time a band stayed there [Zeppelin and The Who], there was one) to the Beverly Hills Hotel is less than two miles, the amount of musical terrain covered by the group’s six-year journey between Tres Hombres and Deguello is substantial. They twisted, tore and mangled the blues to finally make it ZZ-worthy. So, as Billy and Dusty settled back into postures of repose, I set the tape to record, and we took a long intellectual stroll over the mountains and into the valleys of the ZZ topography.

By 1973, when I first met them, the band had already been together for four years, having risen from the ashes of two competing Houston-based psychedelic bands, Gibbons’ own Moving Sidewalks and American Blues, the former home of Hill and Beard. Billy’s band achieved some local success with the single “99th Floor” and, on the strength of this notoriety coupled with the propitious meeting of future manager Bill Ham, the band landed the opening spot on The Doors’ Texas tour. The Moving Sidewalks would go on to open for The Jimi Hendrix Experience (appearing on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, the left-handed wonder muttered, “Billy Gibson of the ‘Lectric Sidewalks” when asked who the cool new guitar players were).

Accolades aside, Gibbons left his band and in 1969 teamed up with Frank and Dusty to form ZZ Top. There were several incarnations of the band before the final lineup, including a very brief period with keyboardist, Lanier Greig. But when the three finally found each other it was, as Hill described in our interview, “Real comfortable. The thing was, Frank and I had played together for a few years playing behind another guitar player who would jam. We were used to coming to corners at the same time. So we were pretty comfortable with each other and maybe that’s why Billy thought there was more of a foundation to lay on.”

This ultimate connection, coming on the heels of the keyboardists’ walking papers, parallels the musical progress of another band that had gone through a similar metamorphosis. Van Halen, in one of its formations, saw a keyboardist in the fold, but they ultimately opted for the trio format.

“I didn’t know Van Halen had a keyboard player before they were signed. It’s not the first time the comparison has been made between the two bands.”

These bands would walk down other similar trails: both groups ended up on Warner Bros. Records, and each of them would run the gamut of its own style — pumped-up, user-friendly electric rock for Van Halen and blues in all its permutations for ZZ Top — before, ironically, opting to add keyboards to the mix. Edward and company would first do it on Women And Children First when the guitarist bashed on a Wurlitzer electric piano on “The Cradle Will Rock,” but would truly bring it to the forefront with 1984’s “Jump.” ZZ Top would experiment with some early Mini-Moog synth textures on El Loco and Deguello (“Groovy Little Hippie Pad” and “Cheap Sunglasses,” respectively) before making keyboards a centerpiece of Eliminator. Both groups understood when/how to bring strategic new elements to the mix, and the bands certainly sensed when the ultimate lineup had been fixed.

“There really was a certain kind of chemistry that reared its head,” said Hill. “And touring with Hendrix, I came to the realization of what you could do with a trio was great. There’s hardly a feeling as gratifying as to really bash on the instrument and to get it to work right and to fill up the holes that are presented with the format of a trio. You go, ‘Man, let me tear this thing up.’”

“Like cross slats on a barn door” is how the guitarist described the band’s name that, now in its final configuration, spent several years ripping it up and refining their sound by playing regional shows. Certainly this “sound” was grounded in the blues (on ZZ Top’s First Album, the genre was cryptically prefaced with abstract), but to limit the group by tagging them solely as a blues band is misleading. And stupid.

“Is ZZ Top a blues band?” quipped a rhetorical Gibbons. “Are the Rolling Stones a blues band? Well, we’re interpreters of blues bands. The wave of blues we enjoyed, not only being a part of but influenced by, was ushered in by the English guys. The Stones, Clapton, Beck, which is kind of what got us thinking: ‘Hey, we can hot rod this stuff and make it really fun to play for ZZ Top.’

“However, the examples that were set before us laid a challenge to say, ‘Hey, this is art.’ There’s a handful of Americans, a handful of guys from England, a handful of guys from points around the world that recognized the value of the impact of this strain of music that goes all the way back to Africa. And I’ll be honest with ya, I still dig it.”

What Billy dug was made available to the masses with the releasing of ZZ Top’s First Album, a collection of Texas-styled blues hymns funneled through the peculiar and whimsical brainpan of Mr. Gibbons.

“The only thing that kept us going on that first album was the fact that we had the opportunity to release a record on the same label as the Rolling Stones [London Records]. I’m serious, that was it. It was recorded when we first formed, in 1970. I had assembled a personal catalog [of songs] when Frank and Dusty entered the picture. We commenced rehearsals to learn a dozen songs which I thought would be appropriate for the group and during that process both Frank and Dusty added their personal touches, changing a word here or a phrase there.

“But, true to the core, it was 12-bar blues or bust. The playing was there, the tempo was good, and it’s very bluesy. I listened to it for the first time in a while and said, ‘Man, we sure were bluesy.’ And that pretty much describes how we started and it kept on with Rio Grande Mud. We may have been able to refine our music writing abilities to more genuinely reflect a truer sense of our honest emotions [on the second album], but a lot of our earlier work was chronicles of Texana and events that were of substance for the guy living in Texas; certain things you experienced when you’re coming up there.

“And 1973 enjoyed the release of Tres Hombres and that’s the famous Mexican food album. We stretched out and went down the boundary, if you will. Although the song ‘La Grange’ was the first ZZ Top Top 10, it remained well within the reaches of the blues, capital B. On which we base the band to this very day.”
Indeed. “La Grange” was the blues stripped down naked, a thumping one-chord boogie riff that showed Billy at his churlish, rudest, down-home best. Writing about a whorehouse somewhere out there on the vast Texas plains and singing in that snarling, bear-just-woke-up, scratchy-throat voice that would become his signature, this son of a professional keyboardist conjures visions of a carnal knowledge not typically taught in school. And manages to do it in just a handful of lines.

Rumor spreading ‘round/in that Texas town
‘Bout that shack outside La Grange
You know what I’m talkin’ about
Just let me know/if you wanna go
To that home out on the range
They got a lotta nice girls-a
Have mercy
Aheh how how how/Aheh ahow how how

The lyric was utterly simple and masterfully penned. There is no mistaking the message — you couldn’t even if you tried — and with the success of the song, the band continued down this same artistic road, writing about women, writing about lusting after women, and writing about nothing more than lust itself. ZZ was driving down the blacktop towards their fourth album, a half-studio, half-live album called Fandango!

Billy had been looking out the window of his tony suite, staring at a young lady barely contained by a two-piece swimsuit. This is California, where cellulite isn’t allowed, and bodies like hers do not exist in nature. She bends over for a moment, exposing an exquisitely sculpted rear end — and this may be real — and as if the moment had been orchestrated, his lips part to invoke …

“Tush,” oh, yeah,” as if forgetting for a brief second what we were talking about. And who wouldn’t? “We wrote that in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, and boy, it was hot and steamy. We were at some rodeo building and we came up with that. It just happened; we wrote it on the spot at a rehearsal. We were playing some show that night and wrote it before the show. Dusty sang it and never changed it. It was fun.

“The live side is fast, we played everything real fast. I guess it represents pretty well what we were doing at the time.”

What they were doing was still blues, and “Tush” is a textbook example of the I-IV-V form. Musically, the track might even have appeared on the debut album but lyrically, The Rev. Billy G was pushing the envelope.

I ain’t lookin’ for muuchhh, hmmmm
I said, ‘Lord, take me downtown/I’m just lookin’ for some tuuush

Though subtle, rhyming much with tush was a hint that Billy was becoming more adventurous in his wordplay. The lyrical landscape was growing, and the songs would soon be populated with strange concoctions of people ending up in weird places doing crazy things. All in the name of love. Subject matter would begin to stray beyond the thrills and travails of love and lust in a modern world, but at the heart of every song beat the same ZZ topic — the thrill of the chase.

“I’ve just stayed in the blues tradition, well within the secret language lesson that lives right there in that Chess recording decade. One of my all-time favorites was Chuck Berry’s song, ‘Oh, Carol.’ He comes up with a word which is a twist on the paste tense of wish when he says, ‘You know you can’t dance/I know you wush you could.’ I guess that’s spelled w-u-s-h which rhymes with our t-u-s-h. We tried to open up the flexibility factor; verse structure didn’t have to be four lines and then a repeat. And with ‘Tush,’ we got into the John Lee Hooker school of non-rhyming.”

Though the threesome had been touring since its inception in 1969, they finally broke into the ranks of the big time when they headlined the Rompin’ and Stompin’ Barndance and Barbecue held in Austin, Texas on September 1, 1974. Labor Day. Appearing with Santana, Joe Cocker, and Bad Company (this latter group making its American debut), the band performed in front of 80,000 fans at the Memorial Stadium on the University of Texas campus. Ranking as the biggest concert in the state’s history, this was really the inaugural event that would change their image from A Little Ol’ Band into a marketable national act.

Building on the success of this show, and on songs like “Francine” (from Rio Grande Mud), “La Grange,” and “Tush,” in 1975, they embarked on the massive Worldwide Texas Tour. On stage, the band was a slick, well-oiled machine, virtuoso players just pulsing with Houston heat, with that southern-styled combination of wicked musicianship cross-bred with the Texan’s flair for bigger-than-life showmanship and acrobatics. Accompanied by haystacks, ranch paraphernalia, live buffalo, a longhorn steer, rattlesnakes, and buzzards, the band never allowed itself to be overshadowed — or eaten alive — by their bovine brethren.

By this period, Gibbons and Hill had orchestrated that cowboy choreography they’d continue to develop for years. Billy would sidle up close to Dusty and they’d drop guitar necks at exactly the same moment, do a little half-turn accompanied by a leisurely stroll back to Frank’s drum kit, and then return in synchronized precision to the microphones just in time to catch the next vocal. There was none of the usual posturing or histrionics, the guitar neck thrust up into the air while the player bends his head back and closes his eyes in deep supplication to the Guitar Gods above. None of that faux cheerleading where the lead singer prevails upon the audience to say, “Yeah,” or “Clap your hands” or inquires in mock interest, “Is everybody feeling OK, tonight?” The litany of overused stage patter and ridiculous stage moves would fill a book.

This is perfectly acceptable fodder in the world of rock – and a majority of bands knew the script, verse and chapter. But they never depended on the props; they used them as embroidery, as icing on a multi-tiered set of music that was typically flawlessly executed and paced to perfection. In fact, what truly set the band apart was the subtlety and economy reflected in their music/studio work, the way in which song structures gradually expanded and the manner in which the group just naturally evolved its sound and style. Billy was maturing, or rather, changing as a composer and author, reaching out into the zany world he occupied and telling us about it. This evolution would come to a head with the 1976 release of Tejas and songs like “Arrested for Driving While Blind” and “El Diablo.” Blues? Yes, but just barely. ZZ never stopped being a blues band; they just stopped thinking about it so much.

“On Tejas and Fandango! I was isolated in a booth, Frank was in a booth, and Billy in the room,” explained Dusty. “We had windows and headphones and microphones to communicate with each other, [but] there was no real eye contact as we’ve always had. It changed the sound. We were once again trying to do things properly in the studio and get the best sound, and at the same time that’s what we thought was the way to do it.”

“There was an antiseptic and sterile kind of situation on those albums,” agreed Billy.

Fatigue may have been setting in. With the virtual non-stop touring schedule and the release of six albums in the past seven years (The Best of ZZ Top was issued in 1977), the band decided to take a hiatus. With the greatest hits package delivered to London Records, the trio had met the label’s contract requirements. With a clean slate, pockets full of money, and nothing to think about but tomorrow, Billy flew over to Europe, Frank cruised to the Caribbean, and Dusty went down into Mexico. They recharged the batteries and this eventual three-year layoff turned into a period of musical re-evaluation and growth — and not strictly in an artistic sense.

“Behind the curtain, Dusty got lazy and I got lazy and so did Frank for not shaving. And here came the chin whiskers.”

In emphasis of the comment, the Wizard of Ozz cupped his fingers into a half-circle formation, encircled his beard, and ran down the length of it. The follicle formation, indeed, makes him look like some voodoo witchdoctor casting enchanted sonic spells, like some eccentric explorer in search of new riffs, new sounds, a place to plant the flag of originality. In the same way they approached every new album, the Beard brothers (Frank eschewed the new look but how poetically perfect is it that he has that last name?) reconvened and began work on the next release.

Deguello, their maiden recording for new label Warner Bros., was ZZ Top phase two, the moment when the curtains parted even further (they would not open completely until Eliminator] and revealed the mad magician now manipulating the controls of a new language and sound. Punk had reared its twisted little head on the necks of the Sex Pistols, the Ramones, the Clash and others, and this was Billy’s response. Again, as with every record, Billy examined the new elements — more furious thrashing and bashing, expanded and more colorful subject matter — picked out what he liked, and discarded the rest. This is a graceful and natural progression. There are no signs posted in the press, pointing to Deguello and reading, “Punk album made by blues band. Beware.” That would have been the kiss of death; intentionally conceived albums rarely work in rock. Gorging yourself on the latest sonic brew and regurgitating it in a barely disguised blob all over your next album rarely works. Gibbons understood that music is a slow moving beast, a creature that waddles from point A to point B not because it wants or has to, but simply because this is where it ends up.

“This is our first record to be completed after the ushering in of the punk scene. And we can gladly tip our hats to the doors they opened. Here is a kickass brand of music that is making a statement. ‘To hell with the FM playlist, we’re gonna do it like we wanna do it.’ Independent record labels are popping up, so the voice is heard. And I think it allowed us to relax to the point where we could use it.

“There are some interesting offerings like ‘Cheap Sunglasses’ and ‘Manic Mechanic’ which don’t necessarily leave the three-chord progression behind, but it’s definitely a step outside of Clarksdale, Mississippi. And then there are the Lone Wolf Horns. That R&B thing had started to become popular and we wanted to be part of it. We composed those two songs, ‘She Loves My Automobile’ and ‘Hi Fi Mama,’ in a strict Gulf Coast R&B thing. And it was basically block chord Little Richard backing. There was no solo work. We figured out there was a total of four chords that required the three of us to make a triad. So we had to learn eight different notes each; we knew our eight notes and that was it. Here you find the band starting to stretch out a little bit. It starts getting like, ‘OK, let’s get crazy with one or two here.’ And that’s where we are now.”

Billy glanced out the window; our frolicking little maiden had apparently retreated back inside her own bungalow. We’d been talking for well over an hour at this point, and though I assume he has plans for the rest of the day, I asked him if he’d maybe want to come back to the house and look at some records? He took a thoughtful pull on the forest growing from his face and said, “Yeah, boy, let’s do that.” I re-packed my journalism toolkit — cassette player, pens, tapes — and we made the long walk back to the lobby. Heads turned. I mean, you have to try and not recognize Billy Gibbons. They pulled my powder blue Mazda around to the front, we took our seats, and I made the long swerve down the famous Beverly Hills Hotel drive. Right before I turned left at Sunset Boulevard, Billy asked, “Doesn’t Eddie live around here somewhere?” I pointed to Coldwater Canyon as we passed it on our left and told him, “Right up and over the hill.” We headed east in the early afternoon sun, and as we passed the Hyatt West Hollywood and I wondered if B.F.G. remembers the place and the occasion, he said, “Man, there it is. You and I first met there.” I beamed from ear to ear like a teen on his first date. I took the left on Crescent Heights that immediately becomes Laurel Canyon north of Sunset Boulevard and headed up into the Hollywood Hills.

I banged a left on Kirkwood Drive and as the streets narrow and become steeper, I started thinking about how utterly textbook perfect, how Hollywood happy ending it would be if the delirious deejay was playing the song. But he never worked that late in the afternoon, so I let it go. We made the sharp right on my street and even from the end of the block you can hear it. I looked over at Billy, who was incredulous. Eyebrows furrowed and mouth dropped open in astonishment as he said, “Is that …?” I told him, “Every day at 11, man, this guy goes crazy. This is the first time he’s ever played it twice in one day. We should go find his house and knock on the door.” That famous Gibbons guffaw spilled out the car windows.

This type of moment would happen again, coincidentally, enough, with Van Halen. Five or so years later, I was with Edward in New Orleans — he was there for a NAMM show — and a house band at some bar was playing “Jump.” As we walked by, he stuck his head in the window. The guitar player literally froze on the spot and couldn’t play.

Anyway, we walked up the few steps to the front door. “Manic Mechanic” had ended and we both paused for a second to see if the Stereo in the Sky would play it again. It didn’t. I said, “It’s better this way.” Billy nodded.

I ushered him into my small one-bedroom. Back in the ’60s, Laurel Canyon was home to all the bands playing along the Strip: the Doors and the Byrds, Zappa, Dylan, some of the Buffalo Springfield guys. You could rent a place for $100 a month. In 1979, I paid $125. So, we walked down this little hallway and lined up along this one wall or about three or four hundred albums. Billy seemed impressed. We continued to the end of this short corridor, took a step down into the bedroom, and when I turned on the light to reveal 8,000 or records, he outwardly gasped. At the time, I had a bigger collection than most stores.

And he started looking. Every album was alphabetized — it’s the chronic journalist in me — and Billy kept asking, “Where are the Sir Douglas albums? Under S, or D, or Q (for Quintet)?” I had them under D — don’t ask — and Billy pulled out a couple, and then goes searching for some Hendrix and Cream, some blues stuff. I had it all. I had test pressings, English copies, boots, everything. I loved records, albums, the heft and weight of vinyl. CDs don’t, and never will, have the same impact.

Billy went crazy. I knew he’d appreciate the collection as much as I did. After about an hour or so, I sensed he probably had to get back. He had taken out a couple dozen albums, looked at the covers, read the liner notes, pulled the records from the sleeves. They were scattered all over the bed. I scooped them up into an orderly stack — Billy thought I was just arranging them to re-insert them into their proper filing locations. I grabbed up the pile and said, “Here, man, for you.” And he said, “I can’t take these,” and I told him, “I want you to have them.” And it was another fine moment, one of many that has taken place in our now 30-year plus friendship.

I returned him to the hotel and as he was vacating the car, he asked if I was coming to the show tomorrow night. I told him I wanted to and he said he’d leave passes and tickets for me at will call. And then he said, “I’ll have something for you there.” I drove away, headed back home, and thought life leads up to these kinds of moments. That it couldn’t get any better — but it would.

The next few hours are a bit hazy. I know, or think I know, that I called Edward. I probably told him about interviewing Billy because I knew he was a huge ZZ Top fan. “We used to do “La Grange” and “Tush” when we were playing Gazarri’s.” What I don’t remember is if I asked him to go to the concert or he mentioned it to me. In any case, I told him I had backstage passes and tickets. He said he’d drive.

He showed up the next evening in some type of Jeep. He’d been to the house before and, in fact, I had shown him my record collection and pulled out a bunch of albums I thought he’d like listening to. Les Paul, Larry Carlton, Steely Dan, some other stuff. I remember going to Edward’s house and seeing the pile lying there. He’d never listened to any of them. Anyway, the Wrangler or whatever it was had no windows, it was a vinyl top of some kind, and it was cold. By the time we got there, parking was useless. Ed drove up and over this small embankment and left the Jeep tilted at an angle, the passenger side tires up on the incline and the driver side tires on flat ground. We walked around to the box office and, good as his word, the tickets awaited.

Van Halen and Van Halen II had been released and Edward was immediately mobbed. But he kept his composure and when ZZ finally came on, everybody went back to their seats. The band was frighteningly good. They did “Manic Mechanic” — and I have to believe yesterday afternoon’s serenade was running through Billy’s head — and “Tush” and, of course, “La Grange.” They were scary tight and for a trio they filled up the auditorium with dense waves of guitars and drums. After-concert festivities were being held at the Queen Mary, a once-mighty cruise ship now relegated to dry dock in the port of Long Beach. There was a restaurant on board and facilities for getting married. Edward and I walked up the entrance, the man checked our passes, and we walked inside. There was a huge banquet room set up with tables filled with food and desserts, and several open bars. We scored a couple drinks, were talking about the show, and then I saw from the other side that Billy was coming in.

I knew this was another moment — introducing Billy Gibbons to Eddie Van Halen. Ed hadn’t seen the Bearded Boy make his entrance, so I said, “C’mere, man, I want you to meet somebody.” I think he gave me a look that said, “I don’t want to meet anybody” and I just said, “C’mon.” We walked across the floor and I still don’t think Ed had seen Billy. Billy saw me but, curiously, I don’t think he knew who I was with. We were finally face to face and before I could say, “Billy, this is …,” Edward grabbed Billy and hugged him.

They proceeded to talk shop, guitars and Warners and first albums and Cream and Jeff Beck. Edward told him that he loved the band, that Van Halen used to do tons of covers in the club days. Billy was obviously moved and sincerely touched. Billy grabbed Edward, pulled him away, and said, “I want to show you something.” I realized I hadn’t been invited but it’s fine; I was there when they first met, and that was enough for me. Edward returned, with Billy, and had a mini-shaped guitar case in his hand. He didn’t offer to open it and I didn’t ask. And then I realized — this was what Billy had for me. What was I supposed to do, tell Billy that he’d promised this to me?

They went off in a corner together and huddled there for an hour at least. I don’t know what they talked about, but I do know on that evening a friendship was created and cemented. They’d go on to be friends to this very day. We drove back and Edward seemed pretty elated; I was feeling good about being there. He dropped me off and he headed home.

A couple months later, a package arrived in the mail. It was about two-and-a-half feet long and about a foot wide and I couldn’t figure out what it could be. I started removing the wrapping and I saw it was a guitar case. Inside was a red Chiquita, these tiny little instruments with which Billy was somehow involved (he owned part of the company or helped with financing or something).

Now, 30 years later, I still remember those days clearly. I’ve interviewed Billy so many times since 1979. He had a house in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and he let me stay there twice. He calls from time to time and whenever a new ZZ Top album is released, we talk. The music may change, the direction may change, the sound may change, but what stays constant is his love for the guitar in all its incarnations. That never changes — and knowing that makes me happy.

“Dude,” a friend would ask the following week, “do you remember how amazing it was last Tuesday?”

And of course you do. Even if the day itself was all you’d been given, that would have been gift enough. But the weather was merely an underscoring for the occasion, a gilded and golden opportunity to spend an hour with George Harrison. You’ll forget how to breathe before you forget this. Simply saying the words out loud (actually you’re reduced to mumbling them sotto voce because you’re afraid that anything above a whisper might reduce the reality to mirage) – “I am hanging with a Beatle” – is enough to render you stupid.

Then you start considering the notion that maybe Harrison himself ordered up the perfect day as an interview-ambience backdrop. We all knew that he spoke with God all the time (and if He was going to listen to anybody, He’s going to find a minute or two for a Beatle). So, anyone who recalls a glorious Tuesday back in 1974, somewhere around May or June perhaps, the presence of just a soupcon of magic embedded in the sunrays, you can thank George and God (though not necessarily in that order). 

The dialogue was to take place at the Warner Bros. Records offices in Burbank, California, a tidy little suburb that was home to the label as well as Disney, television stations, and a multitude of pre-and post-production facilities. The buildings are tucked away on Warner Boulevard, a small side street hidden from prying eyes. Turning up the street, you had to park on one of the smaller residential lanes that stretched out perpendicular from the main drag. I arrived early, anxiously and impatiently early, but still had trouble finding a place to park. California streets are littered with cryptic hieroglyphs acting as posted traffic warning signs. Woe be to the driver who misinterprets said postings. George may have been able to transform June gloom but he held no sway with municipal parking laws. I finally found a spot at the end of a small thoroughfare.

I sat in the car for a minute, attempting to calm a celeritous heartbeat that was certainly going to stroke me out. The fat end of an hour loomed in front of me before the interview, and I took the time to recheck supplies (I’d already gone through this a dozen times before even leaving home). Can anyone say obsessive-compulsive behavior?

CHECKLIST
1) Blank cassettes (10 x 60 minutes) – one would have been sufficient; two would have presented a failsafe; three and above was Rainman-like; these had been purchased at Grant’s, a forerunner of Wal-Mart, and were priced at 3 @ $1.00 (they were the worst-sounding cassettes ever made – I used them for the first ten years of my career)

2) Batteries (8 x 1.5 volts) – completely superfluous because I used an A/C power cord (don’t even ask)

3) Power cord (1) – standard-issue: the two-pronged end plugs into the wall outlet and the female end receives two mini-prongs from the tape deck

4) Pens (3 x blue; 6 x black; 2 x red)- all Sanford Uni-Ball Micro; I knew I wouldn’t require them but I love pens

5) Pencil (1 x Papermate) – Papermate makes over 50 types of pencils; I don’t like pencils so I only brought one

6) Paper (500 x 8 ½” x11” single sheets) – I don’t know why I brought along an entire ream of blank/white paper 20 lb./104 brightness (maybe I thought George would write a song for me and might need something to doodle on)

7) Interview questions (8 x single sheet 8 ½”x11” paper/double-spaced) – I knew I’d never get through even a quarter of these questions but since I’d brought along a more-than-sufficient cache of cassettes, batteries (if our glorious Harrison-conjured day actually turned out to be Armageddon and we had to endure a blackout), paper and writing utensils, there was always the slim chance of being rewarded for my preparedness

Cassette recorder (1 x GE) – I made certain to double/triple up on anything I thought I might need, but when it came to the most critical piece in the arsenal, I was a moron; this was a used tape player I’d found out in my family’s garage; the motor did a whining/whirring thing like an asthmatic septuagenarian and every crepitating and crying sound was then picked up by the $2 microphone I’d purchased at the local Radio Shack; it was a top-loading machine and when you hit the Open button, the entire lid would fly off (it once hit me in the face and would have taken out an eye had I not been wearing glasses) – I had to keep my thumb down on this piece because it would intermittently eject a tape even while recording

Note: To this day, the thumb on my right-hand does not bend properly and will often start flopping about in strange fashion whenever “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” or “Something” comes on the radio

9) Aspirin (1 bottle x Anacin) – I didn’t have a headache and aspirin don’t work on my headaches anyway; I heard they did stave off potential stroke so I was ready

I made my way to the main entrance. Warner Bros. is all glass and redwood, a true cynosure of the city’s architecture. I haven’t stroked out, there are no telltale signs of a migraine, but knots forming in my stomach now bring to mind colon cancer. Four mugs of coffee gulped a few hours earlier begin to percolate. This is no ordinary day, no ordinary man, no single-cup-of-coffee morning – this is George Harrison and too much could never be enough for a Beatle. Hence, the arsenal and the carafes of caffeine.

I fight down the urge to be sick all over the obviously expensive and rare fauna and flora surrounding the main building. I enter the lobby and the receptionist at the front desk is a lady I’ve seen many times before. She knows me (she doesn’t know the name, but certainly she recognizes the face) and I know her and I’m grateful for this little bit of familiarity. I approach with a smile, greet her and receive – nothing. No response. Today I am a stranger, a ghost. I am feeling very John Doeful. This woman I’ve encountered at least nine times decides, today, that she does not know me.

”Your name, please?” she inquires. This is OK; standard operating procedure. Still, it comes out sounding more like a demand than a question. Or even worse, as a dare.

”Steven Rosen,” I uttered, straight to the point, and pretty certain I’d answered correctly.

”And you’re here to see?” She leaves the question dangling in the air like a dagger.

She knew whom I was there to see. Everybody in the building that day was there to see the same person.

”I have an interview with George Harrison,” I said, dropping in the “I have an interview with …” bit to show her I wasn’t messing around. This was business.

The lady with no eyes, or so it seems, scans her list. Methodically, painstakingly, deliberately and inexorably slowly, she traces a finger down a column of names, the scratch of her paste-on nail creating a sound that makes my teeth grind.

“Nothing on the first page,” chirps this humorless prison warden. She enjoys the torture, the humiliation being heaped upon me. Postal workers have killed with far less provocation than I am now experiencing.

She turns to the next sheet, breaking up the movements as if this is some type of choreography for the hands.

HAND DANCE ROUTINE
1) With thumb and first finger of right hand (reverse process for lefties), grab top sheet of list at the bottom of the page. Find center.
2) Place pad of thumb on edge of paper and rest four remaining fingers on the sheet.
3) Gently raise sheet (a curling action occurs) approximately 1” above sheets below.
4) As page continues to raise, carefully slide thumb underneath the sheet; apply pressure from top (four fingers) and bottom (thumb).
5) Raise in increments of 2” at a time and at a rate of about six seconds per each elevation.
6) When the sheet beneath is fully exposed, carefully and with precise movements, fold the top sheet over the top of the clipboard and secure this sheet with the left hand (this would be your right hand if you were a lefty).
7) Repeat entire process for page two beginning with Step 1.

I wanted to reach over the desk, grab the clipboard, and knock her unconscious. I could see myself doing it, I could feel the solid thwop of clipboard against cranium, and I could picture her sprawled out on the immaculately polished tile floor. I couldn’t see anything wrong in any of that. None of this bothered me — and that’s what really bothered me. I had to get away from this woman in the next two minutes, and I didn’t care how it happened: Either shaking hands with Harrison or being handcuffed and led away by Burbank police.

I am withering in the air-conditioned confines of the reception area. Climate control is certainly set for 72.3 degrees or whatever the maximal indoor temperature is meant to be, but sweat continues to run down my face. She has performed her finger ballet through three pages now. Perspiration is dropping into my eyes and I can feel myself morphing from confident, young journalist to myopic, insecure schmuck.

All the variations of a theme begin to announce their hideous presence.

REASONS YOU WILL NOT BE MEETING GEORGE
1) The interview has been canceled (and we just didn’t bother to tell you).
2) You were scheduled for 12:30 (it is now 1:30). This is unlikely since I confirmed, re-confirmed, and re-re-confirmed at least once a day for the past week. Which is all well and good unless …
3) …You were scheduled for Monday (it is Tuesday). You had the right hour – you simply missed it by about a day.
4) You murdered the receptionist.

I internally catalog these possibilities and save for #4 (which still holds real appeal if this person if front of me does not locate my name immediately), I attempt to assuage my galloping heart.

With tremendous effort, the stone lady lifts her head, her eyes tiny slits, and smiles.

“I’m sorry, your name is not on my list.”

Not the list, not the Warners list, but my list. My name does not appear on her list. She spits out the two adjectives like poison and all of a sudden she is a cobra, I am a mongoose, and I want to rip her throat out.

Everything now mocks me: The sunshine, my bag full of supplies, and my position in this world as a music writer. None of it is real and none of it is for me. My name on the list, on her list, on his list, on their list, will always be the name that isn’t on any list. I am only a couple of years into this gig as a music journalist and already it is unraveling. My biggest moment is now a permanent stain that will never be erased. My resume will read:

EXPERIENCE
*Conceived, developed and published hundreds of music industry stories and interviews with major artists including:
GEORGE HARRISON – Rosen came as close as anyone possibly could to interviewing Harrison without actually having interviewed Harrison. But he tried …

So, one of two things will happen here: I can wilt like a hothouse flower, fold up shop and retreat like a whipped cur. I can hurl at her every invective and religious incantation I’ve heard or ever will know. Both of these outcomes end with the same result, however – Ms. Schadenfreude wins. And that makes me gag.
Or, I can stand my ground, play the professional, and in stentorian tones, make a simple demand:

“Please check again. My name is on your list.”

We are certainly at war now. She responds to my incoming verbal rounds with a volley of eyeball-rolling, rat-a-tattat pen tapping with her right hand and ceramic nails assaulting sign-in sheet with her left (she has opened both barrels). I’m mildly brushed back but still standing. Gawking wounded. She pulls out a silver blade and I’m waiting for her to fix bayonets. It is a letter opener but I’m still prepared for a hand-to-hand confrontation. She outweighs me by about 50 pounds and even with the letter dagger, I’m pretty sure I can take her.

She places the pointer on the first page and uses it to underscore every name. She checks, again, and there it is, halfway down page one. I can read it upside down and I point to it. She interprets the gesture as a menacing one and brushes my hand away like something distasteful. But I don’t care.

“There it is … Steve Rosen.”

I can’t leave well enough alone; I’m high from the adrenalin rush. This mean-spirited little martinet cannot believe the name is there.

“I wonder how you missed that the first time?”

She is still a barely-contained frenzy, yet saturnine in defeat. She offers no apologies, nothing. Grabbing a little plastic holder with safety pin attached, she writes my name on a cardboard square, slips it in and hands it to me. I pin it on right there, taking my time, and watching her watching me. People wait behind me but I don’t care. I close the pin in its little metal clasp, pick up my bag, and leave.

Two steps away, I turn and in the most sincere voice I can muster, whisper, “Thank you so much for your help.” She turns red, picks up the pointer and fingers the tip. I make a hasty retreat. You can toy with wild animals but not for long.

I walked down the hallway to the publicity offices. There, I met with the publicist and was ushered into one of the larger conference rooms. “George will be right down,” she told me. I plugged in my tape recorder, inserted a cassette, and waited. I felt like I was hyperventilating again and tried to control my breathing. I told myself that this was just another guitar player, another musician with a story to tell. But I wasn’t very convincing. This was George Harrison, the quiet one, the religious one, one of the most inventive guitar players to ever place finger on fret.

I was beyond nervous and past the point of inhabiting my own body.

Several minutes later, George entered. He was beautiful; he was bearded; he was a Beatle. The publicist introduced us: “George, this is Steve Rosen. Steve, George Harrison.” As if I didn’t know. The rest of it really was a blur. He was courteous, funny, insightful, quick, and intelligent. I looked at my list of questions and as I posed them, they felt thick in my mouth, stupid. There was so much more I wanted to ask, so many better questions I could have formulated. But he was gracious with every one.

It wasn’t until I returned home and listened to the tape that I realized the conversation really was pretty hip. I met friends that night and before telling them what had transpired that day, I wanted to see if they saw anything different in me. Did I look wiser? More at peace? Anything? Nobody discerned any change.

I told them who I met that day and they were impressed but not blown away. They took it in stride; they knew I’d been writing for a couple of years now and this was just another day in the life. I didn’t push it; I knew what they were feeling inside. Any one of them would have sacrificed a limb to even sit in the same room with a Beatle. They were jealous beyond words and so I downplayed it.

“He was cool,” I said. “No big deal.”

One of my friends even hinted that it might have been a waste of time talking with an ex-Beatle. I smiled; I knew. They were all going to race home and put on their Beatles’ albums and listen to “Taxman” and “Within You Without You” and listen to his sitar on “Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)” and pretend it was them instead of me who had spoken to him.

I left them their fantasies; I didn’t make fun of them. I had been enlightened. I knew what I’d gone through to spend one momentous hour on that monumental California day. I had been eye-to-eye with the myth, magic, and majesty of Mr. George Harrison. I had made my way through the morass and tangle of red tape and unhappy lower-rung record company employees. I had done my job – and maybe even befriended a Beatle.

Magazines did respond; they passed me over. Rolling Stone. Circus. Guitar Player. Creem. Crawdaddy. The memento mori of a career that would never be. Death head rejection letters. I was turned down by the best. There actually came a point when receiving personalized rejection notices made me feel like I was getting closer. After all, someone had to read the story in order to comment on how shitty it was. Did it matter that the work really was wonky? That I was sending live reports to publications that didn’t run that type of article? That I hand-wrote the stories because the letters a and y on my ancient Underwood manual didn’t work? The y wasn’t a problem. But you try and conjure words that don’t contain a certain letter – a vowel nonetheless – and all you can think of are words that do contain the vowel. Anonymity, shine your dim light down upon your stupidest son. I was fading like Levi’s.

Youthful exuberance and blissful ignorance is a heady potable but it will only take you so far. I needed to go farther. Change. A road trip. At that moment, changing who I was on any percipient level seemed about as likely as being published. But I could change where I was and the summer after high school, I embarked upon the wandering nomad-does-Europe incursion. I stuffed a backpack with a pair of jeans – my best faded Levi’s – a couple shirts, my best tale-telling writing pen and Kerouac’s On the Road (what else would you take?) and spent three months in Europe trying to find and lose myself.

The final two weeks were spent in England and here I could feel the metamorphosis beginning. I could feel myself not dissolving. I might yet outrun life as an outline. While in London, I met Tony Brainsby, a bigshot publicist who represented Fleetwood Mac, Queen, Curved Air, and Paul McCartney. Tony took me under his wing and let me sleep in his office. I don’t know why, really. I was an innominate object, a byline-less journalist. The only pieces I’d managed to get published were for a softcore porn rag called the LA Star. No money. I gave him a copy when we first met. He thumbed through several pages before blurting, “This is fucking great, mate.” I was beaming like the village idiot. Recognition, finally. He turned the paper around and showed me the black and white photo of a gravity-defying blond.

I was vapor. Insubstantial. I was the Escher etching of a hand drawing a hand in reverse; I was being erased. I could see him looking through me. He couldn’t have taken me seriously but still he let me stay. Money was scarce and sleeping on a sofa was infinitely more desirable than bedding down in Hyde Park. After three nights in a row outdoors, even my parsimonious nature was ready to cough up for a cheap motel. When the pursuit of artistry runs headfirst into strange nocturnal murmurs, strange nocturnal murmurs win every time. The wonderful Mr. Brainsby, perhaps glimpsing in me the rumblings of a future rock scribe, allowed me access to his couch and entrée into a world I would occupy for the next several decades.

One morning, he came into the office while I was still rising. A question: “Paul McCartney is playing in Birmingham tonight and I wanted to know if you’d like to go and see the show and interview him afterwards?” After Paul McCartney came out of his month, I didn’t hear much else. I knew he was putting me on. I waited for the punch line to come out. But it never did.
The entire experience was out of body. “A fucking Beatle,” I kept thinking. One of the first interviews I’d ever done and it was going to be with Paul McCartney. The next day I took a train up to Birmingham. Everything appeared to be slightly out of focus. Like when you go to the optometrist and he checks your eyes in that giant robotic looking device? He changes the lenses one at a time and until he reaches the perfect match, there is a slight blur. I was suspended in that one click away. The train had no movement; no loco-motion.

I attempted to write down some questions but it was someone else’s hand moving the pen. I jotted something down. “Will the Beatles ever get back together?” That’s about all I could muster. I tested the batteries in my cassette player. Nothing. No play, no forward, no rewind. Checking the battery department revealed – no batteries. I’m about to interview Paul McCartney, my nascent career finally gaining purchase, and I have no batteries. I am breaking down into small pieces. Fractured.

But God, they say, looks after the weak and dimwitted and that evening He had his hands full. Right across the street from the Odeon, the cinema where Wings was playing, was an electronics store. There are batteries of every shape and function. They are purchased, inserted into my cassette deck, and tested. Motion. Wheels are turning. I am no longer evaporating

From this moment on, it’s truly difficult to recall anything clearly. I remember seeing Linda on keyboards and Henry McCullough on guitar, and some left-handed bass player singing. I’m trying to watch the show – and the band does sound remarkable – but I am fixated on only one thing: Please, God, do not let me disappear in front of one of the Beatles.
The show ends and I’m escorted backstage. There he is, sitting in a corner, Linda and kids by his side, the rest of the band alternately sitting down and walking around, drinking beer and noshing. I’m introduced and I think I said Steve but it may have been Walter. There were a couple other writers there and they seemed so confident, so unaffected by this man sitting in front of them. So chill. As if it was no big deal holding court with an icon.

Paul, and maybe this is why he is Paul, sensed my trepidation, my terror, my anxiety, and took me under his wing. He had me sit beside him and, holding my $5 microphone, I made an attempt at professionalism. At one point he accidentally brushed the arm-extended mic with his hand and quipped, “Sorry, mic.” It was the most brilliant thing anyone had ever uttered. He knew, he understood, what it meant for me to be there with him. He gave himself to me. No question was too stupid or too small. Even when I posed the inevitable Beatles reunion query – again – he just grinned and bared his soul.

“I don’t know, really. What I say is, if we just kinda get friendly and cool and if anyone wants to work with the other … I done a little bit on Ringo’s new album and the other two did too. And those kind of little things we’re all happy to do. But a definite no to the Beatles reforming because I think it’s gone too far. I think if the Beatles had broken up for a week and then reformed, there was a possibility. But it can’t go two years and reform again.”

The interview flew by and before I knew it I was back on a southbound train heading for London. Had it not been for the conversation being recorded, I may have questioned the entire experience. A magical mystery tour. Me, a 20-year old no one, breaking bread with a Beatle. The cute one. Paul McfuckingCartney. I could feel myself growing substantial, gaining momentum, shape shifting from vapors to visibility.

To this day, that moment still remains essentially indefinable. I constantly try to refine the memory, un-blur it and add dimension, but it will always be dream sequence-like. That was fantasy-given-flesh, my own personal fairy tale in which the common man is plucked from obscurity and vanquishes the dragon. A sort of faux-real life roman a clef. I mean, how would you describe it? You’re a virgin writer gone off to see the world. Someone presents you with the opportunity of talking to a Beatle. You’re scared senseless and every indicator is pointing to the true north of fucking up. But you don’t. You are not calm, under control, engaging, or insightful, and only marginally professional (you did buy new batteries but neglected to see if you had any cassette tapes and Thank God again that you had one left). I possessed none of those qualities that 6th of July, 1973. But I was there and I managed to get through it without turning invisible in front of Paul McCartney. In fact, I wasn’t even close to throwing up all over the guy and I had a long way to go before I made a complete idiot of myself. In my mind, I had been perfect …

This is who Slash is. He understands the importance of keeping business appointments and hugging the people who work for you. Twenty years ago, back in ’87, when he recorded Guns N’ Roses’ debut, Appetite For Destruction, he set in motion the ritual beheading of the ’80s metal hair bands. With Velvet Revolver, he has synthesized the electric blues and R&B raunchiness of the Stones and Aerosmith and almost single-handedly brought about the Renaissance of the Les Paul.

At that moment in time, he made the transition from guitar player to Guitar Player God. With the metamorphosis came perks – engorged bank accounts and burning hot stripper girlfriends. Through it all, though, one thing stayed constant: His love for the guitar. He loves playing them and talking about them, and when we finally made our way to one of the conference rooms, that’s exactly what we did. 

He lights a cigarette — but not before asking my permission.

Slash has already created an astonishing body of work. Guns has sold over 90 million records and Velvet Revolver’s first album, Contraband, debuted at Number One. Libertad, the follow-up, pulses with the same organic thump that informed the early GNR records, but there is the swirl of something modern here. If Appetite For Destruction signaled the end of that ’80s style of metal guitar playing, then Libertad could very well be the bridge modern, neo-hard rock/metal guitarists might walk over.

After all, who is creating the next Are You Experienced? Blow By Blow? Where is the next Stevie Ray Vaughan or Ritchie Blackmore hiding?

Whoever these musicians are, they have no real sense of what they might be creating. When Slash talks about the footprints he will leave behind, or, more accurately, the handprints, he’s almost at a loss in finding the appropriate words. He is proud of the work but sees it as little more than a means towards an end — the ability to continue cranking up an electric guitar and being paid to do so.

He pulls one last smoke out of the pack, strikes a match, and as he is about to light it, he looks across the table. He raises his eyebrows in a gesture intimating, “Is it cool if I smoke one more?”

The last great guitar hero with a heart …

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“Screw this up,” I also remembered muttering to myself, “and the closest I’ll ever get to another guitar player is looking at his picture on the cover of an album!”

I silenced the voice and plodded ahead. GP had only made one cursory call to Zeppelin’s record company offices in New York, and had left the rest up to me. I contacted Swan Song immediately. The baton had been passed and I ran with it like Forrest Gump.

“Run, Rosen, Run!”

What I thought would be a sprint turned into a marathon.

The next seven months were devoted to making phone calls and leaving messages. Dealing with Zeppelin’s demands and strange requests became a daily ritual. In many ways, they may have been testing my resolve, some sort of acid test meant to reveal just how truly motivated I was.

I never wavered. But it didn’t take long to realize that the Zeppelin juggernaut was a take-no-prisoners machine. Swan Song wanted control over every detail of the interview.

They were adamant about all terms and conditions; any refusal represented a potential deal breaker. None of this really surprised me because I knew that Jimmy’s relationship with the press was openly hostile. He didn’t like them, had never trusted them, and after being crucified in print on multiple occasions, rarely did interviews at all.

If the guitarist’s handlers insisted that I jump through burning hoops, that was fine with me. A cover story? No problem. No discussion about drugs or black magic? My lips were sealed.

I finally received their OK. Janine Safer, Swan Song’s publicist and my point person there, gave me the news. She told me that I’d be staying at Zeppelin’s hotel and be allowed on their private jet. I would be granted interviews with both Page and John Paul Jones. A full access score.

Several days later, I flew out to Chicago from Hollywood and met up with Zeppelin two weeks into the first leg of their 11th US tour.

Janine was waiting for me at the O’Hare Airport. In limousine luxury, we drove back to the Ambassador East Hotel. The black stretch’s bar was fully stocked and the publicist mixed a couple of Stoli vodka/tonics for us. We made a little small talk and she laid out standard operating procedure.

Zeppelin would be based in Chicago for the next several weeks. They’d fly out to the various concerts on their custom Boeing 707 and then return to the Ambassador East. Be in the hotel lobby 45 minutes before any departure. Never be late. That type of thing.

More than anything, though, she repeated this final caveat:

“Never,” she said, and held her cut crystal cocktail tumbler aloft in emphasis, “speak to the band unless they first speak to you.”

Jeanine didn’t have to worry. I not only didn’t talk to anyone in Zeppelin for the next three days, I never saw anyone from the band. If I hadn’t known that Led Zeppelin were staying at this hotel, I would have sworn someone was playing a trick on me.

I was a prisoner in a gilded cage. The Ambassador East was one of the finest hotels in the Windy City, but I couldn’t even walk outside for fear of missing a call or a knock on the door. I had access to 24-hour room service and a regally appointed deluxe room complete with a king-sized mahogany poster bed and a huge color TV. What I didn’t have access to was Jimmy Page.

A gaggle of giggling groupies had set up base camp in the hotel lobby. They were there virtually 24/7, anxiously waiting to see or talk to Zep. Not unlike me. They’d seen me in the hotel and assumed I was with the band. I told them I was doing interviews with Jimmy and John Paul, though by then, even I was coming to doubt my own story.

I invited them up to my room and ordered room service for everybody. If I wasn’t going to do an interview, I was going to eat myself stupid on Zeppelin’s dime. It became a daily ritual and just about the only diversion that kept me from going stir crazy.

After three days of hanging around, my room phone rang.

“Jimmy will see you now,” Janine’s voice informed me.

I gathered up my cassette player and tapes, microphone, pages of typed questions, and found the elevator. Two huge security guys accompanied me. You never walked anywhere within Zeppelin’s perimeter without benefit of escort.

I tried to put all those months of negotiations and preparations behind me. I focused on the moment at hand. One of the security team knocked on Jimmy’s door. Janine answered. I entered, was introduced to the guitar player, and we shook hands. We walked back into a separate sitting room and I began setting up my gear.

While plugging in the microphone, I glanced up and saw a huge hole in the wall; massive chunks of plaster littered the floor where a completely destroyed telephone also sat in pieces. I looked up at Jimmy, briefly, and he noted the concern on my face.

He told me the ringing of the phone bothered him, so he took it off the hook. There were busy signal noises and that perturbed him even more.

There was a sense of paranoia in the way he talked about the “voices on the telephone” and the “silence being disturbed.” The explanation was a bit disjointed but a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on a countertop connected the dots.

“There was nothing left for me to do,” Jimmy said, wearing a strange little grin, “but pull the phone out of the wall. And just carry on.”

We did. We talked for nearly an hour about everything from his earliest sessions to the use of a double neck in “Stairway to Heaven,” and how that song became the cornerstone of what he described as the Guitar Army.

During our conversation, Jimmy took several swallows from the bottle of Jack. He did concentrate on every question, however, and at one point, he even interrupted himself mid-thought.

“This is important, getting all this down. We’re going to do this right.”

Jimmy had fallen into his own moment of clarity, the same way I had experienced mine seven months earlier. He understood the importance of what we’d be doing.

Five minutes later, I asked him about one of the tracks off the first Zeppelin album. He mentioned using the Les Paul. I cautiously countered, “Wasn’t that the Telecaster?” He sat there for a moment, concentrated, and nodded affirmatively. A couple of times the conversation wandered into a no man’s land and needed to be dragged back onto track.

I didn’t know if this had to do with the Jack Daniels or if Jimmy had simply forgotten. With the number of guitars he’d strummed, that would have been entirely possible. Whatever the reasons were, that moment of clarity was lit and extinguished all in the span of five minutes.

Jimmy had no memory problems whatsoever when he talked about the development of feedback. And pointed out one of its sources.

I returned to my room and checked the tape. Though we had ventured into murky waters from time to time, what I heard coming from the tiny 2” tape player speaker absolutely floored me. Jimmy had been intense and funnier than hell. It was the gospel according to King James.

Another hour of one-on-one time, and I’d return to Guitar Player a conquering hero.

Thirty minutes later, my phone rang for the second time that day. I had been instructed to be in the lobby in two hours. Zeppelin were flying to St. Louis and performing at the Blues Arena there. I was downstairs in 15 minutes.

The girls were there, of course. I probably would have been shot for breaking silence but I told them the band were coming down in a little over an hour.

I had been regaling them with stories about Page when he exited the lobby elevator. The women ran up to him and the rest of Zeppelin and tried to get autographs and pictures. The phalanx of bodyguards kept them at more than arm’s length, and weren’t exactly gentle with their movements.

Everyone jumped into a cavalcade of limousines that caravanned out to a private tarmac at O’Hare Airport. Caesar’s Chariot, Zeppelin’s private jet, awaited them. Leased from Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas for $2,500 per day, the retrofitted jet accommodated a bar, private bedrooms, and a Hammond organ. Two stewardesses had been (seemingly) plucked right off the pages of Playboy.

Janine pointed to a seat and I buckled myself in. We taxied, took off, and climbed to cruising altitude. I was still seated when Bonzo walked by. He drank straight out of a JD bottle and was so drunk he could barely walk. Grown enormous due to alcohol consumption, Bonham shot me a look that said, “I would kick your ass just because I can.” He was terminally angry. There was no excuse too small for him to lose his temper. He screamed at the stewardesses, who acted like they’d encountered this before and just ignored him.

Though there was no real reason for his anger, there may have been some contributing factors. The kickoff date for the Presence tour had been postponed for one month because Robert Plant contracted tonsillitis; then, two days into the rescheduled shows, Page fell ill. Manager Peter Grant suffered through a terrible divorce. And looming over everything was the memory of Robert’s nearly catastrophic car accident two years earlier.

Vacationing on the Greek island of Rhodes, Plant and family had been buzzing around in a rented car. Wife Maureen was driving when she lost control and skidded on a narrow lane. The car plummeted over a precipice, struck a tree, and crumpled. Robert suffered a badly broken ankle and elbow.

So, even though everyone had tried to forget, memories lingered. All the excess and opulence could not wash away this cloud of depression. There was a sense of disenchantment that hung over everything.

No one wanted for anything, but nobody seemed content.

Janine came over and told me the all-important follow-up interview might be happening in a few minutes. I figured she was joking because we were only about 30 minutes away from reaching St. Louis. But I knew Zeppelin politics; I had endured it for three days running. When the press liaison informed me that there were 15 minutes to be squeezed in during a flight ending in about 20, I heeded the instruction.

I was accompanied to the rear of the plane. Safer was on point, a monster of a security guard followed her, then me, and another enforcer brought up the rear. Even on a plane, you didn’t walk around without a chaperone.

I greeted Jimmy and it was hard to tell whether he recognized me from a few hours earlier or not.

I sat down and cranked up the tape machine. I had to hunch over because it was almost impossible to hear what he was saying above the shrieking white noise of the jet engines. He talked in a whisper anyway and if you compounded that with a thick Hounslow-tinged English accent, you were lucky to catch every third word.

We revisited his sessionwork. “Beck’s Bolero” had been one of the more important dates he’d played on because the lineup of that band almost became the original version of Led Zeppelin.

It felt like I had just sat down when one of the security crew grabbed my shoulder. I turned around and understood that my time was over and we were about to land.

That was the final time I met with Jimmy. Two days later, I’d sit and speak with John Paul Jones. But I never did assemble what I had originally envisioned as The Great Jimmy Page Interview.

The response from the magazine was pretty overwhelming, and the feedback from people who ultimately read it was tremendously positive.

But I knew I had missed it.

Epilogue: Two months later, Zeppelin were in Los Angeles to play an unprecedented six nights at the 17,000-seat Inglewood Forum. I attended several shows. One evening while backstage, I ran into John Paul Jones. He had seen the Guitar Player piece and told me he was really happy with the story.

I asked him if Jimmy had read it. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

I wasn’t surprised.

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It was rock and roll full throttle; it was Ritchie Blackmore without a leash. The show was bigger than life and crazier than hell, the elements that have been a part of every memorable concert from the Stones to Zeppelin. Purple was the greatest band in the world that evening, tearing up the night with a set list made up of songs from the just-released Burn album. It would be impossible to capture that kind of drama every night, however, and less than a year after that performance, Blackmore would call it quits to form Rainbow.

But there was nothing but a buzz of energy when I was finally ushered to the backstage area of the concert hall. The unique choreography of a rock and roll show was taking place. Amplifiers were given final tweaks and guitars underwent last-minute tune-ups. David Coverdale and Glenn Hughes, the newest members of Purple Mark III, were strolling about. Out front, you could hear the St. Paul auditorium filling up, the crowd happy to be out of the 47-degree cold and growing ever louder in anticipation.

Amidst all of the commotion, Ritchie was standing with one leg propped up on a small practice amp. He was running through what must have been his pre-show routine, oblivious to the commotion around him. When one of the crew asked him something, he continued playing for another few seconds and then raised his head. Without uttering a word, he simply stared at the source of the question and shot him a look that withered. He then lowered his head and continued practicing.

At that moment, I was brought over and introduced to him. Several minutes passed while he continued with his finger exercises, and I actually think he had forgotten I was there. I broke the silence by telling him Creem magazine had flown me out and he muttered something that sounded like an insult. We began. He slipped in and out of this strange English double-talk, but for the most part he remained relatively polite.

Still, he seemed pissed off. It ran as an undercurrent during our conversation and was there later during his performance. I watched the show and realized that he rarely interacted with the band and never acknowledged there was an audience out there. They performed new material from the Stormbringer album. Coverdale and Hughes brought a real R&B feel to the music and Ritchie had stated time and time again that he hated funk.

Is that why he was so angry? This is what he told me:

“I’ve got to a stage where I’m thinking, ‘I still haven’t proved myself yet. I still want to be more and more and more. I’m quiet, maybe moody. I have a very dry sense of humor. I’m into practical jokes.”

Fast forward: One year later, I was sitting in the Rainbow Bar and Grill when I was hit on the side of the head with a stale roll. I turned around and I saw Ritchie Blackmore. I smiled and he flashed a “Who, me?” grin. Thirty seconds later, I’m beaned again. This time I don’t even look up.

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I did learn that Paul was absolutely enamored with Eric’s playing. When I finally met Koss about seven years later, he couldn’t stop his gushing.

“The first real inspiration I had to get into it was seeing Eric Clapton with John Mayall at a small club. I didn’t know who he was or what had gone down, but here’s all these people yelling, ‘God, God!’ He really caught my attention and then I wanted to play.”

Paul finally met his hero on that Blind Faith tour. During our interview in 1976, he also told me of that momentous meeting.

“Clapton came up to me and asked ‘How the hell do you do that?’ talking about my vibrato. “And I said, ‘You must be joking!’”

The second time I saw Paul Kossoff perform was in early 1972. I still wasn’t writing yet. “All Right Now” had been all over the radio a couple years earlier and everybody now knew that one. But I had become familiar with some other album tracks, like “Fire and Water” and “Mr. Big,” from playing them in a band. We did a lot of Free stuff because the music was so simple. Or at least it sounded that way. I tried to copy Kossoff’s style, his unbelievable finger vibrato, but I never could. It always came off as too frantic, too wiggly. Every guitarist buddy of mine wanted to sound like Koss, but no one ever pulled it off.

Free would be playing at the Hollywood Palladium and I bought tickets the day they went on sale. But that wasn’t going to be enough. I really wanted to see them up-close this time. I knew they had to be doing a soundcheck and I thought that would be the time to really check them out. On the day of the show, I piled my brother and his friend into the car and we made the 35-minute northeasterly drive from my parent’s home in Culver City (where I was still living at the time) up to Sunset Boulevard.

Gear was being loaded in as we pulled into the Palladium parking lot. Road cases branded with the West, Bruce & Laing logo (the headliners) were being wheeled in the rear loading dock. We didn’t have to check for unlocked doors because they were all wide open. A side door provided convenient entry and we strolled in and occupied an inconspicuous spot in the corner.

Inside, Palladium staff scurried about, filling the bars with booze, sweeping up, and generally busying themselves in preparation. No one paid attention to the band up on stage.

Free were on that stage, running through their soundcheck. We’d made it just in time. Paul Rodgers checked mike levels with bluesy vocal scats and the vocalist’s timeless mantra: “Test 1 – 2 – 3.” Simon Kirke and Andy Fraser riffed through some simple drum-and-bass grooves so their sound crew, sitting at a soundboard in the middle of the hall, could make final volume/tone adjustments.

And there was Paul Kossoff, standing in front of his massive Marshall amps. The stack dwarfed him. If he was perched on a hill, Koss logged in at maybe 5’3.” The cabinets loomed so large, it looked like someone had built a movie set to double-scale.

He swayed from side to side like a buoy in a turbulent sea. He rocked backwards and forwards and used the Marshalls like ballast to keep himself from falling over. As he watched the band around him going through their pre-show routine, he appeared to be on the verge of passing out. But the moment he struck his first chord, it was as if he’d been zapped with adrenaline.

His sunburst Les Paul Standard consumed all of the air in the hall. The sound that came roaring from his 12” Celestions had punch-you-in-the gut mids mixed with thumping lows. Koss loaded his Marshall cabs with bass speakers because (as he’d tell me three years later), “I don’t like a lot of top. With bass speakers you get a nice, round sound without rasp.”

The band ran through “Travellin’ Man,” “Sail On” and several other songs from their just-released sixth album, Free at Last. They ended the rehearsal with “The Stealer,” Kossoff’s bare-knuckled riff literally vibrating the glasses sitting atop the bar.

We burned a few hours in Hollywood, got something to eat, and watched the hookers on Sunset Boulevard. We only looked.

We returned to the Palladium now filled to capacity. Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show opened with a short set that included “On the Cover of Rolling Stone.” After an hour’s delay, Free took the stage. Or three-fourths of the band of the band did, anyway. Obviously the past 60 minutes had been spent  trying to coax out of Paul whatever had gone into him.

Paul Rodgers announced to an impatient crowed that, “Koss wasn’t feeling well.” The audience understood the comment, but didn’t appreciate it. The singer picked up a guitar and plowed through a workmanlike version of “My Brother Jake.” Heroic attempt or not, it didn’t work. The fans hurled plastic cups and nasty epithets and trying to ignore the beer and abuse, the trio exited with heads bowed.

It was a sad scene but not the first one the band had experienced. Koss had been staring down the barrel of addiction for a lot of years. There had been other delayed shows and canceled concerts. He still had the magic in his fingers, but it disappeared a little more every time he took a drink or a pill. And every time he thought about Jimi.

Hendrix’s death crushed Koss. He revealed his curiosity – more a fixation really – when we met in 1976.

“I had a very morbid interest at one point in Hendrix and Otis (Redding). I used to listen to them and take all these drugs and I’d think, ‘What point in my even playing? They’ve done it all.’ And that was a bad way to be. I went through a big Hendrix thing where I was infatuated by him, his music, and his death.

“I was probably looking for my sound with Back Street Crawler because that’s when I switched from the Les Paul to the Stratocaster. That’s what Jimi played, just what he used. I don’t think it was conscious and it’s kind of hard to even talk about.

“I started experimenting and trying to work with Leslies. That’s what Jimi used to get a lot of his tone. I started out with just one but then I even got a second one.

“When I was fifteen or sixteen, Hendrix first came to Britain with Chas Chandler and he was going around to all the music shops and I was working in one. In that shop, if there were a colored person buying something, they’d put a C on the top of the sales sheet. Chas came in with Jimi one day and, honestly, Hendrix looked freaky and he really did smell. When he first walked in, all the salesmen were going, ‘Oh, my God!’ There weren’t any guitars strung left-handed so he took this right-handed Strat and turned it over so that the low E was on the bottom. He started playing some chord stuff like in ‘Little Wing’ and the salesmen looked at him and couldn’t believe it. They wouldn’t own up to it afterwards, but they were all hanging around him, putting up with the smell and everything. He didn’t buy anything, but just seeing him really freaked me. I loved him to death.”

This preoccupation with Jimi, compounded by Paul’s own self-destructive behavior, profoundly impacted the band. Just a few months after this Hollywood Palladium spectacle, bassist Andy Fraser left. He couldn’t handle Kossoff’s excesses. Bassist Tetsu Yamauchi and keyboardist John ‘Rabbit’ Bundrickwere brought in as replacements, but nothing could stop the bleeding.

The new lineup recorded Heartbreaker in early 1973 and that was virtually the end of it. Koss didn’t even play on some of the tracks because he was too messed up. Stray Dog guitarist Snuffy Walden had to be brought in to copy his licks.

Paul was humiliated. He was trying to hang on to the one thing in his life that meant anything to him: Playing guitar in Free. When his bandmates refused to support him during the Heartbreaker sessions, he felt lonely and abandoned. The group finally called it a day in mid-1973, and Paul made a mighty effort to keep moving forward. But he was completely demoralized and a hardcore addict by this time.

While Rodgers and Kirke went off to form Bad Company and Fraser left to assemble Sharks, Paul created Back Street Crawler. He simply wasn’t the same player he once was. Jimi’s ghost had returned to haunt him and he traded the Les Paul for a Strat. That raw and bluesy style he’d perfected by bringing together the best parts of Clapton, Peter Green, and Jeff Beck, barely peeked through. The fire was gone.

By 1976, I’d been a writer for a few years. When I heard that Paul Kossoff would be in Hollywood with Back Street Crawler, I immediately jumped on the phone to Guitar Player and pitched the interview. They went for it.

When I knocked on his hotel door, the first thing that struck me when he opened it was how tiny he really was. Paul was small. On a good day, if the wind were blowing perfectly, I stood about 5’7.” But I was like a skyscraper hovering over a one-story building.

He had a huge heart and I was completely charmed and disarmed by him. He was modest and shy about his guitar playing. Several times during our conversation, he talked about how much he loved Paul Rodgers and how much he missed Free. I think there was part of him that still couldn’t accept the fact they were no longer together.

We got around to talking about his finger vibrato. When I told him how unbelievable his technique was, he simply shrugged off the compliment.

“I think my sound, especially my vibrato, has taken a long time to sound mature, and it’s taken a long time to reach the speed of vibrato that I now have. I trill with my first, middle, and ring fingers and bend chiefly with my small finger. I’ll use my index finger when I’m using vibrato.

“I like to move people; I don’t like to show off. I like to make sounds as I remember sounds that move me. My style is very primitive but at the same time it has developed in its own sense. I do my best to express myself and move people at the same time.

“I think there’s still more room to develop in the way I’m playing. My vibrato is finally starting to grow up.”

We spoke for about an hour or so and I asked him if he had a guitar around. I wanted to see if he could finger some chords and maybe map out some simple solo runs for the article. He said he had his Les Paul.

“The Les Paul?” I inquired.

He smiled, walked into the adjoining room and returned with the guitar. It was the same sunburst Standard I’d seen him play at the Palladium a few years earlier. He held it out in a gesture that said, “Do you want to play it?”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

He nodded vigorously and passed it over. I pretended to know what I was doing, strumming miscellaneous chords and plucking out a miserable pentatonic scale. I played the opening riff to “All Right Now” and completely blew it. He looked over at me with arched eyebrows and though he didn’t say a word, the muted response expressed surprise. He probably figured that just because I wrote about guitar, it didn’t mean I knew how to play one. Even a little bit.

I handed the Les Paul back to him and he wrapped his short little fingers around the neck and bashed out the riff. Perfectly. Though it sounded so simple, it was a deceptively complex riff. That was the key to a lot of his playing – he made some pretty difficult stuff sound pretty damn easy.

Paul was pretty drunk during the entire conversation. You could hear it in his speech and see it in the way he moved. It was a terrible thing to watch.

Three months after the interview, Paul would be gone. He was only 25. The Guitar Player story ran in the July 1976 issue. Koss had passed on March 19, 1976. He never saw the story.

Interview Clip 1: (download)
Interview Clip 2: (download)