B005S8O7YE EBOK (39 page)

Watching that elderly lady and then sexagenarian Dottie French deliver with impunity what I believed to be inaccurate information, my education in Trial Law 101 began with Lesson 1: it is virtually impossible to impeach the testimony of an elderly lady. Lesson 2 was that
two
elderly ladies delivering the same misinformation are even more difficult to impeach. Disproving such testimony rarely sits well with a judge or a jury. Fortunately, Trial Law 101 included a third lesson. The most effective way to impeach the testimony of however many old ladies is to come up
with your own old lady who not only testifies truthfully but brings pictures and a diary.

Working with a private investigator, we found an elderly lady who had visited the area in the 1940s and was willing to fly up from California to tell the truth. From her wheelchair she testified that the gates had been locked when she and her husband had driven up to the ranch many years ago. She brought photographs, a diary, and her own very convincing testimony. The opposing lawyers, of which there were now seven, ignored Lesson 1 and tried to impeach our elderly lady, but her testimony held up through cross-examination. After the trial—four years after Thurlo French had initially sought relief from the county commissioners for a problem he didn’t have—Judge Arnold Beebe reviewed our elderly lady’s evidence along with the documents Rick and I had obtained from the Forest Service and ruled that the road within my ranch was private. With the judge’s decision in my favor, all criminal charges were dismissed and the commissioners settled the federal case out of court.

Not surprisingly, opposing counsel appealed Judge Beebe’s decision. Their appeal had the effect of extending the illusion of credence to their claim for another three years. The status of the road within the ranch continued to be perceived by the public as unresolved until the Idaho State Supreme Court upheld the trial judge’s ruling in 1988 and the news media duly reported that information. Even so, confirmation of my victory didn’t stop some of the mud from sticking. To some of the local old guard, I would always be the wealthy outsider who had locked them out of their God-given right to drive any-damn-where they pleased. Some folks in the American West never would give up on the idea that blocking motorized access to any land whatsoever is a crime just short of Murder Two—unless the land in question happens to belong to one of the local old guard.

Yee-ha.

I
t seemed that no matter what else was going on in my life, I was inevitably drawn back to music. Concurrent with the road fight were periods during which I was motivated to write and record songs. In 1982, the professional work that was both my joy and my livelihood brought me to Austin to record my first album for Atlantic Records. A generous reviewer might have called
One to One
an eclectic mixture. A more blunt assessment would have been that the songs had no unifying thread.

Though Rick Sorensen never collaborated on a song with me, I internalized and communicated some of what I believed to be his views in “It’s a War,” “Lookin’ Out for Number One,” and “Little Prince”—all written in Gretchen’s cabin. But there were also songs with upbeat lyrics. I was the sole writer of “Golden Man” and “(Love Is Like a) Boomerang.” I’d written “Golden Man” about Rick Evers early in our relationship, and the opening and closing choruses of “Boomerang” expressed my long-held belief that love is worth the risk.

Then there was “Life Without Love,” penned by Gerry Goffin and our daughter Louise. That was the first song I ever recorded that I had not written.

But the best song was arguably the title song. With its exquisitely crafted lyrics by Cynthia Weil, I wasn’t surprised when Atlantic released “One to One” as the first single, but I was truly surprised when it hit the top 40. It probably didn’t hurt that I did some live performances that year, or that the message in “One to One” was consistent with what people wanted to hear from me. Such was not the case with “Goat Annie.” Few of my fans could relate to that song, and more than a few wrote to ask why I had included it on the album. The answer is, I wrote it to celebrate the independent spirit of the woman who had inspired the fictional Goat Annie. How could I not include it? I shared the opinion Jerry Jeff Walker was said to have expressed about records:

“A record is exactly that—a record of what you’re doin’ and thinkin’ at a certain time.”

One to One
had been exactly that. And so it was with my second Atlantic album. Released in 1983,
Speeding Time
combined my exposure to some of the people I’d met in rural Idaho with a desire to incorporate some of the sounds of the eighties.
Speeding Time
was—how shall I put this?—not warmly received. I knew that people wanted more songs from me along the lines of those in
Tapestry
, but I was older now, and my life was different. I had written some of the songs for
Speeding Time
with Gerry, and I wrote others on my own in a small studio Rick helped me set up in a little-used room in the part of the lodge that had been the stage stop. As I wrote, I ran an eight-track reel-to-reel tape to record what I called a docu-demo. Unlike a demo to present a song to an artist, the purpose of a docu-demo was to document a song as it was emerging so I could refer back to a moment of creative magic that I might otherwise have lost. I employed a Linn drum machine that gave me the ability to approximate, with the touch of a finger, the sounds a human drummer makes. I also had a Roland Jupiter-8 synthesizer with presets that attempted to replicate the sound of
a string orchestra, a horn section, or any other instrumentation I wanted. What I did not have at Robinson Bar was immediate access to a recording engineer or a community of cats.

Studio musicians were having problems of their own. Synthesizers were beginning to replace them in the studio. Producers were thinking, Let me see. $1,000 for a machine, one time only? Or $10,000 per track for an orchestra? And the machine doesn’t require a ten-minute union break every hour.

But I didn’t take my friends’ jobs away. I used my synthesizer as a writing tool and then went to L.A. to record with actual musicians. However, after I recorded the live tracks, since the sound of the eighties was all about synths, I felt compelled, however misguidedly, to add electronic sounds to what the live musicians had played. It was not my finest hour as an arranger.

I invited Lou Adler out of semiretirement to produce
Speeding Time
. I’m still not sure why he agreed to do it. That album included some of the worst songs I’ve ever written. I believe I may have hit a career low with “Chalice Borealis,” though of course I didn’t feel that way at the time. Still, some songs from
Speeding Time
have held up. Lou and I closed a circle when we recorded a version of “Crying in the Rain,” on which I sang both Everly Brothers’ parts and added—finally!—my own third harmony. And I still smile when I hear “One Small Voice,” which I composed after rereading Hans Christian Andersen’s
The Emperor’s New Clothes
. I’d like to believe that my performing “One Small Voice” in three different American presidential campaigns had nothing to do with my first two candidates losing.

After spending time back in 1977 with David Crosby and his pale young girlfriend, Nancy Brown, my perception of their relationship had inspired me to write the music and lyrics for “Alabaster Lady.” That song was really more of an epic, but it, too, appeared on the
Speeding Time
album. I thought it was incredibly
generous of Crosby to remain my good friend even after he heard that lyric in which I was highly judgmental of him.

Sometimes songs reveal layers that not even the writer fully understands at first. When I wrote “Alabaster Lady” I thought I was speaking to Nancy Brown. Later I realized that I was also speaking to myself. “Alabaster Lady” is one of those songs that came
through
me, rather than
from
me. As soon as I recognize that a song is coming through me, I try to get out of the way and let the process be guided by whatever is driving me beyond what I think of as craft. People have different names for whatever inspires them, but anyone who’s ever created anything from that place knows exactly what I’m talking about.

Craft is when you sit in front of a blank page, a musical instrument, or a computer screen, and wonder how you’re going to come up with a second verse, the next chapter, an irrefutable argument in a legal brief, or that certain-to-get-you-admitted paragraph in a college essay. Artists, actors, and choreographers undoubtedly experience a similar agony contemplating their chosen medium. When I experience such agony I’m usually contemplating a hastily scribbled verse and maybe a chorus that I’m trying to shape into something resembling a good song.

When I hit a wall I usually stop and do something else. This effectively turns the problem over to my subconscious mind, which keeps working on it under the radar. When I return to the task, my subconscious has often solved the problem before my ego has time to assert control. When the ego is in charge, that’s when the work is coming
from
you. You may still be doing good work but the ego allows doubt to creep in.

First you agonize. How will I ever finish this?

Then you ponder. How did I ever come up with this?

Then you wonder. Is it good enough?

I offer this as the opinion of one woman: when the thing you’re
creating comes
through
you, you know it, and it’s much better than good enough.

After
Speeding Time
, I didn’t release another album or tour again for five years—unless you count performing for political purposes.

D
isclaimer: if you disagree with my political views, feel free either to skip this chapter or substitute the name of your preferred candidate.

The first time I dipped my toe into the waters of a presidential campaign professionally had been in 1972 when Lou asked me to perform in a concert he and Warren Beatty were putting on for Senator George McGovern. Lou had called the concert “Four 4 McGovern.” With not a single conservative among us, the “Four” were Barbra Streisand, James Taylor, Quincy Jones, and me.

In the fall of 1983 I reached out to everyone in the Idaho congressional delegation for help with my road fight. A staffer in every office sent me back a standard form letter over the senator’s or representative’s mechanically reproduced signature thanking me for writing and saying he sincerely appreciated hearing from me, but the courts were the appropriate jurisdiction.

Thank you, I thought. I’m already in court.

I tried writing to senators from other states, but the universal response was that they couldn’t help me; I needed to write to my own senators. I remained in a bureaucratic circle until one of my
letters reached Oliver Henkel, who was then managing Senator Gary Hart’s campaign for president of the United States. Oliver, whom everyone called “Pudge,” wrote back immediately to say that although Senator Hart couldn’t help with my road fight because it wasn’t in his state, would I consider supporting the senator’s bid for the 1984 Democratic presidential nomination?

When Pudge asked me to support Senator Hart’s campaign in 1983 I knew three things about the candidate: he was the junior senator from Colorado, he was running for president, and he had hired a campaign manager with chutzpah. When I told Pudge I needed to know more about Senator Hart, he sent me some position papers, speeches, and Senator Hart’s recently published book,
A New Democracy
, in which he presented his plan for governing the United States. I was sufficiently impressed to ask Pudge what he wanted me to do. He was prepared with an answer.

In December of 1983 Senator Hart’s campaign was in desperate straits. Volunteers were stuffing envelopes by candlelight with freezing fingers in an unheated office in Washington, D.C. The phone and power companies hadn’t been paid for several months. The power was already cut off, and the phones—the lifeline of a campaign—would be next. Pudge said that if I did a concert for Senator Hart in Denver it would raise enough money to keep the campaign going until the New Hampshire primary in February. When I agreed to do it, Pudge put me in touch with a volunteer in Manchester, New Hampshire, who would put the concert together.

In addition to being a deeply committed supporter of Senator Hart, Will Kanteres was a realtor in a family-owned business. He had no experience in promoting concerts, but he was willing to learn. I hooked him up with Barry Fey, a professional concert promoter in Denver. Together Barry, Will, and others from the campaign managed to pull together a concert that raised enough
money for the campaign to pay its past-due bills and cover other basic necessities until February. When I asked some of my musician friends to participate, all were generous enough to donate their time.

When I met Senator Hart after the concert, he was appropriately appreciative. After that, whenever our paths crossed on the campaign trail I was impressed every time by how intelligent and visionary he was. He would continue to be both as we moved into the next century. After taking himself permanently out of contention for the presidency, Senator Hart would continue working to educate elected officials about how they could improve our government. Notably, Senator Hart and Senator Warren Rudman, a former Republican senator from New Hampshire, would submit a bipartisan comprehensive report several years before September 11, 2001, with detailed suggestions for how the United States could prepare more thoroughly and effectively to avert a terrorist attack.

After the concert in Denver I was so inspired by Senator Hart’s ideas that I agreed to do several more concerts in Iowa and New Hampshire early in 1984. My commitment to the campaign attracted others, including a man whose name at birth had been Wolodia Grajonca. Born to a Jewish family in Berlin in 1931, nicknamed Wolfgang in his early childhood, the boy was lucky enough to get out of Germany before the rise of the Nazis. Eventually he arrived in the United States, where he would become known as Bill Graham. Among Bill’s accomplishments were that he had founded both Fillmores (East and West) in the sixties, and he also managed the Grateful Dead. In 1984 he was a legendary promoter in San Francisco. If an artist wanted to play in any venue in the Bay Area, Bill was the guy to call.