Painted Black (16 page)

Once people had seen Julius, they could understand his place in rock and roll history. They could see how he influenced Otis and every other great R&B shouter from James Brown to Wilson Picket. Otis proved it all at Monterey. Brian was astonished.

The Rolling Stones were great, and they knew how to rock a crowd, but Otis Redding was in orbit. As Hendrix said, he was in the “Lightning in a Bottle” business, too. They all were.

Brian Jones walked into the Jimi Hendrix's Monterey hotel room just past midnight. Renee was in bed with Jimi, naked and smoking a joint. Her breasts were fully exposed, drawing his attention. Brian was surprised to see her. He didn't know she knew Jimi. But whether she did or didn't really was of no consequence since the talented Renee knew how to seduce men of any stripe. She curled around Jimi like a python, stretching her legs like a sleeping cat.

“Hello, Brian,” she cooed. “Imagine seeing you here.”

Hendrix laughed.

“Do you two know each other?”

“Yes, we do.”

“She's got the sweetest little pussy in town.”

If Renee was faking it, she sure knew how to blush. Maybe she did have a shred of modesty left, who knew?

“You're the one with her boobs hanging out,” Brian said.

Brian wanted to pull Jimi outside the room and talk to him privately. But he didn't want to be an alarmist to one of his rock friends.

“Where's Nico?” she said sweetly.

Brian looked at her with thinly veiled disgust.

“None of your business.”

“Hey, man, be nice,” Jimi said. “I just made love to this woman.”

“Yeah, Brian, be nice,” Renee repeated sarcastically. “Where do you think Anita is tonight? With Keith?”

Brian lost it. He lunged at the bed and at Renee's throat.

“Fuck you, you bitch!”

Renee retreated behind Hendrix.

“Hey, man! Cool it!”

Hendrix held Brian back.

“She's a narc!” Brian screamed. “She's working with a federal drug guy named Spangler who just busted me!”

“I'm not working for anybody. You're crazy.”

“How do you explain you, Spangler, and
News of the World
sleaze bucket Acid King Lee Silverman getting out of a white van together?”

“Those guys? I was hitchin' a ride, and they picked me up. I never saw them before in my life.”

“The cops are here and they're looking to set us up!”

Jimi looked at Brian. “Don't be so paranoid. You're creating bad vibes, man.”

Renee spent five minutes denying involvement in anything. She swore that she had no idea those guys were narcs when she got in the van. Jimi and Brian listened to her, but it was clear, Renee's trust had expired.

Jimi was famous for his devil-may-care attitude about women, and he resented being held down or told what to do. He never got too involved. He loved sex, but Jimi was a free soul, incapable of being monogamous.

It was true. It was all true. Jimi was a gypsy. And if you didn't like it, tough shit. He dealt with women like he dealt with men, roadies, and dogs.

“I can't trust you anymore, Renee,” Jimi said.

“You don't believe him, do you?” she whined. “He just doesn't like me for some reason.”

Jimi paused and looked at Brian.

“Yes, yes, I do believe him,” Jimi said softly.

“But what about …” She waved at the bed. She was close to tears.

“There are plenty of other chicks around.”

“But …”

She stood up completely naked and slipped her panties on. She picked up the rest of her clothes and made a step toward the bathroom.

Jimi looked at Brian mischievously.

“Don't get dressed in here. You might be wired for sound. Just leave the way you are.”

Chapter Thirteen

Spider and the Fly

Sunday's concert was the apex of the festival. All the big acts came out. Brian got to the fairgrounds early to see Indian sitar master Ravi Shankar give an afternoon solo concert that opened his eyes to a whole new world. Brian had been playing sitar for almost a year, but he was a beginner compared to Ravi Shankar. Like the Master Musicians of Joujouka, Ravi's music was thousands of years old, using scales and time signatures foreign to the Western ear. Brian sat transfixed in his front-row seat with Nico.

Dust Bin Bob and Clovis hadn't been able to keep up with Brian. He didn't like to stay in one place too long. Noel Redding, who had been with Brian off and on for the entire festival, swore he wasn't taking acid. Although he was obviously stoned on copious amounts of weed and hash, he didn't appear to be tripping. Bobby and Clovis took it as a good sign. Brian seemed happy with Nico, the sun was shining, and Renee nowhere to be found.

The music was incredible. After Ravi Shankar, Brian stopped for a snack at the hospitality tent. The problem was that once Brian had been recognized in a public place he got no peace at all. It was an unending stream of well-wishers and autograph seekers. They all idolized Brian. He was the baddest boy in the definitive bad boy band—stoned like they were, a rebel against society.

Clovis told Brian about Big Brother and the Holding Company and their amazing lead singer, Janis Joplin. They were coming up next with an encore show due to popular demand (and the fact that Janis wanted their performance to be filmed and included in the movie D. A. Pennebaker was making called
Monterey Pop
). They were making a triumphant return to the stage. It was just one of the little dramas that played out under the magnificent skies of Monterey. Many people had missed their first show when Janis absolutely electrified the audience with her performance. She was the talk of the festival at that point, and her second performance was even better than the first.

The great American musical adventure continued. Three pilgrims—Dust Bin Bob, Clovis, and Brian Jones—were on a musical odyssey across America to worship at the altar of rock and roll. And here they were, among the gods on Mount Olympus.

Brian would remember every note. Reverend Julius Cheeks, Ravi Shankar, Otis Redding, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix were all an unending train of inspiration.

His mantra never changed.

It was the same three chords of life. All music was the same
.
They were all branches of the same tree.

Brian and Nico sat just in front of Micky Dolenz and Peter Tork of the Monkees and Mama Cass and Michelle Phillips from the Mamas and the Papas. The other stars drew energy from Brian's charisma. They seemed to shine brighter when next to him.

But Brian outshone them all. His outrageous clothes, his legend, his celebrity. He was true rock-and-roll royalty in a way none of these other acts, no matter high they rose, could ever be. Dust Bin Bob and Clovis got a good strong dose of Brian's notoriety just hanging out with him at the festival and watching the way other musicians acted around him.

Bobby recalled the insane days of Beatlemania, but this wasn't like that at all. Everybody here was a freak. They were all like one big family. The attitude was peace and love. No one screamed; no one charged the stage; there were no fights or riots. Even the cops seemed resigned to turn the other way when they smelled pot smoke.

It was incredibly therapeutic for Brian. He needed to see and be seen. His fragile ego got a huge boost. His quest to soak up as much music as possible couldn't have gone better. Here he was among his peers being treated like a prince with Nico on his arm and a joint in every pocket. For the first time in months, he didn't feel paranoid.

He wandered into Big Brother's tent to meet Janis. He almost didn't notice Renee, who was styling Janis's hair. She whispered in her ear, and for a moment the two seemed as close as sisters. Renee leaned forward and kissed Janis on the lips. It was a playful kiss, but one packed with portent. Brian's first reaction was to warn Janis, but the tension in the Big Brother dressing room was too thick. The band had just had a major confrontation with their manager about not appearing in the film. They wanted to be in it, Janis most of all, especially in light of their response the day before. They brought the house down, and it was not captured in film. Janis turned to Bob Dylan's legendary manager, Albert Grossman, who just happened to be hanging around the festival with other bigwigs like Clive Davis, for advice. Of course he told her the film would make her a star. That's all she needed to hear.

So Big Brother and the Holding Company were brought back for a second time on the following afternoon, and Janis knocked them dead. But in the tension-filled minutes just before that second show, Janis was nervous. She knew what she had to do. That seemed so easy on stage at the Fillmore in front of her fans, but here in the bright sunshine in front of people she didn't know, it was daunting.

To see her now with Renee buzzing around her like a honeybee made Brian apprehensive.

He was ready to leave without saying a word when the rest of the band spotted him.

“Brian! Hey, man! Wanna smoke a joint?”

Janis looked up. “Brian Jones? I heard he was around. I want to meet him.”

“I'll introduce you,” said Renee.

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah.”

Renee pulled Janis Joplin over to Brian Jones and Janis blushed like a schoolgirl.

“Janis Joplin meet Brian Jones. Brian Jones meet Janis Joplin.”

Brian hugged Janis.

“I'm such a Stones fan,” she said. “I love you guys.”

“I'm flattered,” said Brian. “Good luck on your show. I'll be watching.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

Brian looked at Renee and frowned.

“Renee, what are you doing here bothering Janis right before her show?”

“Oh, she's not bothering me, she's doing my hair and makeup,” Janis said innocently.

“She's trouble.”

Janis giggled. “Trouble, eh? They said I was trouble, too.”

“Just watch out for this one,” Brian said.

He didn't want to bring up the fact that he thought Renee was a narc right before the show. It was sure to distract Janis.

Backstage and up close, Janis was not what the show biz types would call a knockout, but when she sang, she became beautiful.

When Brian and Nico made it back to their seats, Big Brother and the Holding Company were just finishing their first song “Down on Me” with Janis belting out the vocals like her life depended on it. By the time she got to the final song, “Ball and Chain,” the audience was wrecked. She blew the lid off the place. In fact, “Ball and Chain” had so much impact that the film crew asked them to perform it a second time to make sure they had a complete version. Janis happily complied and the audience felt like they were in on the moviemaking. Janis just kept getting better.

Brian was enchanted.

Bobby and Clovis followed Brian past security into the performer's area just in time to witness a backstage argument between Jimi Hendrix and Pete Townsend of the Who. The Who were known for destroying their instruments at the end of the set, and Hendrix had been doing much the same lately, but taking it one step further by setting his guitar on fire. The Who were scheduled to perform after Jimi Hendrix on Sunday, the final night of the festival. Pete was beseeching Jimi to let the Who go on first. A showdown was brewing.

Dust Bin Bob, Clovis, and Brian happened along at just the right time.

Pete grabbed his idol, the famous Rolling Stone.

“Brian! Who should go on first, the Who or Jimi? We can't follow Jimi, you know that, nobody can. I'd rather not look like a fool.”

Jimi said, “That's not what you really mean. What you really mean is you don't want me to go on first. You want to be first up there with the guitar smashing.”

Pete took exception. “Jimi, I swear, that's not what this is about.”

“Oh yeah? Then why are you so sensitive about it?”

The two musicians were used to getting their own way. Both were tenacious, some would say ruthless. Neither one would back down.

Chas Chandler, Jimi's manager and former member of the original Animals, spoke up.

“Are the Who saying they won't go on unless they go on before Jimi Hendrix?”

“No, that's not what I'm saying at all,” Pete said. “If anybody should go on last it should be Jimi, he leaves the audience completely drained.”

“But the fact remains, the Who will be the first to smash their guitars and that's what you're asking.”

Clovis laughed and broke the tension. “It's like that old Abbott and Costello bit ‘Who's On First?'”

Brian and Pete looked at Clovis.

“Who are Abbott and Costello?”

Dust Bin Bob spoke up. “Hey, I've got an idea that's completely fair. Why don't we flip a coin? One coin toss, winner takes all.”

Both parties agreed.

“Pete, you call it in the air, okay?”

Bobby got a quarter out of his pocket and showed it around.

“George Washington is heads, and the eagle is tails. Gentlemen, here we go.”

Bobby expertly flipped the quarter and caught it in midair and slapped it on his wrist.

As soon as it left his hand, Pete called, “Heads!”

Bobby withdrew his hand to show the quarter head's up.

“Heads, it is. The Who go on first. That's that.”

Clovis, still wisecracking, said, “It really doesn't matter does it? Years from now, all people will remember about this night is the Association.”

“The Association? You mean ‘Along Comes Mary'?” They all cracked up. Clovis had managed to defuse the situation. Jimi Hendrix and the Who couldn't be farther from the light pop of the Association.

As showtime got closer for the Who, they seemed to be more than a little nervous. They had performed their equipment-smashing routine many times in the UK, but never in America. Pete Townsend wasn't sure what kind of reaction they would get. The faces of the other musicians seemed to say “guitars are sacred; you don't destroy them.” It takes most guitarists years to save up for their first professional model. And now the Who wants to destroy them over and over? What kind of madness was that?

Who were the Who? And what was the message?

Jimi, on the other hand, couldn't care less. He would do anything he pleased.

Filmmaker Dennis Hopper showed up backstage. Clovis and Bobby had been watching Brian like a hawk all day, but even then they couldn't stop the secret exchange of STP that had taken place a few minutes earlier. More powerful than acid, it had the ability to seriously scramble your brains.

Clovis said, “You didn't drop acid, did you, Brian?”

Brian grinned. “Nope. I dropped STP!”

“Well, do me a favor, pardner. Don't wander away from the wagon train, okay?”

The Who stood ready on the side of the stage. They were introduced and ran out. They looked clean and stylish. Singer Roger Daltrey wore a silk cape and moved with professional vigor. He spun and dipped and strutted across the stage. The whole group dressed foppishly mod. Musically, they were interesting, yet somewhat tame among the shaggy hippie bands. Tunefully, somewhere between the Kinks and the Faces, their set was derived from their successful London shows. They started with “Substitute,” then Pete's mini rock opera
A Quick One While He's Away
. They followed quickly with “Happy Jack,” their current single. By the time they got to the last song, “My Generation,” the tension that had been building all night broke.

Looking off to his left, Pete could see Hendrix watching him from the side of the stage with his arms crossed. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen next.

Pete approached the microphone and said, “This is where it all”—he paused for a moment for dramatic effect—“ends.”

They started “My Generation,” its two-chord intro as snotty an anthem as any teenage Frankenstein could dream. Pete windmilled his arms and struck upward on the strings, causing seismic ripples way out on Monterey Bay.

Roger twirled the microphone like a lariat. He stuttered the lyrics on purpose, like a London mod on pills. Drummer Keith Moon never stopped soloing. It was one long drum fill from top to bottom. John Entwistle's bass playing snarled against the high end of the guitar. He wasn't actually playing bass lines, he was filling in the sound for half the band. The lower half.

Pete's windmilling grew more violent by the minute. At last, frustrated by just playing the guitar, he took the new Fender Stratocaster that he's been using all set off his shoulder and started tossing it into the air. The first few times he caught it and spun it ever higher, then, shockingly, he let it crash to the stage, body first. The shock of watching a beautiful guitar being deliberately destroyed had incredible impact. Some people shouted, “No!” Others stood, ready to charge forward and save the guitar.

Then, in the blink of an eye, it became chaos. The guitar's neck broke leaving the guitar strings hanging. Pete still swung it over his head and pounded it down like he was chopping wood. Smoke bombs went off. Pete rammed the splintered neck of the guitar through his amplifier. The speakers howled and shrieked. Keith Moon kicked over his drums. Explosions went off.

Many people in the audience, unable to make heads or tails of the Who's destruction act, thought they'd gone insane. They stood and backed away from the stage, lest they be hit by flying shrapnel.

Stagehands appeared and tried to save some of the microphones from certain destruction, but the Who were fanatical. John Entwistle stood stone still through the whole thing, calmly playing his bass, providing a fitting accompaniment to the shrieks and howls coming from Pete's amplifier. Pete pushed over his 100-watt Marshall stack. It toppled like the walls of Jericho. Feedback began to double and triple and soon became earsplittingly loud. Pete and Roger wandered off the stage. Keith gave his drums a final kick and then he, too, was gone. Finally, John was the only one. He riffed for another minute, calmly removed his bass and gently handed it to a roadie.