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Please do not read further if you�re, only, superficial Stones fan!!! Also I beware you about copyright�.And one more problem is that it�s147 pages > it�s really to much, I know, I know,< but if only one Stones fan print it, my aim will be satisfy!) Also I expect comments from bafoons (who generally hate long articles, and I promise I�ll not answer! - because I�ve always deeply belived that The Rolling Stones are so bloody serious thing �and I don�t need any contra argue after all these years.)
But, first of all I want to say GREAT �T H A N K S�� to Gil Markle who firstly wrote nice book, and, sec. who put it on his site (www.studiowner.com). And Bennie Strange, too.So every die hard Stones fan could take it, add pictures and print it.
Also I wish all the best to the Stones fan (I forget his name) who detected this book and tell others; trans one of Stones sites (I mean just this site).
Let�s go!
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TATTOO ME by Gil Markle
Home
... all us superstars are the makers of our own realities, and tricks may be played upon us whenever we forget.
Playing with the push-pull controls of an audio recording console is fun, particularly if the results of your pushs and pulls are expressed, through thousands of silicon transistor diodes and hundred-pound power amplifiers and quarter-inch round copper cables and overwhelming, towering loudspeakers, as a sound which is as big and as real as life � which is maybe bigger and more real than life. You push the fader just a little bit; your life changes a whole lot. That's been "home" for me for a lifetime. Nudging the faders up maybe an eighth of an inch � no more � and being blasted by a wave of energy which first swirls through and around my head, as though for approval, and then around the heads of the others in the room and then out of the farmhouse on wires and on fiber-optic cables and up into the air by which we're all surrounded � all of us listening to the music, and listening to the words, and coming to comprehend in this manner the world in which we live. Our "real world" is a construct out of such media presentations � those thrown at us not just by recording engineers, but by our teachers, our political leaders, our radio and TV stations, our press agents, and our computers plugged into the Internet. Taken together, they tell us what we are to think about things. There's very little "thinking for yourself" within the wired global village I have been concerned, as I think any careful person ought to be, to understand just how such pushings and pullings of media throttles can so powerfully alter and condition the world in which we find ourselves. I have it about half figured out, and have a few ideas I can pass along. After all, I have seen some things. I've also read a bit of Marshall McLuhan. I named a horse after him.
Best for you to start with a review of my association with rock 'n' roll superstars, and with the notion of "celebrity" in which I found my first clues. I didn't set out to spend my time this way, but there came a time when newspaper reporters started asking me if I thought people like George Harrison and Mick Jagger were living gods. I said that they weren't. But in my heart I was less certain about their projected media images. "They may be," I would think to myself, off-line. In the end, having come to know a fair number of these luminaries, I did indeed find myself assigning demi-god status to their projected media images, even if not to the superstars themselves, who turn out to be just as ordinary and every-day as you and me. As for the projected media images, they are of course our own creations. We make these demi-god creatures, given only the slightest hints and deliberately faint blueprints from the publicists on the case. We're happy do this, on our own, simply to have these demi-gods "around" � in our back yards, in our bedrooms, and on the CD players in our automobiles. We love heros, and myth, every bit as much as the Greeks did three hundred years before the birth of Christ.
We also love ourselves. We make our own personal lives and careers in a like manner � savvy media practitioners that we are � teasing and inflating them into forms and postures limited only by our imaginations, and by our skills as communicators. We are each and every one of us ship captains � this being the first bit of wisdom to be won from even a casual study of celebrities, and their press agents. My reasons for assigning possible demi-god status to the projected images of superstars, and by extension to our own projections in cyberspace, are inferable from the essays collected here. The essays appear in somewhat random order, and are selectable using computer hyperlinks which are colored blue the first time you click on them, and red thereafter. That should help you some, since there's no table of contents. Don't stop until you've read something about the Rolling Stones. I called that episode in my life Tattoo Me. See how lives are laid waste when people can't tell the difference between a humble, human superstar and its demi-god monster-mermaid image, and assume that the latter � the crafted image � is the "real thing." The Virtual Reality essays were written ten years after the Rolling Stones had come and gone. These essays have a lot to do themselves with the notion of demi-gods � with the angels we choose to create for ourselves � and are in that sense just as important as the essays having to do with Mick Jagger and his friends. They urge upon us the conclusion that we may one day be in absolute control of what's real for people, and what's not. A publicist's dream. The reprints from the newspapers and the slick city journals show you how it's done, even today � how you can push and pull on media control surfaces and in so doing define what's real, even worship-worthy, and almost always out of reach. Slick journalism that is, and I'm all for it. The other assorted life stories and anecdotes recounted here are all woven out of the same thematic bolt of cloth; namely, that all us superstars are the makers of our own realities, and that tricks may be played upon us whenever we forget.
Gil Markle
*TATTOO ME *Diary Of studio Owner*
Author's Introduction
I'm a Stones fan. That's the first thing you need to know before reading this book.
Second, you need to know that I'm a trained philosopher. Two PhD's. Seems I spent half my life in college, and then the university. I taught Philosophy for many years � first as an Assistant at Yale University, finally as a tenured Associate Professor at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts. That was years ago, of course. But I still have a philosopher's brain, and am always trying to "figure out what's really going on," under the surface of things. That's basically what philosophers do. Finally, you should know that I'm a businessman. Some people call me an "entrepreneur," although all that seems to mean, when you come down to it, is that I don't work for anybody else, but for myself instead. Big deal. My most recent business undertaking has involved Long View Farm, a residential and somewhat glamorous rock 'n' roll recording studio in the hills of Central Massachusetts. I own it. Here's how all this concerns you. Last summer � the summer of 1981 � the Rolling Stones came to Long View Farm in order to prepare for and rehearse their long-awaited and possibly last concert tour of the United States. That event found me � Gil Markle � the right guy, in the right place, at the right time. I don't have to explain to you that the odds against finding a philosophically trained Stones fan posing as a rock impresario � one who just happened to be called upon to host the Rolling Stones for a two-month period � are very high indeed. On the basis of odds alone, it's much more tempting to believe that these things never happened to me at all. But they did, and I took notes as I went, and when my friends finally said to me, "Gil, why don't you write a book?" I had my answer fully prepared. I would. This is the book that resulted: a collection of fifty or so essays on the general subject of people and power, and the ways in which lives turn topsy-turvy whenever they are drawn into the long shadow of a living myth. That's what the Rolling Stones are � an active, living myth. I've used dialogue form whenever possible, in order that you hear the people speaking in their own words. I tried to remember these words as best I could. Couldn't carry a tape recorder, though. They told me not to. So I had to conjure a lot of stuff up out of a memory which is pretty good, but not perfect by a long shot. Let me confess further that I've changed some names and dates whenever there seemed to be humane reasons for doing so, and have invented � yes, totally invented � an "Editor" whose name is Bennie Strange. Bennie contributes footnotes to the text whenever I feel that another point of view is required � even one antithetical to my own � and whenever I think that I may have misremembered things a bit in my zeal for essay writing and storytelling. You might say that Bennie's my conscience talking. But he's a literary device only. There's no such person. There. I've said it. I hope that you enjoy these pages � Stones fans and philosophers alike � and that they quicken in you an appreciation for myth, and for the power it wields within our lives. This book is about that power.
Gil Markle February, 1982 Black Rock, Tobago .
PrefacebyBennieStrange
Well, that was part of the agreement we made with Gil � that he'd say he invented me. And I agreed to not edit that out, in order that this face-saving gesture remain intact. Actually, when Gil's friends found out that he was writing a book, they said, "No way. This guy exaggerates. He twists things around, and there's no telling what words he's going to put in our mouths." So they appointed me spokesperson, since it's known that I'm not afraid to stand up to Gil from time to time. I simply said to him, "Gil, you now have an editor for your book, and for no fee. I'll do it for nothing." Gil thought about it for a while, and finally said that he actually liked the idea, since it would give him (us) a chance to explore more than one point of view on things, and since the existence of an Editor would also make the book more credible. Only, Gil insisted that he was going to take credit for it all, and say that he "invented" me because he needed, as he put it, "such a literary artifice." So be it. The fact is that the man does tend to glamorize things a bit in remembering them. All in service of the cosmic chuckle, of course; but it's still good to know when he's doing it, and when he's not. That's my job, to let you know when. All the footnotes are me talking, and you should pay close attention to them, because they'll draw the line between fact and fantasy in the text. Also, I've got to take entire responsibility for "Bennie Strange in Worcester" � an essay which I wrote myself, and a lot of credit for the "Postscript," which never would have been written had it not been for me. Finally, the essay entitled "Rob Barnett" was researched by me independently of Gil, and I'm happy to say that the quotes Gil set forth were the ones I had repeated to me as well.
I see that it has been left to me to acknowledge the help received in the preparation and proofreading of this book. The main people to thank are Claire Briddon and Wendy Thurston, who dealt expertly with the author's scrawl, his hastily recorded cassettes, and his sometimes unreasonable schedule of requirements.
Rob Barnett contributed invaluable bits of information. So did all the members of the staff at Long View Farm.Finally, thanks are due to Karen Schaeffer-Gadd, who had the patience to read the manuscript, and the kindness to say she liked it, when it was more self-serving still. I'm only sorry she never really approved of me.
Bennie Strange March, 1982 Truro, Massachusetts .
Montreux
20/07 18.30 ATTN: GILBERT SCOTT MARKLE FOR EYES ONLY
20/07 18.30
611675 PAMPHILI
TO HOTEL VILLA PAMPHILI
ATTN: GILBERT SCOTT MARKLE FOR EYES ONLY. FROM RANDALL:
ROLLING STONES LOOKING EXTREMELY FAVORABLE FOR MID AUGUST THRU END SEPTEMBER FOR TOUR REHEARSAL IN STUDIO B. LOGISTICS CHIEF ALAN DUNN AND PIANO PLAYER IAN STEWART FLEW UP IN TWIN FOR OVERNIGHT VISIT SATURDAY AND LOVED FARM. THIS SHOULD HAPPEN. STILL TOP SECRET AND CONFIDENTIAL.
That's the telex message which was waiting for me in the hotel in Rome, and so I knew this thing was still real. The Rolling Stones were apparently tilting toward Long View as a likely rehearsal site for their upcoming and much heralded tour of the United States, and perhaps even of the entire world.
I had been up in Montreux, Switzerland, for a few days � attempting to hustle and be seen during the goings-on at Claude Nobb's annual jazz festival. The last time I was there was in 1976, with the band Stuff, now Paul Simon's back-up band. We had just made Stuff's first record � the orange one � and I had mixed it, and I was in Switzerland with a distinct lift to my gait. I knew we had just made a good record, and that one day Long View Farm was going to become a great recording studio. That was five years ago.
This visit now was distinctly less fun, with the exception of the time I spent with Phil Sandhaus, an A & R guy working for CBS Records in New York City. He was a touch sick and tired of the record business, and my attempts to cheer him smelled of hollowness, rote, and duty. I suppose I was a bit sick of the record business, too � despite our five years of relative success as a countryside recording studio � and could not easily conceal the fact. But we had some great beers together, Phil and I, and we went for stoned drives overlooking Lac Leman talking about our careers and how to better wire the world for sound and visual images.
"Listen to me, Phil," I said, blowing smoke in his direction. We were now sipping Cognac and coffees high up above the town of Montreux. "Here we are, talking about rock 'n' roll, and how we're through with it, and how it's messed up our lives, but this morning the phone rang from the United States, and it's Randall � who runs the record and publishing company for me, and who scouts business for the studio at Long View.
"'It's the Rolling Stones, Gil,' he tells me, 'coming to Long View for six weeks to rehearse!'
"So I ask him, 'How sure is this, Randall?'
"'Pretty sure, I think,' he shouts back.' We sent the twin for Alan Dunn.'
"'Who's he?'
"'Logistics Chief, the best I can say. Also, Ian Stewart, who you'd say is the sixth member of the band. He's asking me all the right questions.'
"So, Phil," I continued, "what do you make of it? What am I supposed to think? Do I want to do this?"
Phil looked at me, and for a moment he thought I was testing him for vital functions. We'd been smoking a bit, and joking all the way up the mountainside. You could hear cowbells tinkling, far below.
"The Stones?" he asked.
"The Stones, Phil."
"So, when are you going back?" Phil was now convinced that I wasn't fooling.
I had to think. It had not yet occurred to me that I should be back in the United States, and not here in Switzerland, in an effort to make this deal happen.
"Tomorrow," I replied, making up my mind on the spot.
"And what about McCoy Tyner, and Paquito D'Riviera, and Mike Berniker's taping on Saturday night that you wanted to help with?" Phil was there in Montreux to make some tapes for CBS.
"It's your taping, Phil, not mine. You tell me how it goes. I've got to get out of Montreux anyhow. 'You can't go home again', like the book says."
Late that night, back at the hotel, when I thought Nancy and the kids would be by the phone in our house on Cape Cod, I called. "I think the Rolling Stones are coming to Long View, Nancy." I was shouting over a telephone connection which was not too good.
"That's great," she shouted back. "The kids and I are going to stay in a teepee tonight!"
"The Rolling Stones!" I said again.
"Yes," she said, "a teepee."
Then I said "The Rolling Stones" at the same time that she said "a teepee," and the transmissions cancelled each other out, with neither of us hearing what the other was saying.
That's all right. I didn't really expect Nancy to be excited about the Rolling Stones, and have had discussions like this with her, on and off the telephone, for years.
Logan Airport
I looked at this guy and said, "The Rolling Stones are coming. Don't tell anybody."
It was a hot sultry afternoon when I arrived at Logan, and I had deliberately tried to keep in shape on the airplane during the long trip over. Not too much to drink, watch the movie, walk around the cabin a lot, and no attempts to relate to anybody. I whizzed through Customs and found Pilot Bob Adams right away just outside the door. Adams flies our twin-engine Cessna for us, or for me, I should say, since everyone else in the company feels guilty about the thing and how much it costs to fly it around. Even I had been flying around less in it, and was half-convinced that maybe I should sell it, and drive around in automobiles again like normal people do. Half-convinced, I say, because there were moments like this, at the end of a transoceanic trip that began hours earlier on another continent, when the availability and ownership of a fast airplane became an absolute necessity, mercilessly dictated by one's conception of one's role in the world. And so I was very happy to see Pilot Bob Adams, and we moved quickly through the back entrance, out under the big DC-10 which had just flown me from Italy, and into the Courtesy Car. I recognized the kid driving it, and he knew me, too, as the guy who sends rock stars in every so often on their way from Long View Farm, the recording studio. "Back so soon?" he laughed at me. And then I remembered that he had driven me out, from the Twin to the DC-10, only a week earlier. "Who's at the ranch now? Frank Sinatra?" You should have heard what I said then. Make no mistake, I was shortly to become ultra-secretive about the well-known rock band soon to descend on Long View Farm, and even went so far once as to threaten dismissal of any Long View employees needlessly spreading the word, but on the 22nd of July I looked at this guy and said, "The Rolling Stones are coming. Don't tell anybody." And that was one of the funniest things I said during the entire summer. Adams had me back in Worcester in twenty minutes, and twenty minutes after that I was back in the countryside. It was now close to 6 PM, and all Farm personnel were on hand, full of energy, and asking me when I'd be ready to be briefed.
"Right away," I said.
The Briefing
"You mean they're not coming for sure, as it stands now?" I asked."You better believe it," John shot back. "They were just up here looking."
Long View Farm sits atop a large hill, or I should say, several large hills, somewhat west of Worcester, Massachusetts. It's deep country, and is about as picturesque a spread as you'll find. Large open hayfields, edged by white fences, a pond, a riding ring, rock walls, and lots of animals. Horses, cows, chickens, geese, cats, dogs, birds, fish. You name it, we've probably got it. It takes a full staff at Long View just to maintain the animals, and you haven't even begun to talk about rock 'n' roll, and what we have to do to take care of our clients.
Guests stay either in the rambling white Farmhouse, or in the bedroom suites in the Red Barn, just across a pink and well-manicured gravel drive. From the outside, neither the Farmhouse nor the barn shows any signs of the entertainment business, or of rock 'n' roll. The exteriors are perfectly preserved, just as we found them, although with renewed coats of paint, and lots more flowers and bushes growing about. The insides of each structure are another story. Each building was completely gutted of any walls (and many ceilings) which were not structurally active, and large rambling living areas were created. Wood everywhere, hanging plants, skylight hatches, woodstoves, a huge fireplace, and lots of recording gear. It's hard to tell where the recreational or living areas at Long View end and where the professional areas begin. The latter are extremely comfortable, even plush, and so are fun to work in. The former areas --- the living areas --- each have acoustical properties all their own, and have mike boxes built into the walls. The best vocal room at Long View is J. Geils's room -- the "blue" bedroom on the second floor which is now painted white. You can work wherever you want at Long View, and ay time night or day.
The place seemed never so trim, spanking, and polished as it did that night. The inlaid pine floor gleamed with fresh Butcher's Wax, the wine glasses sparkled, and the air seemed particularly cool, and clean. That same morning I had been in Rome --- hot and hurried as I fought my way to the First Class Alitalia lounge at Fiumicino airport. It was good to be home.
Everybody was on hand, and apparently waiting for me. Kathleen Holden was there. She's our Studio Manager, and the wife of Kent, who signed on very early, tearing down barns for the barnboards, helping hustle business for a while, and lately in the throes of a conversion to Eastern religion. Nuts, no flesh, and daily asanas, to purify still more a mind which seems pretty pure to me already. Kathleen was there, with her little boy, Robert.
Next were Geoff and John --- friends of mine and stalwart companions in project Long View. Musicians, songwriters, and artists in wood. Geoff and John had literally rebuilt Long View. Every piece of wood that you can touch --- floors, walls, ceilings, cubbyholes --- had been cut, fitted, nailed, sanded, stained, sealed, and, in most cases, urethaned, by Geoff and John. Their work was extraordinary. I had met them in Provincetown nearly 15 years earlier.
Then there was Jesse Henderson, Chief Engineer, friend and guru to all area musicians, and good heart. There was no business in either studio tonight, but Jesse was nevertheless on hand, a patch cord around his neck, and a beer in his hand.
Pat O'Chaps, likewise on hand. Pat's real name is Glennon, but we call her O'Chaps because of the way she looks in her riding britches. Pat gives horseback rides to superstars, and considers my horse, Aerogorn, which I never ride, to be her own.
John Farrell was the first to speak. "Gil, you've got to call Alan Dunn the first thing in the morning. He's getting one story from Randall, and another story from Kathleen, bless her, and you have to straighten things out right away."
Kathleen squirmed prettily in her chair.
"Tell him we're going to build a concert stage in the barn," Geoff Myers said.
"Right," John continued, "you absolutely have to say that to him, because otherwise they may not come. I'm sure of it. Mick needs a stage to leap around on, and we'll build him one, won't we, Geoff?"
Geoff nodded and smiled. "A real nice stage, Gil, in the loft of the barn, just outside the door to the B-Control room."
"You mean they're not coming for sure, as it stands now?" I asked.
"You better believe it," John shot back. "They were just up here looking. On the good side, they absolutely love it. The Farm. The overall layout. All except for the space problem. Mick sent them out to find a place where he could rehearse the band, and rehearse the show. It's stuck there."
"Also on the matter of price," Kathleen interjected. "I'm afraid I may have made a mistake when I said only a thousand dollars a day. But I thought it was some small-time band from New York City. At least that's what this girl, Jane Rose, led me to believe. And we hadn't done a thing since Geils, and we needed the money, so I said a thousand dollars a day. I'm sorry."
I agreed that we'd need more than that. Particularly if we were going to have to do some construction.
"O.K.," I said, "let's go up to the loft and take a look at the area. I'll call this fellow Alan Dunn tomorrow, and then we'll see." .
The Red Barn
"Eight-by-eight hemlock beams on close centers will go across these transverse members, notched. Then a sub-floor of two-inch pine. Then finish oak. Massive. It should weigh several tons. Wouldn't bounce a bit."
The barn at Long View Farm is perhaps the largest structure of its kind in central Massachusetts. Rebuilt in 1909 over the still warm embers of a structure burnt to the ground, by accident, the barn measures some two hundred feet long, and some sixty feet wide. It's about seventy-five feet tall, measuring from the crest of the roof, which runs roughly north and south, to the bottom of the pit where the manure's thrown.
The beams in the basement are three feet in diameter, and chestnut. There are no more chestnut trees growing in the northeast, due to a blight in the thirties. The barn is painted Disney red, with white trim.
Geoff Myers led the way that night, moving in long strides across the gravel drive and into the barn through the large red sliding door. It takes two people to push this door open or shut, and so it's usually left partly open. Up the stairs we went, and into Studio B, which is our 16-track room --- very large, spacious, and wooden. Most of our jazz dates are recorded in Studio B; all of our new wave gigs and local demos are done there, and the J. Geils Band ties up this studio once a year, for several months, because of the electrifying drum sound we can get in it. Through Studio B we went, through Control Room B, up the carpeted stairs and out the door into the empty and unimproved loft.
The loft is enormous, and feels as big as a football field when you're standing inside, even though it's not anywhere near that big. It was in the north end of the loft that we eventually began our work for the Rolling Stones, aided by a brace of temporary floodlights, fans to blow the fifty years of dust, dead flies, and chicken droppings out into the air, and a team of workers which, all told, numbered in the low hundreds. Two hundred and fifty, if my guess agrees with Kathleen's checkbook, which it does.
Tonight, however, the loft was unlit, and smelled of hay which lay stacked high in one corner. Two barn swallows careened in crazy circles over our heads, sharing space with a startled bat. Ten years' accumulation of lumber, barnboards, and beams scavenged from other barns in the area filled the two stalls across from the hay. A mouse scampered out of one of the bales of hay, and quickly disappeared into another.
"Up here, Gil." Geoff Myers was thumping onto the top of one of the beams which ran horizontally, from one side of the barn to the other, about five feet above floor level. "This'll be the level of the stage. There'll be stairs leading up onto it. It'll be triple thickness. Eight-by-eight hemlock beams on close centers will go across these transverse members, notched. Then a sub-floor of two-inch pine. Then finish oak. Massive. It should weigh several tons. Wouldn't bounce a bit."
"How much for all this, Geoff?" I asked.
"Ten, maybe twenty, depending how nice we want to fix it up."
"And time? August 17th is just three and a half weeks away."
"Be tight. Depends on the availability of the wood, too. I called Nigel's sawmill tonight, but he's fishing somewhere with his kid. Left a call-back with his wife."
"We're going to start tomorrow, on general principles," John Farrell chimed in. "The place needs a clearing out anyhow. Danny Avila and a couple of other kids are coming by at ten o'clock tomorrow to help, since there's a lot of hay and wood to move. Then we'll have a better idea what we're looking at."
"Great," I said. I was always in favor of in-principle upgradings of the Farm, and most of them occurred under high-pressure circumstances like these. Name band or recording artist considering Long View, but requires "fill in the blank." Sauna, acoustic chamber, jacuzzi, video room, new bathroom on the third floor, magnetic interlock between our large two-inch tape machines, a fully proportioned sound stage, you name it.
"Great," I said. "We've always wanted a sound stage, anyway. Let's go." .
The Stones Might Come
"Listen, Geoff, I think we have to assume, you and me, that the Rolling Stones are coming to Long View, and not weaken the effort by any thought that they might not."
I started calling Alan Dunn about midday, the next day, but got his answering machine each time. His voice � on the assumption it was his � seemed crisp, cool, and thoroughly under control. Not at all rock 'n' roll.
He returned the phone call to me later that afternoon, while I was still in the office at Worcester. Very formal, very polite, very to the point. Yes, they had liked Long View Farm, particularly in respect of its privacy and general inaccessibility to the public. No, there was no one area at Long View quite big enough to accommodate a full-scale rehearsal of the Rolling Stones.
I then explained to Alan Dunn our plans for the loft in the barn, and attempted to convey to him my feeling that the construction could be completed in time for their intended starting date of Monday, 17 August. Alan Dunn sounded skeptical, and not at all ready to make up his mind. Not yet, at any rate.
They had worked in Woodstock the last time around, three years ago. Apparently using some of the facilities at Bearsville � the recording studio. How they had worked out the living accommodations was never quite clear to me, although I detected some lingering dissatisfaction with these arrangements. But at least Woodstock was a known quantity. Long View was an unknown quantity. And now, with Mick gone to India, or going to India tonight, it was going to be hard to get a decision, or even a mild consensus, concerning a totally new place, like Long View.
"Alan," I said. "I think it would be a good idea if we could meet each other. I'd like you to see who you're dealing with, and you need to be further informed concerning our plans for the loft in the barn. Let's let the eventual decision take care of itself."
"That's all very nice,
what you say," Alan replied. "But I might be making things a lot easier for myself if I didn't try to turn them on to something too new at this point. I'm going to go back up to Woodstock tonight, I think. Although it's supposed to rain."
"I hope it rains hard, Alan," I said. "I hope it rains hard and that you hate the place all over again. Tomorrow's Saturday. Why don't you call me when you get back from Woodstock, and you can give me further news then."
"I hope you understand my position," was his reply.
"I understand, Alan. Call me tomorrow if you want, or on Monday."
I hung up with an unsteady hand and a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe this deal wasn't going to happen at all, maybe not even get to first base. Mick's in India. The band has temporarily split up. They have to start somewhere on the 17th. That's three and a half weeks from now. This fellow Alan Dunn seems to want a sure thing, which would seem to favor Woodstock, but then he seems a bit susceptible to me on the phone. Who knows?
My desk phone rang again, almost instantly. I stared blankly at it for a second. It screamed at me again with its stupid thousand-cycle chirps. The ear can't easily locate thousand-cycle sounds, and in a big office like ours it's sometimes hard to find the phone that's chirping. This time it was my phone, and it was Geoff Myers calling in on the hot line from the Farm.
"Great news, Gil."
"What's up, Geoff?" I asked.
"Nigel can cut the beams tonight and deliver them tomorrow. Only $800, but he needs cash. My cousin Billy said he can come, although he'll probably bring a girlfriend. We've got to pay Billy this time. Bruce said he and Happy don't want to work the second shift, so they're going to start tomorrow at 8 AM."
"That's Saturday, right, Geoff?"
"Doesn't matter, they know what's at stake. They'll be the first shift 'til further notice. Happy needs some money to give his wife in Connecticut, and I've already told Kathleen. How's everything in there? Did you call Alan Dunn yet? They're still coming, right?"
I didn't know what I was going to say. But my mouth started moving.
"Yeah, Geoff, I'm here. Listen, Geoff, I think we have to assume, you and me, that the Rolling Stones are coming to Long View, and not weaken the effort by any thought that they might not. I did talk to Alan Dunn. Just a few seconds ago."
"And they're coming, right?"
"Yes, Geoff, the Stones are coming. We've got to assume the Stones are coming. So, full speed ahead."
"Great, see you later, Gil."
"Maybe not until very much later, Geoff," I said. "I thought I might go up to the El Morocco tonight for a meal."
"No problem," Geoff replied, "leave everything to me. I'm glad the Stones are coming."
"The Stones are coming, Geoff," I said.
The Stones Are Coming
"And now you've got Keith Richards, who's supposed to be the biggest drug addict in the world, coming to stay with you. Very cozy. Gil, you're gonna get busted."
I believe in the power of positive thinking, and that you can make events happen in the world by projecting them as having already occurred. Thus, if you want the Rolling Stones to come to Long View Farm, you imagine with every ounce of intensity you can muster the color, sound, and emotional texture of that eventuality, creating it in your mind as a completed object, which you may then proceed to adore. It is in the adoration of the object that you change the world. You begin by saying to the person nearest you, "Isn't that a beautiful object?" and that person will look where you point him, or her, and will generally approve of your object. Mind you, that same person is sometimes willing to see clothes on a naked Emperor, too, and that's why you can't go around adoring any old object in public, because it amounts to frivolous behavior with the lives of other persons. It's best to really know you want something before you start projecting it as an actuality. Because people may well flock to your side, change theirs lives about, and make your wish come true, for better or for worse.
Did I really want the Stones to come to Long View?
My phone rang again, it was still that Friday afternoon, and I had just talked with Alan Dunn, and with Geoff Myers at the Farm. "The Stones are coming," I repeated to myself, and lunged for my pretty red phone.
"Gil, ba-by!" It was Rory McPherson on the line, a friend of mine for years, also a friend of James Taylor, always worked at RCA in New York. Always wanted to help me out somehow at Long View, but he never did, or couldn't, or something. Rory wouldn't always take my telephone calls.
"Hey, little buddy, I knew you'd do it. Little buddy, you get ready. You have arrived!"
"What are you talking about, Rory?"
"Hey, ba-by, don't you give me that. The word's out, and the whole town's buzzing about it. It's you, man. And it's the Rolling Stones. The Stones, Gil. Baby, congratulations!"
"Well, thanks, Rory. I'm aware that your friend Bill Beatty at S.I.R. had a lot to do with this happening, if it happens."
"You got it, baby. You got it! They loved your place. Loved it. The fact of the matter is, Gil, they've got no choice." Rory lowered his voice, and continued speaking in demi-tones. "Woodstock was a disaster three years ago, and there's pressure on everybody to make it work out better this time. Relax, Gil. You've got it."
Rory seemed to know something about all this after all.
"Yeah," I said. "I guess maybe it is happening. The Stones are coming. Tell Bill I owe him a favor. Owe you a favor, too, Rory. And let me know if you get any further news, or insights into this craziness."
"O.K., Gil," Rory concluded. "Hey, you see Nancy and you give her a kiss on the cheek and you say it's from me, and knock 'em each once on the head for me, those two beautiful kids of yours."
"Thanks, Rory. Say hi to Marilyn for me, too."
"Baby, I knew you'd do it. I knew it. I mean, I was just saying to Bill the other day, 'You know, Bill, that Gil Markle is really doing one hell of a job up there.'"
"Thanks, Rory," I interrupted. "I gotta go. Another telephone call. Take care of yourself."
"O.K., Gil, you, too!"
Wendy Thurston, who's my secretary and assistant, and who's quick to pick up on things, was waving at me from her office.
"You've got Mike Forhan on six-eight," she said. "Says he's got to speak with you."
"O.K.," I thought. Mike is a real old friend of mine, helped me with an earlier business venture in the '70's, got a touch of career burnout, and was now in the business of putting anti-terrorist devices in the wheel wells of privately owned airplanes. A little red light goes on if some guy puts a bomb in your wheel well, and you thus know to take the bomb out before getting in the plane and continuing on your way. Mike's anti-thug boxes were very expensive.
"What's up, Mike?"
"Man, you are in one shitload of trouble, let me tell you that. You are in water so hot you don't even know ...."
"What are you talking about, Mike?"
"You know damn well what I'm talking about, or you will when I'm through. Sometimes I think I'm the only friend you got, who will tell you things. Gil, are you ever in trouble!"
"O.K., Mike, I give up, what trouble?"
"The Stones, man, and the drugs. It's the drugs, Gil. Listen, you've had the law looking really close at you out there ever since Stevie Wonder Day, and you know what I'm talking about. And now you've got Keith Richards, who's supposed to be the biggest drug addict in the world, coming to stay with you. Very cozy. Gil, you're gonna get busted. They'll just waltz right in there, knowing they'll find something, somewhere, and that'll make 'em right, do you hear me? These guys wanna be right about you, and so far they're not. They want you to be crooked, Gil, and this'll make 'em right. What's the matter with you? Can't you see what's happening?"
"Mike, I don't even know for sure that the Stones are coming to Long View Farm. I don't even know that much. So why should we be getting bent out of shape on this other question? It just might work its way out, anyhow."
"That's just like you. You're a fuckin' asshole. Listen to me, I'm gonna call my cousin Marty right away and fill him in. He's got a friend in the Attorney General's office in Boston. We gotta find out who it is you go to, or who you pay, or whatever, to keep this thing under control. Listen to me, I know what I'm talking about. I'm the best friend you got."
"I think you are, too, Mike."
"O.K. then, leave it to me. You're not really from around here, and you don't know how these things work. Politics, man. Listen to me, if this thing works out, and the Stones come and you don't get busted, you should run for Lieutenant Governor, or something like that. Politics, Gil. You've been thinking about that in the back of your mind. I know. I know you better than you know yourself sometimes."
"Mike, please. I don't think I want to be Lieutenant Governor. I just want all this to work out."
"You shoulda called me. Why do I have to be the one calling you all the time?"
"Mike, I just got back from Rome. I'm trying to make this thing happen. I haven't even seen Nancy and the kids yet. Let's let this happen a bit more first. Things will work out all right."
"I'm still gonna call Marty. Guh-bye." And then he hung up.
I don't want to dwell too much on the remainder of that Friday afternoon because it was a very confusing one for me. I really didn't know whether the Stones were coming or not. Possibly they wouldn't come at all. Yet there was a full-blown assumption on the part of everyone who telephoned me that day � an assumption that the Stones were indeed coming to Long View Farm. Almost as though they had already come. People were treating it as fact � actively meditating on the arrival of the Rolling Stones. People were projecting it as a "given," and then calling in to tell me about it. There was already a great deal of apparent support for this one particular adorable object. These people were going to make it happen.
If it was to happen at all. I was confused. I didn't know whether the Stones were coming or not.
"Gil," Wendy shouted to me. "It's your mother on the phone."
"Thanks, Wendy," I said, and then I talked to my mother, and told her about the Rolling Stones and what it was likely to mean for me, if it happened, and how crazy it had been for me during even this very afternoon.
"I'm worried about Nancy and the children on the Cape," she said. "You spend so little time with them � with her. They're your flesh and blood, Gil."
"Mom," I said, "I love you."
"We love you, too, Gil," she said.
Bob Adams showed up with our twin-engine airplane at 6 PM, as planned. Gate Three. One trip for Gil from Worcester to Provincetown. Ice cubes in the tray. Stolni' in the bar. Gil in the cabin, looking out and down at the houses and the cars and the people some 5,000 feet below. I fancied imaginary lightning-like lines carrying energy from one person down there to another. "Rolling Stones are coming." "What?" "Yes." "Rolling Stones are coming." My first really successful meditation on the topic. The Rolling Stones were coming; that much seemed crystal clear to me even before we set down in P-town, in a strong cross wind. Bob landed first one wheel, then the other, just as you're supposed to.
"Think Mick will want to fly around in the Twin, Gil? Guess so, huh? I tell you, though, now's the time to get that damned attitude indicator fixed. Do you know what nearly happened the other night? Well, I don't even want to tell you. Only, if Mick Jagger's going to be in this airplane, you better get it fixed. Under five grand. But you still owe the radio shop for the transponder and the radar altimeter."
"Bob," I said, "don't worry about it, we'll do it, go ahead with it Monday. Tentative return Sunday, 6 PM, from here. Better wear the beeper. For all I know I may be summoned to New York in the middle of the night. I don't yet know how these people work."
"You got it, Gil."
Nancy was there to meet me, well-tanned, and the kids were with her, too. I wondered if they knew that the Rolling Stones were coming. Well, I was going to spare them that. Nancy would not like me laying any rock 'n' roll trips on her, during the first five minutes I was back. So instead we talked about Abby's new tooth, how tan David was, and Bennie, who was now living nearby, in a teepee. It was only as we were pulling into the driveway of the boathouse, which is right on the Atlantic Ocean in Truro, that Nancy said, "You had a phone call. Somebody Dunn. Alan Dunn, I think he said."
"Did he sound English?" I asked.
"Yes," Nancy said. "English."
The Stones Aren't Coming
"That's very nice, but I don't want you spending money on the assumption that the band is going to use Long View Farm for its rehearsals. Kathleen had quoted us a much lower price before you got back from Rome..."
That had to be good news, I reckoned. Alan and I spoke earlier, and left things open and uncommitted. He was going to go to rival Woodstock tonight, in the rain. Things couldn't get much worse than that, I reasoned, so this phone call had to be about something substantive � some upturn in the course of events � something we could discuss. Maybe I was about to do some business with Alan Dunn. My tongue instinctively wet my lips, and I looked about for a notepad. Just Abby's crayons, and some notes to Nancy, to call Bennie, in my mother's handwriting. Bennie? The phone rang.
"Nancy," I shouted, "keep the kids quiet. I know who this is. Just a few minutes, please."
I picked up the phone and sure enough, it's Alan on the line.
All services provided to the Rolling Stones pass through their friend and Logistics Chief, Alan Dunn. He works in close consultation with Mick Jagger. Alan can make almost any deal he wants, since it's for the Rolling Stones. For that band, people are often willing to work for nothing, or for whatever is offered to them. Period. Alan is of course aware of this, and handles his responsibilities with reserve, care, and grace not often seen in rock 'n' roll. He wants to see a fair deal done with suppliers of services, just so long as the final prices are strictly competitive, and in no case marked up just because people think that the Rolling Stones have lots of money.
"May I speak with Gil Markle, please?"
"Alan," I said, in my most American of accents. "It's me, what's up?"
This had to be good news, and there was a trace of jaunt and confidence in my voice.
"It's not what's up, Gil, it's what's not up, and that's why I'm calling to speak with you."
Gulp. Torpedo attack! It's that ol' feint right, move left. I had to learn to play with this guy, Alan Dunn. He seemed to want to play with me. He was calling me to tell me what wasn't up.
"All right, Alan, tell me what's not up, then."
"The deal, Gil. Your prices don't fit, ah, don't fit the budget. Budgetary problems. Stu and I really liked the place, though it was a wee tight space-wise, like I said to you just this morning."
"Listen to me, Alan," I said, "I told you we're going to take care of that problem. We can build a stage � we've already started on it, and know where it's going to go � high up in the loft of the barn, not toward the front, but in the back. A big stage. We've got just enough time, and we can do it. We've already started."
"That's very nice, but I don't want you spending money on the assumption that the band is going to use Long View Farm for its rehearsals. Kathleen had quoted us a much lower price before you got back from Rome..."
"Jane Rose led her to believe that you were calling about an unknown new wave band with no financial resources at all," I interrupted, "not the Rolling Stones with a retinue of thirty, and international guests to cater to each day, every day, for six weeks! It's going to cost us to do all this for you."
"Well, I still don't want you to go and build a stage, and then have us not come."
"All right, Alan," I said, "don't worry about that. The stage is something we were going to do anyway." I was lying through my teeth.
"Well, the band might still be more comfortable with Woodstock, and might opt for it just because it's known to them, whereas Long View..."
"Alan," I said, now in desperation. "There is no sense in our talking about this on the phone. You've got to come back, and I'll show you what we're doing, and you should bring a member of the band with you. The Twin is at your disposal. Use it."
"Mick's just left for India, so it'd have to be Keith. Do you know how difficult it would be to get him to show up at Teterboro Airport? Mick's one thing. If he says four o'clock, you can be sure he'll be there at five minutes to four, but Keith! There's no way I could promise to get him at a certain time to Teterboro."
"La Guardia, then," I snapped, figuring I'd swallow the higher $60 landing fee with relish.
"That's not the point. I just don't know if he'd come. He may even say he will, but there's no guaranteeing it."
"Try then, Alan, try. Teterboro Airport, Monday afternoon at 2 PM. And we can talk Monday morning to fine-tune things."
"All right, Gil, maybe you're right. That would solve a lot of problems, if it happens. But there's still the matter of the, ah, budget."
"Alan," I said, "please listen to me. I want to do this gig. It obviously would be very good for the studio. Also � and forgive my immodesty � I think Long View would be perfect for the band, as well. They'd benefit, too. Tell your clients that I won't let price get in the way, if it comes to that."
Silence.
"Just started to rain down here," Alan said finally. "And I've got to go up to damned Woodstock tonight. I tell you, Gil, thirty-nine is too old to be in rock 'n' roll."
"Alan," I interrupted. "I'm older than you, so that means you have to do what I say. Go to Woodstock, have a lousy time, and see me with Keith at 2 PM on Monday at the Avitat Terminal at Teterboro Airport, just over the bridge in New Jersey. Got that straight?"
"Yes, Gil," Alan laughed. And I laughed, and just as he was about to hang up, Alan managed a parting shot.
"Just don't go and build that stage, Gil. Really." Then he hung up.
So there I was, holding a telephone receiver, and there Nancy was, looking at me with disapproval in her eyes. The look carried with it the following message: "Why, you're not back home two minutes and you're on the phone. It's been three weeks you've been away from your kids, and from your so-called home, and now there's some new Fire Call that's going to take you back to the Farm. Business, no doubt, while I stay down here on this spit of sand with your two kids, and soon with your mother and father to boot. I could do better than that, let me tell you."
"Nancy," I said, "what do you think? Are the Stones coming or not?"
She didn't answer me, but continued to busy about with her sewing machine.
"I hope your kids look all right to you," she said, firmly.
"They look great," I said. "David's brown as a berry. Abby looks great."
"Good," Nancy replied. "I'm glad."
The Slender Strand
"It was hanging by a slender strand before my eyes, this possible event, twisting slowly in the light, and fascinating me. Enslaving me." ( He wrote this essay last. He kept on saying to me, "Hold a place for an essay called 'The Slender Strand'. It's got to fit in during the time I was down at the Cape, just after my return from Rome." Other than that, he wouldn't tell me anything about it. Instead, he kept me waiting for it right up until the end, when we were hassling over the pictures, and how much I'd get to say in these footnotes. He kept on saying that this essay was maybe the most important one in the collection, and he wanted it to be right. It reads like all the others, if you ask me. B.S.)
"The Slender Strand" is that thread by which career success hangs suspended, over the abyss. It's not guaranteed to hold; it snaps easily.
Look at me, for example. Here I am, sitting in a distracted state at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, wanting to think that the Rolling Stones were coming to Long View Farm, my recording studio, and becoming very attached to this prospect, mind you, yet having to reckon with the equally likely outcome; namely that I'd never hear from the band or this fellow, Alan Dunn, again.
The fact is, I'd been working on this Stones project for only 72 hours, no more than that, but I already had a good taste of what might be in store for me personally � a quick radical upwards transformation. Real power, conferred on me as though by magic. My friends were astounded; they didn't know what to think. People calling me up who wouldn't speak with me the day before. Girls, reporters, flash bulbs, people asking me what I thought about things. Great stuff, right?
And I could see the rest of it coming my way, and well, I could taste it. And, I had to admit, I liked it a lot. The attention. The activity. The action. The feeling of success. Even as I sat there, surf pounding outside the large screen doors and deck, there were two teams of strong men tearing my barn apart 150 miles to the west � putting in electric cable, and lights. There was another man spending all his time ordering supplies. Timber, large nails, mike cable, linseed oil, carpet, appointments, stained glass, a complete set of Rolling Stones records, four new stereo systems, a new telephone system, 12 new telephones, a new communications cable from the barn to the house, a new water pump in case the only one we had broke down. Electrical cable down to the pond for possible security applications. The list went on and on. People were doing it already.
And yet Alan Dunn had seen fit to call me twice that very day to warn me that it all might not happen. That it probably wouldn't happen. Jerking me around, I thought. Or was he?
This was a very weird situation. Even before the Rolling Stones had arrived at Long View Farm � even before I knew there was a good chance that they might arrive at Long View Farm � the world had begun to treat me differently, perhaps in anticipation of using me as access to the Stones. I wasn't sure. In any case, my phone was ringing, and people were scrambling to patch up relations with me when no patching up was required, and I suddenly began to wield an influence over other lives which, even a few days before, would have been unthinkable. The world was treating me as a different and as a more important person. But I knew it wasn't me. There was nothing new about me � no change in me as would explain the additional attention I was getting, and the peer respect which was now mine. It wasn't me. I was the same person I was three days earlier. I knew that.
Instead, it had to do with the arbitrary and unpredictable decision of the Rolling Stones to come to Long View Farm, or not to come to Long View Farm. If Mick Jagger were to be run over by a truck in Bombay, the event would not occur, and my phone would stop ringing within 48 hours. If Keith had some aversion to Cessna 402's, then the event would not occur, and my new friends would vanish. If there really were, "ah, budgetary problems," then the event would not occur, and the whole charade would be written off as a ruse, or as a publicity scam bearing my fingerprints. There were a thousand reasons why the event might not occur. It was hanging by a slender strand before my eyes, this possible event, twisting slowly in the light, and fascinating me. Enslaving me.
So much then for the fame which was now to be mine for a while. So much for the power I was to enjoy in making the dictates of my will known to the world. Neither could be taken seriously. There had been no personal battle won, no victory scored, no baffling problem solved on behalf of mankind. Nothing like that at all. These adornments were absurd beings, fashioned out of darkness by events which might or might not occur.
So I would not cling to them � these new little baubles of mine � not let it ruin my life if something went wrong, and they were snatched away before I got to try them on for size.
They weren't mine, and I didn't want them, either.
They belonged to the Rolling Stones.
Yes," I said to myself. "That's it: can't take this fame and power seriously." And, lo, I felt something building in my breast that night on Cape Cod � something which must have been scorn. Yes, scorn for fame and power, and it felt pretty damn good.
That calmed me down a bit � that little exercise � and I made my way out over the dunes to the ocean, which was now black under a starry sky, and at low tide. I waded in slowly until the water closed over my head, extinguishing for a moment all thinking about the Rolling Stones, and of any probability quotient relating to their arrival at Long View Farm on the 17th of August. I was really trying to stay free of this one. Or get free of it. This one could grind me up, if I let it.
It had to be "business as usual," instead. That's it, business as usual.
Twin Cessna 75 X-Ray
"Gil," she gasped into the phone. "You'll never guess who just walked in thedoor.Jesus..."
"This is Cessna 75 X, intercom to base. 75 X, to base.
"Tell Gil we have Keith plus four. Alan Dunn and wife, Jane Rose, and some knockout named Patti.
"We're twenty miles out. Will call back over the Outer Marker.
"Tell Gil to get the Cadillac cooling. We've got his man."
That was pilot Bob Adams. I switched off the scanner, grabbed my leather briefcase, and began the procedures for turning off the lights at our company headquarters at the Worcester Airport. Convenient, having your offices at the Airport, particularly if you have a twin-engine airplane. Long View shares its office space with the large student travel company I started as a graduate student at Yale, and to which I have continued to devote myself over the years.
One bank of lights went out after another. Mailroom, sales cubicles, computer room, overseas offices, travel agency, financial offices, acceptance division, finally Gil's office. I scooped up my gin & tonic, locked the stainless steel double doors, and lurched out into the warm summer night, toward the car, the arrival gate, and my night's work.
It had been a long day � the day of the Keith Richards creeping delay.
No, Keith could not possibly make it at two. He had a dentist's appointment at two. Keith was late for his dentist's appointment. No, Keith did not leave for the airport directly from the dentist's; he had to visit a friend first, on the way out of the city. What friend, or for what purpose, unknown. It was now suppertime. Keith was still at the friend's house, expecting to leave soon for Teterboro, but hadn't left yet. Keith finally leaves for Teterboro, it's thought. No one knows for sure. Gil calls Teterboro; no Keith, although the plane's there and waiting. Gil calls Teterboro a half-hour later; still no Keith. Gil calls Teterboro a half-hour later still; now 8:30 PM, or thereabouts.
"Charlotte. I'm glad it's you this time. It's Gil Markle. Listen, I've got some high-level clients meeting 75 X-Ray, any minute now. I'm calling to see if anybody's showed up yet."
"Who this time, Gil?"
"Never mind, Charlotte, it doesn't matter. Should be a group of four or five, some English. Seen anybody like that, Charlotte? Charlotte? You there, Charlotte?"
I heard a loud noise, as though Charlotte had dropped the receiver onto the floor. Commotion. Charlotte's voice, high pitched and squeaking.
"Gil," she gasped into the phone. "You'll never guess who just walked in the door. Je-sus..."
"It's not Keith Richards by any chance, is it Charlotte?"
"Gil," she said with determination, "I hate you."
That's when I first knew we had our man. Also, that's when I first knew, or felt, that my meditation was projecting itself out into the world in conformity with the manifest wishes of others, and hence the Grand Design; I mean, that the Rolling Stones were coming to Long View Farm. I looked at the clock, switched on the aircraft scanner, and went down to the bar for a gin & tonic.
I had now only another hour or so to wait.
Keith Richards
Keith looked up at the chimney, then back at me. I saw a gleam in his eye. We had this one.
Keith ambled out of the airplane, legs stiff from the 45 minute trip from Teterboro. He smiled. Keith looked like warm, friendly leather. Soft eyes.
"I'm Gil Markle, Keith. Welcome here."
"Hey, yeah. Nice, man. Nice trip."
"And I'm Alan Dunn, Gil. Sorry for the delay, but here we are."
I was then introduced to Jane Rose, who was talking to Keith and looking at him while shaking my hand, to Alan's comely wife Maureen, and to a smiling Patti Hansen, who looked me right in the eyes.
"Let's go," I said. "Black car, over there. "
"We all going in one car?" Keith asked.
"Yes," I said. "We'll all fit." I made a mental note to investigate the purchase of a second black Cadillac. (Except they didn't build big ones anymore.) We squeezed into the car. Keith, Patti, and Jane Rose in the back seat; Alan Dunn and his wife up front; me driving.
"Car got a radio?" Keith shouted up.
I flipped to WAAF, The Police; then to WBCN, an old J. Geils cut; then to some Hartford station, Jerry Lee Lewis.
"Yeah," Keith erupted. "Yeah."
I turned up the volume, and by the end of the tune, which was "Personality," we were gliding up Stoddard Road, past the Long View pond and rowboat, and up the long gravel drive. The Farmhouse glistened white, and the enormous barn glowed cherry red under a dark but very starry summer's night sky. There was a new moon. It was silent, except for the crickets.
"Welcome to Long View, Keith," I said.
"Yeah," Keith replied. "Nice place."
We were scarcely inside the house, drinks ordered up but not yet in hand, when Alan Dunn motioned to me and took me aside, behind the fireplace. "Look," he said, "this has got to be quick tonight. I've got to be back in the city for a day's work tomorrow. So does Jane Rose. Keith's got to be in Rome before the weekend, and he's nowhere near ready to go. Just got evicted from his apartment, and there're a lot of loose ends to tie up. So give him a quick tour, and let's take a look at your plans for the loft. Don't get your hopes up. There's just not time for us to do much tonight."
"Here's your wine, Alan," I said. "And here's a screwdriver for Keith. Where'd he go?"
"Into the control room, I think. With Patti. Let's meet up in the loft in ten minutes, and you better call your pilots and tell them to be ready to depart Worcester for Teterboro at eleven, at the latest. Sorry it's got to be so rushed, but this was your idea, not mine."
"Ten minutes, Alan, in the loft."
It took us twenty minutes to get up there, not ten. Keith was in no hurry, and neither was I, if you want to know the truth. We hung out in the control room for a while, and I explained to him how we have tie lines between the two studios, and how we sometimes record over across the way, in the barn, but mix here in Control Room A. We then took a look at the bedrooms upstairs, the balcony overlooking our antique Steinway, and our collection of records.
"You keep all your fifties in one place, too," he remarked with apparent relief. "Easier that way, isn't it? That cassette deck work?"
"Sure does, Keith. What you got there?"
"Bunch of stuff all mixed up. Starts with some Buddy Holly, I think."
Keith slammed the cassette into the cassette deck, which hangs at eye level just as you enter the kitchen, and hit the "go" button.
"Select tape two on the pre-amp," I shouted over to him, which he did.
On came Buddy Holly, as expected. Keith turned it up, loud, very loud, until it began to distort the JBLs hanging overhead, then down just a notch. Maximum undistorted volume, that's called. He extended his glass to me, which now had only a bit of yellow left in it, way down at the bottom of the glass. He needed a refill.
"Good idea," I said. "Then let's go across the way and I'll show you what we have in mind for the stage."
"Yeah," Keith said. "Let's go over to the barn. Got to find Patti, though. Hold on a minute."
Patti materialized, and we headed out, through the library, under the moosehead, past the fish tank, and out onto the driveway.
"Look down there, Keith," I said. "Those lights down there are Stanley's, and he's our nearest neighbor. Farmer."
"Hope he likes rock 'n' roll," Keith laughed.
"He better by now," I said. "He's been hearing it from us for almost eight years now. Up these stairs here, and straight ahead."
Alan Dunn and Jane Rose were waiting for us in the loft, and had already been briefed by Geoff Myers, who was talking in an animated fashion, and moving his arms in wide arcs. He was explaining how deep the stage was going to be, and how strong. Keith listened for a moment, then walked over to one of the massive support beams, and kicked it. He looked up, whistled softly through his teeth, and spun around slowly, on his heel.
"Yeah," he said. "What's down there?"
"Come on, I'll show you," and I scrambled down the rickety ladder into what we now call the Keith Richards bedroom suite. Keith followed, with Jane Rose telling him to be careful.
"We don't really know how strong that thing is, now, do we? Gil, are you sure you need Keith down there? Why don't you just leave Keith up here and you can talk to us from down there. Keith, are you all right? Keith!"
"Figured we'd do a bedroom and living area down here," I said. "Right beside the chimney here. A place for people to hang out during the rehearsals, but still be out of the way. Look up there. The stage will be on the level of those transverse beams. You'll be able to see the whole thing from down here. We'll build staircases, fix it up nice. Cassette deck will be over there; speakers hanging so, on either side of the chimney. Should sound good down here."
Keith looked up at the chimney, then back at me. I saw a gleam in his eye. We had this one.
Keith and I made our way back up the ladder, Keith first, much to Jane Rose's pleasure and relief. Geoff Myers was jumping up and down on the plank floor, trying to make it move.
"See? And this is just one layer of two-inch pine on top of two-by-eights. Nothing compared to the strength of the stage, which will have three layers: beams of hemlock, pine sub-flooring, and oak finish. You could drive a truck up there and the floor wouldn't give a bit."
And that's all Keith needed to hear. He walked up to Geoff, and gave him a friendly slap on the lapel with the back of his hand.
"It won't bounce, right?"
"No bounce, Keith."
"We're coming, then. What a place I found!"
"We're what?" Alan interrupted.
"We're coming to this man's barn. Where's Mick now?"
"India, Keith."
"Let's go ring him. What a place I found!"
"How's your screwdriver, Keith?" I asked. It was plainly down to its ice cubes, and needed refreshing.
He looked at me, and at my screwdriver, which was still quite yellow, and full of Stolni'.
I poured my glass into his; he laughed, and we walked back across the driveway to the Farmhouse. Keith and I were getting on just fine.
Jane Rose
"People think I get my way a lot more than I do," Keith continued." You don't know what it's like dealing with the people I have to deal with. If it wasn't for the music, I wouldn't be doing it."
"Oh, Keith! Keith!" Jane Rose tends to shriek a bit when she talks. Her job is to take care of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, and she's very protective of them.
"Oh, I knew I'd find you in here, in this ice-cold control room, talking to Greg and listening to records."
Keith hit the "mute" button on the console, lowering the volume level in the room.
"Gil's his name," he said.
"Gil, then. Listen, Keith-eee, we simply must begin to think about getting on our way. Greg, here � Gil, I mean � has those two pilots waiting inside that gorgeous airplane, and we simply can't keep them waiting, can we? You know what you have to do for tomorrow. There's the dentist again, and there's the Consulate, and there's Renaldo, in Rome, and we're way up here in goodness-knows-where. And I know Patti must get back to the city, too, mustn't you, dear, and I know ..."
"We're not going anywhere," Keith said, returning the level of the studio monitors to full, undistorted blast.
"We're not going anywhere," he said again, I think, judging from the way his lips moved.
I smiled, having only moments ago taken Keith behind the moose head in the library with our two full glasses of Stolni' and orange juice. "You don't have to go anywhere tonight, Keith," I had said. "It just starts to get fun here after supper. You can hang out, listen to some records, fool around, anything you want. The place is yours."
"Yeah," he muttered through a smile. "I don't have to go anywhere, do I?"
"No, Keith," I said, "you don't."
And he didn't go anywhere. Jane brought the word back outside to Alan, who was tired and just as happy to stay, and the pilots were released from any duty within Gil's gorgeous airplane. Keith stayed, and stayed largely inside the control room, playing and listening to music, for the better part of three days.
"Get Jane up," he said at one point. It's always dark in the control room, particularly when the black velvet curtains are pulled, and so it's difficult to tell what time it is, or whether it's night or day. I think it was about 5 AM. We had just gone through a half a dozen versions of Merle Haggard's "Sing Me Back Home," Keith singing and accompanying himself on the piano.
"Tell her to get Woody on the phone, and Bobby Keys, too."
"Keith," I asked, "do you know what time it is? I don't."
"Doesn't matter. I never get a chance to do this. You don't understand. I suppose you think it's all fun being me. Listen, I never get a chance to sing by myself like this � play the piano � without some bastard weirding out and asking me why I wasn't playing the guitar, and looking mean. People have their ideas about me. I bet you didn't think I could play the piano, did you? Or sing classics from the thirties. Well, I can, and I want to talk to Woody. He'll love it here. Where's Jane?"
"Upstairs, Keith, in the Crow."
"I'll go, Keith," volunteered Patti Hansen, and she slithered out the door and up the staircase to the bedroom we call the Crow. Muffled female voices indicated that Jane had not been sleeping all that soundly, if at all, and that she had some reservations about calling Woody and Bobby Keys.
"I know what you mean, Keith," I continued down below. "It's not all that great when you get what you want. Me, I've got a lot of things happening, but also a lot of screwed up relationships, like with my girlfriend, who's the mother of my kids."
"Me, too," Keith said, slapping his vest pocket and looking about for something he had obviously misplaced. "I did the same thing. Her name's Anita. Kid's Marlon."
"Here's what you're looking for," I said. "Use the razor in the editing block."
"People think I get my way a lot more than I do," Keith continued. "You don't know what it's like dealing with the people I have to deal with. If it wasn't for the music, I wouldn't be doing it."
Sniff!
"Let's do 'Dream' next, what d'ya think?"
"Let's do it, Keith. Gimme a minute, though. I want to put some two-inch tape on the big machine for this one. Something I want to check on the machine first, too."
"No hurry, man. No... hurry." Keith stretched out the "no's" until they wouldn't stretch any more, and addressed the mirror once again.
Sniff!
Patti Hansen leaned her full weight on the heavy studio door, opening it a crack and looking in on Keith and me.
"Look at the two of you. I mean, I can't leave the room for a minute. I need to talk to you, Gil. Come here, will you?"
"What's up, Patti?" I asked, a bit blinded once outside the door by the early morning light. "What's up?"
"You've got to invent some excuse, Jane says. He may never leave here if you don't. You don't know Keith. He likes it here, too much maybe. But he's got to be in Rome before next Monday to get his visa fixed. Jane's worried. Can't you say something about the plane, or something? Really, Gil, he may not ever leave here, at all."
Patti Hansen is a very beautiful woman, and it was clear that she was asking me to take action, too. Not just Jane.
"Something about the plane?" I asked. "Like there's bad weather coming in, and we'd better make a move soon."
"That would be great," Patti said, eyes flashing.
"Not before the Everly Brothers' tune," I said, somewhat automatically. "He wants to do the Everly Brothers' tune, and he really should. That's next. Don't worry, Patti," I said. "He's really doing fine in there."
"O.K., Gil, that's all great. But what do you think, I mean, what should I tell Jane?"
"Tell her after the Everly Brothers' tune," I laughed.
"O.K., Gil," Patti said, smiling. "You know, you're not bad for forty-one. That's how old you are, right?"
"You read the article in the magazine in the plane?"
"You put it there for us to read."
"Yeah, I guess I did. Listen, don't worry about Keith. I'll get him out of here somehow. Just so long as it's not before we do the Everly Brothers' tune, O.K.?"
"O.K.," Patti said.
For Engineers Only
It was during Randall's trip to Westfield with Keith Richards that I figured it out all over again � that the Rolling Stones were coming to Long View Farm.
I was true to the promise I made to Patti Hansen, although it took me a day or two longer than expected to deliver.
"What d'ya think, Keith," I began. "We've been in here for days, it seems. I've got to do some things in Worcester. You've got to go to Rome. Why don't I call Bill Mahoney, the pilot, and get you and Patti out of here before the front comes through?"
There really was a lot of bad weather on the way, and it's best not to fool around with that unless you really have to.
"Sounds O.K. to me," Keith said. "Sounds O.K. to me. Either that or you've got to give me a job banging nails with those lads out in the barn."
Wouldn't that be something, I mused. Last remaining superstar guitarist knuckles down with North Brookfield country strong hands � building a Sound Stage for the use of his band, the Rolling Stones.
That didn't happen, of course. Instead, we called Mahoney and set up a departure out of Worcester for Teterboro at 11 AM the next morning. And I set about doing some rough mixes of the two-inch recording tape I'd made the night before. The piano demos I'd done with Keith. As luck would have it, our Chief Engineer, Jesse Henderson, had taken a week to do some engineering chores for Sha Na Na, in California. And so I had to engineer myself, leaving Reed Desplaines, Night Manager, to play assistant engineer � running back and forth to the tape library for more reels of virgin tape. This for studio buffs: we used three Neumann '87 microphones on the Steinway, which Pat Metheny left with us two years ago. The piano, I mean. Mikes in our top-secret positions. Another Neumann '87 on him, close up, with a pop filter; voice highly compressed using an Eleven-seventy-six limiter set at twelve-to-one. Finally, a good measure of live acoustic reverb on either side of his voice, in stereo. Lots of E.Q., on everything. I had only one shot at this, and I wanted it to be right the first time.
The live mix was great all by itself, and the best results of that extraordinary session were in fact recorded directly onto our Studer mastering deck, and not the 24-track. 30 ips; no noise reduction, very hot on AMPEX 456 tape.
"Listen to this one, Keith," I said, just before driving him to the airport.
I selected the live stereo tape of "The Nearness of You," a classic Hoagy Carmichael ballad dating from the late '30's. Keith Richards playing the Steinway, and singing, too.
"It's not the pale moon, that excites me,
that thrills, and delights me;
Oh no, It's just the nearness of you."
"Far out, Gil. Voice sounds great. Sounds great."
"ZIP � BUZZ . . ." There was a loud, familiar noise on the tape.
"What the hell was that?" Keith asked, with a look of anguish on his face.
"Jane Rose taking a picture of you with her Polaroid camera," I replied.
"Bloody well ruins that take, didn't it?"
"No, Keith," I said. "I think I can razor it out later. We've got this tune about six times, anyway. So don't worry."
Recording enthusiasts will be interested to know that the eventual edits on these ten or so tunes � classic Keith Richards piano demos � took nearly two weeks' work. I found the time to do it only a month after the Stones had finally gone, and performed the edits on a 7 1/2 ips dub inadvertently left behind at my house on Cape Cod. Editing at 7 1/2 ips is no fun, as you may know. Several hundred cuts were required, since Keith never really bothered to begin or end any of the tunes. He'd just keep on playing, and singing, with me scrambling to keep tape on the tape machines, late at night in the A-Control Room at Long View Farm.
Studio A at Long View is the one people travel considerable distances to use, and I think you'd hear it said at the Farm that I can make it work pretty much as well as anybody can. Mixing tape is what I like to do. I can make really good, live, super-present mixes. That's what got me into all this, back in '72, when I was still teaching Philosophy at Clark. I figured I needed some time off to build a studio to make some mixes in. And that's how Long View came about.
So when I tell you that the live stereo tape of Keith Richards sounded good, you better believe me that it did.
We drove Keith Richards and Patti Hansen to the airport the next day. 300-foot overcast; visibility a quarter of a mile in rain and fog. Mahoney couldn't make it in, missing two instrument approaches in an attempt to land 75 X-Ray. So Randall Barbera, who works for me, as you may remember, offered to drive Keith and Patti over to Westfield in the Cadillac. Westfield was still operating, and only about 45 minutes away. They had a wonderful trip, I learned later. Cruising along on a light powdering, Stolni's and orange juice, and a fantastic compilation of fifties rock 'n' roll classics played at high volume on those wonderful-sounding Auratones mounted on the rear deck of the car. Pete Wolf of the J. Geils Band had left this particular cassette behind. By mistake, I'm sure, because it was a real beauty. "Earth Angel," "Good Golly, Miss Molly," "Tears on my Pillow," and songs like that.
"Take this and listen to it on the way to Westfield, Keith. Only remember it's not mine but Pete Wolf's, and he's certain to want it back."
"O.K." Keith said laughing. "I'll bring it back with me. See you."
"See you, Keith," I said.
"Bye, Gil," Patti said, and then they roared off.
And you take it from here, Pete, if you want that cassette back. He won't give it to me.
Let's all pause for a second and note that Keith Richards said "O.K. I'll bring it back with me." Meaning the cassette of course. Meaning also that he intended on coming back to Long View. That this gig was going to happen, after all. It was during Randall's trip to Westfield with Keith Richards that I figured it out all over again � that the Rolling Stones were coming to Long View Farm.
Maybe I'm just a bit slow, sometimes.
Darlin', Say It's Not You
"Darlin', There's talk around town; 'Bout a girl, who spread love around; with soft lips, And eyes, crystal blue..."
It must have been a new moon, or close to it, because the tide was way out, exposing an extra quarter mile of beach, just outside my old Coast Guard boathouse in Truro, on Cape Cod. It was a weekend, a Saturday, and the sun was directly overhead. I had just come down in the Twin, from Worcester.
"Gil, you look terrible."
"Thanks, Bill," I said. Bill's my brother, and had just rented the house up on the bluff for two weeks for himself, his wife, Viki, and his two kids. We were standing on the sandbar � halfway out in the ocean, it felt. Great for kids, let me tell you. Good for big people, too. Particularly somewhat burnt big people.
"I don't feel so good either, if you want to know the truth, Bill. I've been in the control room for three days with Keith Richards. That's what it does to you. Look. Notice the grey pallor to the skin, the bags under the eyes, and the ringing in the ears. That you can't hear � the ringing in the ears � but my ears are ringing, too."
"High volume levels?" my brother asked.
"Yup. Also lots of talk about rock 'n' roll. About other people � half of them dead now, or dying. Lives lost to rock 'n' roll. Decadent, tired stuff. Stayed awake all the time. It was sad in a way. Thrilling in a way. Just happened, you know. Haven't yet figured it out � what exactly happened, I mean. Looks like the Stones are coming to Long View, though. That much looks clear now."
"You just get here?" Bill asked.
"Just now. Haven't seen Nancy or the kids. They been here?"
"About an hour ago," Bill said. "Then she took off down that way with Abby and David. Some other guy with her, too. Don't know who. They all went down that way, towards Brush Hollow."
"Thanks, Bill," I said. I needed some exercise, to get the poisons out of my system. Better than jogging on the road anyhow, low tide was. And so I set off, running along easily on the salt flats, down past the lifeguards and the tourists, south along the beach to the place we call Brush Hollow, and which most new people or visitors call "the nude beach" at Truro.
It wasn't long before I could see them in the distance. That was Nancy, all right. Couldn't tell who it was with her, though. Except for the two little forms, which were almost certainly my kids.
I broke from a jog into a run. Nobody seemed to have any clothes on down there.
About a quarter of a mile away from Nancy � I could tell it was Nancy now, for sure � I see her walk up to where the blanket is, pin her little bathing suit on, and stalk off toward the right, up and over the dune, toward the path that leads through the Hollow and back to the road.
I'm really running now, pounding along at the water's edge, thinking I might still get down there before she disappears over the dune. No way, though. She disappears. Couldn't tell it was me, I figured. So I let off a bit of the steam, dropped back into an easy jog, and thought some thoughts about the Rolling Stones. Much of this book was conceptualized that way. Whenever I relaxed enough to let my mind roam a bit. Whenever I fantasized.
That, of course, is meditation. It's meditation in action; meditation in situation. The repetitiveness of your feet, slamming one after the other into the hard surface of sand, each making a sound like the sound before � like the sound after. It hypnotizes you, and for a second you forget yourself. That's the 'window.' The window on the future. The person you re-remember is a person with a game plan for tomorrow. A solution to the current dilemma. It's the window that makes the difference. "Zen and rock 'n' roll," if anyone asks you.
Today, running easily along the water's edge, feeling loose, and stronger with each step, it's Keith Richards I'm hearing in my head. It was the song we recorded the night before, or was it two nights before? I don't know. A country tune. Keith Richards singing a country tune with great pain in his voice � great expression. I made the tape play back in my head � something I wasn't able to do at all before turning thirty � and adjusted the speed so it would play along with the sound of my feet on the sand. Keith Richards, loud and live on the studio monitors at Long View Farm; me jogging along a Cape Cod beach under an August sun:
"Darlin', There's talk around town;
About a girl, who spread love around;
With soft lips, and eyes, crystal blue;
Darlin', say it's not you." ( George Jones, "Say It's Not You.")
Another great meditation; take it from me. A meditation in situ, which is the best kind; ask any guru.
And so I was in very settled spirits by the time I made it to Brush Hollow � perspiring profusely, and happy with my lot. Nancy had long since disappeared over the dune.
I don't know to this day whether she knew it was me running after her, or not.
Doesn't matter. I could recognize the guy by now. It was only Bennie.
Confidentiality
"I've got no time for chit-chat this time around," Alan said, ominously. "Gil, I think you've blown it."
Two table saws running simultaneously make a substantial noise. Add to that two skill saws, and the pounding of half a dozen hammers, the beeping of the horn of a large flatbed trailer delivering wood, the coxswain shouts of three ambitious supervisors, and the buzzings of several thousand North Brookfield barn flies, and you've got one hell of a racket.
And so they had to grab me by the elbow, and pull me aside and into the relative quiet of the control room of Studio B, to tell me that I had a long-distance telephone call.
"Alan Dunn, Gil. For you."
"Great," I thought, "Alan's back from England." This was now about ten days after Keith Richards had left Long View Farm at the end of an apparently successful inspection visit. And during those ten days we had worked a minor miracle in the loft of our large Red Barn. We were running two and sometimes three shifts � around the clock. There were between twenty and thirty people working in the barn at any one time. Add on the suppliers of occasional services, materials, equipment, and the like, and you've got several hundred people involved, already. And we'd only just started.
One thing seemed clear even this early on � we weren't going to get rich on this project. What looked earlier to be a ten or a twenty-thousand dollar investment in the barn now appeared low � perhaps very low, as an estimate. We were looking at between two and three times that amount, and the final details concerning the costs of finishing, appointments, furniture, etc., had not yet been reckoned with. Fortunately, EMI-America had just paid us the balance of money owed on the J. Geils project, Freeze Frame, and a couple of other receivables � which I had never expected to see, ever � also came in. I don't know what we would have done otherwise. As it was, we were still playing the float with the bank each weekend, and there were some people working for nothing, or on a deferred payment basis.
The energy level in the construction area was astounding. People were starting earlier than they had agreed to, taking short coffee breaks or no coffee breaks at all, and were staying, some of them, well on into the night. Wives were coming by � pitching in, many of them, to help. Little children were dragging about small pieces of insulation, small boards, and handfuls of nails, playing with each other, and watching their daddies work � sometimes on scaffolding far above their heads.
We had, of course, told these people that the band arriving on the seventeenth of August was the Rolling Stones. We had told them point blank that the Rolling Stones were coming. We had little choice in the matter. We couldn't have gotten the work done otherwise. Confidentiality was nevertheless understood. On the job, there was scarcely any talk of the Rolling Stones, or of the members of the band, or of any of the details of the gig. Half the fun was being secret about it. True, a ripple of excitement would go through the carpenter contingent every time that WAAF � the local FM station � would launch into a Rolling Stones "six-pack," but that was about the extent of any formal acknowledgment, within the ranks, that the Stones were on their way.
Naturally, there were leaks. It turns out that the four fellows who put the carpet down in Keith Richards' eventual living room were spreading the word throughout nearby Spencer. Some people were still calling me from New York City, with congratulations on my "coup." How these people found out the Stones were coming to Long View I don't know. But they knew, and they were telling people. Chris Kimsey, an old friend who had worked on several occasions at Long View Farm, and who had produced the recent and much touted Stones album, Tattoo You, called me from England to wish me well and to give me a few hints concerning the gig. I think he heard about it from Ian Stewart, but I'm not sure.
One very dangerous close call occurred with WAAF, the radio station. They telephoned one day for a routine confirmation from me that the Stones were in point of fact coming to rehearse at Long View Farm. The radio station was ready to use this information on the air, starting immediately. It was Dave Bernstein who called me, delighted that this event was going to transpire in the Worcester area, and not, say, Boston.
"People don't realize it, Gil, but WAAF is reaching as many people in the Boston area as a lot of Boston stations are. It's been years that we've been treated as also-rans � as an upstart new wave station to the west of Boston. Thank goodness that's going to stop now. We're all very appreciative, Gil. Tune in in a half-hour or so and watch how we handle it. This'll knock their socks off in Beantown."
"Dave," I stammered. "You just can't do it. You can't say anything about the Stones on the air."
"Whaddayamean, Gil, it's news. I've got my news people to deal with, and they're a fairly idealistic bunch. For them, news is news. We have to go with it."
"Dave, if you do, the gig is almost certainly not going to happen. The fact of the matter is, it's not sure that the Stones are coming to Long View Farm. They are looking us over, that much I can tell you, off the record. But one of the things they're evaluating is the question of privacy, solitude, and our ability to control the local media on their behalf. You breathe one word about Mick Jagger coming to Long View, and you'll turn this whole area into a circus. I'm having trouble enough as it is, trying to keep the people who are working here under control. So far, so good. But if you go on the radio with it, it's all over but the shouting. We'll fall under siege, from the media and the general public alike, and then they'll not come, for sure. So that's what you should tell your news director. That the news won't happen, if you say even so much as a word about it. Then there'll be nothing, for anybody. Not for us, not for you, and not for your news director, either. We've got to let this gig happen first, then we'll see what we can arrange.
That worked, and that's the approach I was to use repeatedly in the days to follow, with great success. The fact of the matter is, that when the Stones finally did arrive on the seventeenth of August, there was scarcely a news bureau, newspaper, radio station, or TV station, which had not been clued in. Not by us, but by word of mouth. They would each call me for a confirmation, and I would handle them just as I handled Dave Bernstein. Nobody wanted to have it said of their radio station, or their newspaper, that they had been the ones to prevent the Rolling Stones from coming to the area.
"Hi, Alan," I said, "welcome back to the States. Howya been?"
"I've got no time for chit-chat this time around," Alan said, ominously. "Gil, I think you've blown it."
"What do you mean, blown it?"
"You may have blown the gig. Leaks, Gil. Publicity leaks. I thought I fully explained to you how important absolute secrecy was going to be. Well, apparently I did not speak clearly enough. Let me tell you what happened the night before last. I got a phone call from Mick. I think he was in Paris then, on his way back from Bombay. Very angry and put out, I might add. It seems Mick got a cable in Bombay, just before leaving. I'm not at liberty to tell you who it was from, except to say it was from one of the highest ranking political personalities in the United States. I'll give you a hint, the gentleman involved lives in your Commonwealth of Massachusetts. In any case, Mick gets a cable from this gentleman's office, welcoming Mick to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and entreating his appearance at a fund-raiser for crippled orphans � a program apparently sponsored by the man's office, and a cause dear to him. Next, he goes on to say that he's willing to do his best to ensure that Mick's stay in Massachusetts is as safe and as uneventful as he, Mick, might require. Did you get that, Gil?"
"I sure did, Alan, how did that happen?"
"How did that happen? We don't live in Massachusetts. I don't know anybody who lives in Massachusetts. This did not come from our end. It most definitely came from yours.
"Look at it from Mick's point of view, Gil. He's in Bombay. He doesn't even know anything yet about Long View Farm, and all of a sudden he's in a no-win situation with a politician. If he goes to the fund-raiser, he alienates this guy's enemies, if he doesn't go, then there's some doubt about the safety and quiet he might enjoy during his stay there with you. Either way, it's no-win for him. You've got to understand, Mick likes to stay out of scrapes like that, or in any case be in total control of them. Had to be someone you told, Gil. You told someone that the Stones were coming to Long View Farm, and that person did you a disservice � a real disservice. Now I don't know what the implications of this will be. I shall do my very best when I next meet with Mick, upon his return to New York City. In the meanwhile, I'm instructing you to keep your mouth shut, and to tell your people to keep their mouths shut, and to say nothing more illuminating to the media than 'no comment.' Tell them simply that you have 'no comment.'
"Further, I'm taking the liberty of asking our attorney and accountant, Mr. Joe Rascoff, to call you, and to dictate to you some additional language concerning the confidentiality of information to which you may become party. You should insert this language immediately into the agreement and send me the amended version. Maybe that'll cool him out some."
"Joe?" I asked.
"No," Alan replied, "Mick."
"I'm warning you, Gil, don't you let anything like that happen again." Then he hung up.
Systems, Inc.
"Listen, Gil, I want to make this perfectly clear -- there's no charge for any of this. No pressure, no nothing. Congratulations on your coup from Systems, Inc."
"Boy," I said to myself as I hung up the phone, "these guys really like to play hardball. Real hardball. Maybe if they knew what was going on here, what I was doing for them, the money I was laying out for them, maybe then they'd be easier on me -- a touch more appreciative."
I walked up the stairs at the back of the Studio B Control room, and out into the chaos and confusion of the construction area. A large, freshly cut beam of hemlock was being gently lowered into place; guys ready at each end with hatchets. Electricians were stringing half-inch diameter metal pipe for the eventual lighting circuits; two audio technicians were laying their own metal pipe for the microphone cables. We were going to provide thirty-two channels of audio, strung all the way around the performing area of the stage. Four country lads from Spencer were hammering tack strips into the living and recreational area, preparing for the laying down of a rich red carpet. Billy, Geoffrey's cousin, was installing an inlaid wood fascia strip across the front of the stage. Two kids were busy sweeping up sawdust; two others were scrambling about high overhead on the rickety scaffolding, vacuuming the ceiling in preparation for an application of sprayed linseed oil. People were busy.
"Just took delivery of the oak for the stage floor."
It was Geoff Myers, clipboard in one hand, and his extendable metal rule in the other.
"Two thousand dollars' worth. And we got it cheap. Stuff really costs. Also, there's a guy right outside in a van, wants to back it up here and unload some equipment he says you ordered."
"Me? I ordered equipment? Where is this guy?"
"At your service, Monsieur. Stan Freeberg, Systems, Inc."
I wheel about and find myself facing a nice-looking young fellow, in his twenties, I'd say -- my height. He's holding a sheaf of customer copies of what looked like twenty or so invoices.
"Stan Freeberg, Gil. Systems, Inc. "
"Hi, Stan," I said.
"Listen, I'm sorry I came before reaching you on the phone, but you're one hell of a guy to get a hold of these days. In any case, I'm here, and I've got a van full of recording gear for you, courtesy of Systems, Inc. Absolutely free, Gil. They want the gear on display out here during the stay of the Rolling Stones, and they don't care if you end by buying any of it or not. I'm basically the guy bringing you the good news. And the gear."
Stan motioned to the driver of the van, and it began to inch its way slowly up the ramp, and into the very heart of Studio C. It stopped, and its rear doors were thrown open. Inside were many large boxes bearing familiar names. I suddenly felt like the winner of a TV game show.
"Here's what you get, Gil. Three sets of professional audio monitors. Urei Time Aligns, Tannoys, big and small, and a set of JBL 4311's. Also power amps to make them work. Snell Acoustics has thrown in a pair of their new high-end audiophile electrostatic speakers. Great for a highranking guest, and God knows you've got some of them on their way here."
Stan's arm was now around my shoulders.
"This is just a start. We got the Bryston Amp people in Cambridge to cough up a couple of Four-B's. I don't have to tell you what those cost, or how highly they're thought of these days. A wireless mike for Mick. Don't know whether or not he's happy with what he's using now. A top-of-the-line Technics broadcast standard turntable, with Denon cartridge and matching head amp. A brand new Ampex ATR mastering deck. Eight grand, at least, it'd cost you to buy one of these, if you could find one. Brand new, you know.
"You'll be needing TV, of course, so we've arranged for a couple of three-quarter-inch and VHS cassette decks to dress up the Game Room downstairs a bit. Also a video switcher, and a drop-out compensator in case people want to make copies of their video cassettes. Bill Wyman is a video freak, as you know, so you better be prepared. Next, a 27-inch Sony remote control, professional grade TV set, for whatever bedroom suite Wyman ends up in. Bill Wyman really likes TV.
"Here," Stan said, "this, too," extending to me a large jeweler's case, fully the size of a shoebox. It was covered in brushed black velvet.
"You push the clasp like so to open," Stan said.
The clasp clicked open like a fine machine, built to close tolerances, and the lid of the box eased upwards all by itself. It smelled like leather and transistors inside, and I inched forward for a better look, pulse higher than normal.
"This is is not even out yet," Stan said, "Friend of mine picked it up in Japan from a Sony research lab. It's a prototype."
"A prototype of what, Stan?"
"Super-Walkman," Stan replied. "Portable cassette playback like you've never heard before. Records, too. Stereo, switchable Dolby-C, switchable limiting, and built-in stereo mikes. It'll also work with this miniature radio mike, which will transmit from up to half a mile away. Extremely high fidelity. Originally designed with the CIA in mind. It's yours for the duration, Gil, together with these rechargeable nickel-cadmium batteries to make it work. All courtesy of Systems, Inc."
"Incredible, Stan," I said. "But can I afford these things?"
"Listen, Gil, I want to make this perfectly clear -- there's no charge for any of this. No pressure, no nothing. Congratulations on your coup from Systems, Inc. Now, where do we put all this stuff?"
"Over there, I guess. Right where those kids just finished sweeping. Stan, I gotta go. I've got another phone call, I think. I think that's what John's trying to tell me over there. See him? The guy who's waving his arms? Thanks for the gear. Give me those yellow invoices. I understand that I'm to pay none of these.
"Who is it on the phone?" I shouted over to John.
"Joe Rascoff. Stones' office in New York. Told me to tell you to come to the phone with a pencil." .
Joe Rascoff
"Point Eight; We agree that neither we... nor, uh, anybody on our behalf... will disclose to any, hmmmm... third party that the Rolling Stones are in residence at Lake View Farm." "That's Long View Farm, Joe."
"Hi, Joe," I said cheerfully, trying to get things off on the right foot. "What can I do for you?"
"You can put two new points in your Agreement, which I've got in front of me here. Points eight and nine, they'll be. Two new ones. Here they come. You ready?"
"Ready, Joe." I was scribbling on the back of twenty or so Purchase Invoices (Purchase Invoices? It did say on these things, "Sold to Long View Farm." And down on the lower right-hand corner of each was Stan's signature.)
"Ready, Joe," I said, knocking my head once against the wall. "Go ahead."
"O.K., let's see. Pity Mick got that communication in Bombay. Tsk, tsk. Worst possible thing that could have happened under the circumstances. That's his province, you know: press, media, little bits and pieces put out about the band. Wasserman comes up with a lot of ideas, but it's Mick who really loves that end of things. Worst possible thing that could have happened. Well now, let's see. Why don't we start like this: Point Eight; We agree that neither we... nor, uh, anybody on our behalf... will disclose to any, hmmmm... third party that the Rolling Stones are in residence at Lake View Farm."
"That's Long View Farm, Joe."
"Right, Long View Farm. Read that back to me, Gil, will you?"
I read it back to him.
"O.K.," Joe continued. "Now we've got to do something to put minds at ease concerning the matter of bootleg tapes. Unfortunate experience we just had in New York City, you know. Fellow came in saying he was a maintenance guy. Wanted to check out the studio cassette deck. No one thought anything about it, until the next day. There were cassettes of the Stones all over the city � and before they had really gotten their act together, too. Most unfortunate. Everyone hit the ceiling, including Stu, who generally looks out to make sure those things don't happen. I hear you guys are putting in mike lines up there..."
"Yeah, Joe, but they're for use only if the band requires them."
"Very unlikely, Gil, very unlikely. In the meanwhile, let's you and me agree on the following prose. This will be Point Nine, and it reads as follows: We agree further... that no recording of the Rolling Stones, hmmmm, will be retained by Lake, I mean Long View Farm as its property, or used � make that nor used � by us for any purpose. Now, let's see, a bit more. If it is determined that any recordings have been so retained or... used, it is understood that... you � that means us � will have the right to immediately repossess same... and seek injunctive relief. Got that, Gil?"
"Sure do, Joe. Very scary stuff."
"No choice, Gil, no choice. It's best to have this prose in the can, ready to go. Then if we decide to use your place we'll have the Agreement all set up and ready to sign."
"Decide to use my place, Joe?"
"Right. In the event they decide against Woodstock, and want to give your place a try. You never know, man. You won't really know until they're there. And even then, you won't really know how long they're going to stay. Meanwhile, you've got to keep your people as quiet as possible, and tell them not to have any cassette recorders or anything like that around if and when the band arrives. Good luck, Gil."
"Joe," I shouted, "what about our deposit? I thought I'd have seen that by now. We're not exactly sitting on our hands up here, you know."
"No problem, Gil. It's in the works. In the works."
"Great," I said. "I'll send you the amended contract, and you send me the money. Right?"
"Right, Gil."
Then we hung up, and I felt that old, familiar, cold feeling in the pit of my stomach once again. Joe wasn't going to send me that deposit before it was clear to him that the Stones were coming to Long View. And apparently things weren't that clear yet. In the meanwhile, I'm holding these yellow Sales Agreements in my hand, and wondering how I'm going to pay for the oak.
"Stan," I said, "I didn't just buy all this gear, did I?"
"No way. It's free. Absolutely free. Courtesy of Systems, Inc. I put the stuff over there, all of it, just like you said to. Look, there are no strings attached. Not one. The stuff is absolutely, unconditionally, one hundred percent yours.
"Congratulations, and good luck with the gig. Of course, I'll be stopping back every now and then once the band arrives... just to make sure all this stuff is working properly, and that you don't need anything else which Systems, Inc., might be able to provide."
"Better check with me next time by phone before coming out, Stan. I'm not sure what their attitude is going to be about guests on the premises. In the meanwhile, thanks to Systems, Inc. Tell them I'll do an endorsement for them later in the fall. I'll say that I buy all my gear from you, or something like that. With all this stuff here, I guess that's the case, huh?"
"That's why they're sales agreements, Gil. Get it? Get the point?"
"Got it, Stan. Got it."
"Hey, Stan," I threw in as an afterthought, "what if, say, the Rolling Stones didn't come at all � that for some reason they just didn't come? What if?"
Stan's face showed signs of terror.
"Only joking, Stan," I said. "Only joking."
Ian Stewart
Ian Stewart is fully grown; completely formed. He's the real-world stalking horse for the Rolling Stones.
The week before the Stones came to Long View was the second week of August, during which time we were blessed with clear weather, hot skies, and a scorching sun. Good working conditions if you like the heat. If you don't like the heat, but still wanted to work long hours in the loft of the barn preparing the way for the Rolling Stones, then you risked prostration through exhaustion, which actually occurred in the case of several particularly dedicated employees. People were working around the clock. But the loft of the barn was looking good. Better than we ever anticipated. We didn't just do a Sound Stage in the north end; we did matching stages at either end of the loft, separated by a sunken, plush living room and kitchen/bedroom complex, anchored beneath a towering, red brick chimney. There were thousands of square feet of wooden surfaces and massive chestnut beams glistening with rubbed linseed oil. Pipe-rack mounted theatrical spotlights sent shafts of colored light over throws of a hundred feet or more. This was an immense, outrageous space we had created. The air conditioners worked well; and they were quiet. The kitchen bar held a stock of several hundred dollars' worth of imported beers, cognacs, and vodkas. Jack Daniels bourbon was provided by the case. Satellite serving bars had been installed on the main stage, each equipped with on-location mini-refrigerators, ice-makers, mirrored surfaces, a stock of cigarettes, rolling papers, razor blades, and other such paraphernalia. I had lost track of the cost factor at least a week earlier. Let's say that we were way over budget � thrillingly beyond our budget � and let it go at that.
Toward the end of the second week of August � I think it was the Saturday before the Monday the gig was to begin, I drove into Worcester to pick up Ian Stewart ( Lovingly referred to as the sixth stone, pianist Ian Stewart was actually a founding member of the original group, pre-dating both Charlie Watts and Bill Wyman as members. Stewart, or Stu as he was called, was one of a core group of rhythm and blues enthusiasts that frequented Alexis Korner's blues club. Among the others were Charlie Watts, Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, Dick Taylor and Keith Richards, figures who would all go on to have a profound effect on rock n' roll music. Adept at boogie woogie style piano, Stewart began rehearsing with fellow enthusiasts Brian Jones, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. When bassist Bill Wyman and drummer Charlie Watts joined, the group named themselves the Rolling Stones and began attracting a small but loyal following in London. After manager Andrew Loog Oldham took over the reigns of the Stones' career he deemed Stewart unfit for the group because the straight-laced Stewart didn't "have the right look." Thankfully for the rest of the band Stu agreed to stay on as their road manager and sometime piano player. Throughout the groups career Stu contributed his Chicago style piano playing to several of the Stones releases including December's Children, Aftermath and Let it Bleed among others. The gifted keyboardist also lent his hand to projects outside The Stones such as the London Howlin' Wolf sessions, Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti and Pete Townshend's Rough Mix album.
Adored by all who knew him, Stewart's uncompromisingly purist stance towards the blues (he refused to play piano on "Wild Horses" because minor chords offended him aesthetically) helped keep the Stones on a stayed course during the times when they were in real danger of losing their core sound. Ian Stewart died in 1985 before he could have a chance to be inducted into the rock n' roll hall of fame beside his beloved Rolling Stones.), who we were told would be the first one to arrive, and a few days before any band members did.
lan Stewart was coming to check the place out one last time � to make absolutely sure we did what we said
we were going to do, and that the facility was fully ready for the world's most demanding and precocious rock 'n' roll band. "All lights green and go," he might telephone back to Alan Dunn and Mick Jagger. "They did what they said. The place is perfect. All points of detail in place. No problem with accommodations for Bill and Astrid. Let's go."
Or, Ian Stewart could telephone back that we'd fallen short of our expectations; that the stage had a bounce in it maybe, or that they'd counted bedrooms wrong somehow, and that it simply wasn't going to work for individuals who otherwise lived in their own private villas, waited on hand and foot. That was a possible outcome, too.
That's why Stu was coming up on the Saturday before the Monday; to decide one last time on behalf of the Rolling Stones whether or not this gig was actually going to occur. That's why I designated myself as the one to go in to pick him up.
Stu had booked himself a seat from New York City on the regularly scheduled airline, which flies crowded, inelegant, propeller-driven airplanes. Stu didn't care. He's totally unaffected by the usual tokens of status. He was the last one out of the airplane, ambling down the steps with only his air ticket in his hand, looking relaxed, fully in control of his circumstances, and, well � a touch bored. I had the feeling, looking at him, that nothing at this airport, or at any other airport, for that matter, was going to fundamentally change Ian Stewart's outlook on the world. Ian Stewart is fully grown; completely formed. He's the real-world stalking horse for the Rolling Stones.
"Turn that bloody thing off, will you?"
I snapped off the cassette player with a pre-prepared motion of my right hand, having just offered up the obligatory "cassette at high volume." We were on Route 122 heading back to Long View Farm � Stu's gear in the trunk, Stu in the front seat, speaking in soft, measured tones befitting a man in his middle years.
"We've got enough of that coming our way as it is, mate. Let's not get started any earlier than we have to. What time of day is it, anyway?"
"About four o'clock, Stu. Supper will be in the early evening sometime � whenever it would suit you."
"No," Stu said, "it's not for that I'm asking. I'm just wondering how many hours of sleep I'm going to get tonight. And tomorrow night. Last bits of sleep I'm going to get for a long time. Got to reckon with that."
"We're aware that you guys work late nights, Stu," I said.
"You haven't seen anything. You'll see how weird it gets, once they get here. You'll see. Creeps around the clock, gradually. They'll start playing an hour or two later each day, until they're getting up about 10 PM, and playing during the early morning hours. It usually stops there. That's the schedule they'll keep to."
"Shouldn't be any problem," I said offhandedly.
"Hardest on Mick, it is. He's got things to do during the day, too. Don't know how he manages. Don't know how I manage. Good Lord, here we go again. Never thought we'd do it again, after the last tour. But look at us. Here we are. The band isn't really that important in England any more, you know.
"But look at us! Blimey! Here we go again. Makes a grown man shiver, or is that a line out of 'Tattoo You'? No, 'makes a grown man cry'. That's it.
"Don't mind me. Just getting used to the idea of doing it all. Touring again, I mean. Few days' more peace we'll have, at least."
"What do you mean by that, Stu?" I asked.
"Don't expect we'll see any band members until the beginning of the week. Mick first, probably. Charlie'll be with him. Keith's still in Rome. Just got there, so you can count him out for a few more days, at least. Woody, too. He's still in California. Only one I'm not sure of is Bill Wyman and Astrid. Businesslike fellow, Wyman is, particularly if he thinks Mick is coming early. Then he might, too. Have to find out about that for you. Coming from the south of France, the two of them."
"Astrid's his girlfriend?" "Wife, you'd say. Swedish girl. Went to work au pair for Bill and his first wife years ago in London. Bill divorced his wife. Astrid stayed. Been that way ever since. You'll have your chuckles with Astrid, I can assure you. She'll have you changing the color of the barn before she's done. Likes to get a bit of attention, she does. Mark that, what I just told you. You'll want to pay some attention to her from the very start, or she'll bring the roof down."
"That's our strong suit, Stu." I said this just as the car was crunching its way up the long gravel drive. "Welcome to Long View, Stu. We're here."
"Kathleen anywhere around?"
"You bet, Stu. There she is, right now." Kathleen was smoothing her skirt in the doorway to the barn. There was a child in her arms, and two dogs pawed and jumped about at her feet.
"Hi, Stu, " she shouted, ignoring me.
"Hi, Kathleen," Stu shouted back. Stu jumped out of the Cadillac and a moment later was at Kathy's side. They apparently remembered each other from Stu's first visit, when I was still in Rome.
I had a happy feeling then. It was that Stu would stick, so to speak, and that he'd flash the green light to his rock 'n' roll cronies waiting by their telephones in New York City. Further, I had the feeling that we'd now made it to first base. The Stones would in fact arrive at Long View, sometime early this next week. It was now a question of how long they'd stay.
Little Boys' Room
"This is ridiculous," I said to myself... Hyper-educated male, teacher, entrepreneur, and show business impresario, pressed into service at the pinnacle of his career as a water closet footman.
Mick Jagger is one of the most famous people alive. If there are, say, fifty people alive in the world today whose names and faces elicit immediate recognition among individuals young and old alike, the world over, then Mick Jagger certainly is one of them. Near-savages in jungles respond to the mention of his name, and almost always in an overwhelmingly positive manner. Semi-literates in farflung regions know of this man, and they like what they know of him besides.
And so it was a stirring exercise for me to commission my airplane and crew of pilots in the service of this luminary, as I was called upon to do one or two days into the gig. It was a Tuesday, I think, because Ian Stewart had "sat in" on the performance of the band Roomful of Blues the night before at the El Morocco, and jazz night at the El Morocco is always and only Monday.
"Mick wants to be picked up at Teterboro at 4 PM and he's got four people with him, plus baggage. His daughter Jade is one of them."
"Bianca's, right, Kathleen?"
"Right. Mick and Bianca's little girl. Jade's her name. She's nine years old, I think."
"Tell them no problem about the airplane, Kathleen," I said, and made a note to myself to check on a thing or two as soon as I got to work, in Worcester. First of all, my liability coverage on the airplane. Had it been tripled according to my instructions to the agent, a week ago? And had "This Is Something Else, Inc. d/b/a/ Long View Farm" been specifically named as insured? That I'd check on right away. Today's passenger was particularly well-known. Also, that damned attitude indicator. Had pilot Bob Adams replaced this faulty instrument, so he'd fly level in the clouds; no ifs, ands, or buts? I'd check on that, too.
Car washed, chilled bottles of wine in the back, change the cassette in the Nakamichi (which contained notes for the eventual writing of this book, dictated by me on my way to work only the day before).
No word of Mick's arrival to anyone else in the area, except Wendy who'd stay in touch with Teterboro for me and let me know exactly when to expect him on the ground.
Finally, forget all that unsolicited advice I'd been getting about "what not to say," "what not to do," in the presence of one of the world's fifty most famous men. I'd had people telling me what to do in the men's room if I was ever in one with Mick Jagger. (See if you can go in the urinal next door, and offer him some "blow.") I'd had other people warn me that Mick Jagger was moody. ("Don't get your feelings hurt, Gil. He'll love you and make you feel like a king and then, bang, he won't talk to you for two years.")
I was sick and tired of this sort of advice. My job was simply to deliver the goods. The services required. No touch. No relate-to-me-please. No "just sign this for my little girl, Mick... " No nothing. Smooth and effective delivery of first-class services. World-class services. Period. That was my job, and that's mainly what I had to be concerned about. Right?
The fact is I was thrilled to death, and I had the big black car cooling and anointed an hour before I had to. Mick Jagger was coming!
Mick was punctual in his arrival at Teterboro Airport, and met up with pilot Bob Adams and the Twin with no problem. Their take-off was slightly delayed, however, when a maintenance truck temporarily blocked them from passing from the apron onto the runway. The maintenance men were Stones fans, and they simply wanted to get a closer look at Mick, who they knew was in the airplane. So they blocked the airplane for a few minutes, and gawked.
75 X-Ray landed at the Worcester Airport about 5:15 PM. It was a beautiful day � a clear day � and Bob Adams taxied the airplane to a halt with particular grace and verve. The passenger door swung open; first to the top, then to the bottom, and the stairs folded out onto the ground. There was movement in the cabin, a canvas strap temporarily caught between one of the rear seats and the door, and finally a figure appeared in the door, set to descend.
I approached the aircraft with long, self-posturing strides, extended my hand, and spoke.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Gil Markle."
"Hi," he said. "I'm Mick Jagger."
He said it in my voice, using my words, and the exact inflections I had assigned to them. He had successfully mimicked me. I knew he was Mick Jagger, after all, and didn't need for him to tell me. Of course he was Mick Jagger. I knew that. He knew that I knew that, too. Let's face it, he wasn't informing, he was imitating. He was getting things straight out front. This was his arrival, his rehearsal, his world. And that was all fine with me, and as I've already said, I just wanted things to go well.
"Car's over there, Mick," I said.
"Hmmmm... show me to the little boys' room first, will you?"
"Little boys' room?" I asked.
"Little boys' room. The toilets."
"O.K.," I said. "Let's get your little girl and Charlie into the car, and I'll bring you inside."
"Great," Mick said. "This is Charlie Watts." Charlie looked at me, head slightly canted, through a somewhat quizzical grin. He extended a hand to me in a perfunctory manner. It was limp, but on time.
"Hi, Charlie," I said, "I'm Gil Markle."
Charlie did not imitate me. He smiled, shuffled his feet a bit on the ground, and stood waiting for instructions.
"Car's over there, Charlie. Unless you want to take a walk to the little boys' room with Mick and me."
"The what?"
"The little boys' room. The toilets."
"Nah, I'll be here in the car. You go ahead."
I motioned to Mick, he nodded, and we proceeded across the grass toward the building, which contains our offices, and a large and very complete little boys' room. I looked over my shoulder and saw Charlie Watts, and Jade Jagger � who does look about nine years old, and who's a very beautiful little girl � easing themselves into the Long View limo.
"This way, Mick," I said. "This way."
"This is ridiculous," I said to myself, standing guard outside the men's room at the Worcester Airport. Hyper-educated male, teacher, entrepreneur, and show business impresario, pressed into service at the pinnacle of his career as a water closet footman. "At least I didn't go in there with him." I didn't want to be in the urinal next door, or offer over drugs on a silver spoon, or anything like that. I was a show business professional.
Mick burst out the door, his face now less creased and more relaxed, and we ducked out the front entrance, jogged past a small but growing crowd of admirers, and jumped into the Cadillac.
Mick immediately cranked open his window, defeating the efforts of the air conditioner, and making the Long View limo his.
"How far is this ranch of yours?" Mick asked.
"Twenty minutes, Mick. Farm, though. It's a farm. You're thinking about Caribou Ranch," I said, alluding to a studio somewhat like ours located in Colorado.
No reply.
Instead, Mick was nudging little Jade on his left, and Charlie Watts on his right, and getting a feel for his new car.
Master of All He Surveys
That was my first real mistake... That was Charlie Watts' room, not Pete Wolf's room, and Mick was not in Gil's room, but in Mick's room.
Most high-ranking visitors to Long View Farm are flown up in the company airplane, and then driven out to the Farm by me, in the black Cadillac. And most of these high-ranking personalities, even the most famous of them, obey me for a while, just a little while � once they've arrived.
"Welcome to Long View Farm," I invariably say, just as the car stops moving in the gravel driveway. "That's the big Red Barn, and this is the Farmhouse. Come on in here with me, I'll get us a drink, and then I'll show you around."
And my guests almost invariably obey. "Nice looking place," they'll say, or something like that. Then they follow me into the house, I get them a drink, and show them around.
This time it was different.
"Welcome to Long View Farm, Mick," I said. "That's the big Red Barn, and this is the Farmhouse. Come on in here with me, I'll get us a drink, and then I'll show you around."
No reply from Mick. He was already on his feet outside the car, and heading not for the Farmhouse, per his host's orders, but toward the barn instead.
"Mick" I shouted after him. "This way. Over here!"
But to no avail. Mick was walking in a straight line toward the big Red Barn, slowing down only to acknowledge the presence and handshakes of members of his entourage. He disappeared inside the little door on the left, and for a long moment we heard and saw nothing of him. Then, without warning, he reappeared in the big red doorway, arms akimbo, surveying the large hill across the street, then the pond, then the riding ring down in the valley. He seemed to sigh, then he thrust his two hands into the back hip pockets of his Bermuda shorts, and headed back across the driveway toward the Farmhouse. He wasn't ready before; he was ready now.
Most visitors, when entering the Farmhouse at Long View for the first time, are amazed, awed, and astonished. They're at a loss for words, most of them, and will often stand rooted to the threshold of each room, looking respectfully up and around, marveling to each other, and having to be coaxed by me from one area to the next. "It's all right. You can come in here. Come on in, this is the studio area. Doesn't look like a studio, does it? An old farmhouse, before we came..." and so forth.
With Mick Jagger, this, too, was different.
Mick marched up the steps to the porch, through the vestibule, and into the high-ceilinged country kitchen, with precise, confident steps. And, once inside, he kept on going � past the display of flowers, past the wall of inlaid wood carvings, around the massive fireplace, and over to the large octagonal table which seats either eight, or sixteen. The footsteps stopped there for a minute, and then Mick marched back, and presented himself crisply at the serving bar.
"Don't mind if I have a beer," he announced.
"Great," I said. "Then I'll show you around a bit."
"Naw," he said. "I think I'll sit over there with Charlie for a while.
"What's that?" Mick asked, pointing to the red and white can of beer I was emptying into a glass for him. "Can't drink that swill. Don't you have some Beck's or some Heineken's or something like that? You Americans haven't learned how to make beer yet."
"But of course, Monsieur," I laughed, motioning toward one of the four Long View staff members standing at attention in the doorway to the pantry. "No problem."
Mick took his beer, grabbed Charlie Watts, and headed back toward the large octagonal table. It was as though he'd been living here for years, not minutes.
Astonished, a bit miffed, and wondering if Mick really knew where he was going, I followed the two of them past the fireplace and over to the table, and stood by as Mick installed himself at what you'd call the "head" of the table; Charlie Watts at his right hand. His back was to me, Mick's was, and I stood there for a moment looking over his shoulder. He seemed to be doing just fine, I had to admit.
"Sit down if you want," Mick said. "But just don't stand there behind me like that. Makes me nervous."
"A thousand pardons, gentlemen," I said, reaching deeply for my sense of dignity. "Just making sure you got the right color beer. I'll let you be."
Mick said nothing in reply. Didn't even turn around in his chair. Raised his left hand in a backwards salute instead, and continued talking to Charlie Watts. I was dismissed.
Alan Dunn was quick to take me aside.
"Don't get your feelings hurt, Gil. Better leave him alone for a while, then we'll show him the rest � the sleeping accommodations, and the like."
"Better happen soon, Alan," I said. "Bill Wyman's only about twenty minutes away now, on the Mass. Pike. Just heard from Randall."
"Hmmmm... I see what you mean. O.K. You wait here. I'll see what I can do."
Mick had a rule, I had been told earlier that day by Alan Dunn. It was that the first band member on the premises got to choose the living accommodations, at least for himself. Today's schedule showed Mick Jagger arriving at the Farm at about 6 PM. Bill Wyman was expected to arrive about 6:10 PM, only ten minutes later. Alan Dunn's brow had furrowed as he described this rule to me. It was Mick's own rule, I was given to understand.
In a joking reply, I said to Alan that I could probably arrange to have Wyman's limo delayed en route, for a lengthy gas stop for example, if that would ensure his arrival later than Jagger's, and thus Jagger's free choice of digs. Alan laughed, but not quite loud enough to suit me, and so I knew I was being authorized to do precisely that, although at my own risk, if I thought it likely that Wyman might actually arrive first. As it turned out, Bill and Astrid were delayed at Customs at Logan, and Mick arrived with breathing room. But it was now important to show him around, and fast.
"Mick's ready now," Alan said. "Why don't you show him some bedrooms."
"Happy to, Alan," I said.
Mick was on his feet � already poking around � and was clearly prepared to take the tour all by himself, if need be. "Let's go, Mick," I said, and headed him first into Control Room A, with all its glittering lights and paraphernalia � the room which important rock 'n' roll artists came from all over the world to use. He walked in only a few steps, sniffed the air briefly, and dismissed the entire scene with a wave. "Get me out of here, and show me the bedrooms, " he said. "You Americans are crazy with your air conditioning." Mick had seen Control Room A, appropriated it quickly as his, and was now ready to see more.
We led him upstairs, past the room we call "The Crow" where Stevie Wonder spent so many hours in 1976, and up on to the third floor, where I ordinarily stay, but where I wasn't staying any more. Long View was to be given over to this particular band � lock, stock, and barrel � and that went for my room, too.
This room Mick actually walked into. He sniffed the air, and then bounced himself briefly upon the bed. He noticed the open nautical hatch through which the late afternoon sky still shone, the hanging plants which John Farrell had sprayed with water mist only a few minutes earlier, and the white porcelain sink and toilet, which we never bothered to wall in as a closed bathroom. He smiled, and said that this room would do for himself very well, unless perhaps there was an alternative which might be preferable. "No, Mick," I said. "We all thought this would be the room you'd stay in."
"And so Charlie can stay across the hall, then?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, "take a look. We call that Pete Wolf's room."
That was my first real mistake, as I was to learn only moments later from Alan Dunn. That was Charlie Watts' room, not Pete Wolf's room, and Mick was not in Gil's room, but in Mick's room.
The Rolling Stones had arrived at Long View Farm. .
Paul Wasserman
"I've made you, Gil. I can break you."
Paul Wasserman is the publicist for the Rolling Stones. That doesn't mean � as it would with almost any other client in the world � that it's Paul Wasserman's job to get publicity for the Rolling Stones. Everybody wants to write about the Rolling Stones, to do a feature interview with a band member, to "get inside" with a portable TV camera and a handful of radio mikes. A good interview with Mick Jagger could make a young reporter's career. No, the band doesn't need to "get publicity." It needs instead to control the publicity it's already got � to put out only those bits and pieces which flatter the myth. Part of that myth, of course, involves the general inaccessibility of the band to the watchful and intrigued public. The Stones stay largely out of sight. And so most of Wasserman's job involves saying "No" to people. "No, there is no possibility for an interview." "No, we are not taking pictures today." "No, you can come with a pad and pencil, but you can't bring a camera crew... " Etc.
Paul jokes all the time. Paul jokes about things which other people take seriously. And, since most people do not understand his jokes � which are generally both refined and cynical � Paul gets to deliver a profound and inspired monologue on the state of things with every assurance of privacy, and confidentiality. A muse alone. Paul Wasserman jokes largely with himself.
"Poker Chip Theory," Paul shouted to me over the phone. He's in New York City at the Helmsley Palace Hotel, and I'm at my office in Worcester.
"Poker Chip Theory," Paul repeated. "That tomorrow's scoop is going to be bigger than today's. That's why reporters will always double the ante, if you want them to."
"Whaddaya mean, Paul, 'double the ante'?"
"I mean they'll always give you silence today for double-the-bang tomorrow. Look at that situation of yours up there, for example. Everyone knows the Stones are at Long View. So what? Everybody knows that already. It's the penetration they're after. That one-on-one personal interview with Mick Jagger, a night in the barn during rehearsal, or something like that. If they think something like that's in store for them, they'll shut up in the short run, and give you another week's breathing time. Maybe."
"So I can say we'll help them later, Paul?"
"Double the ante, little partner, double the ante."
"Well, I guess that's what I've been doing, without knowing exactly what theory it was."
"Poker Chip Theory," Paul reminded me.
"Yes, I know that now. I've just been saying that publicity will drive them away, and ruin everything for us all, so be quiet please, and maybe Wasserman will arrange something interesting before it's all over."
"Good work. I'd call that the 'Modified Poker Chip Theory,' but my reasons needn't concern you. Listen, do you know what they call a Rabbi in a whorehouse?"
"What, Paul?"
"A Rabbi in a whorehouse. Do you know what you'd call him?"
This was one of Wasserman's jokes. But I hated jokes like that. Couldn't stand them.
"How about 'a publicist in rock 'n' roll', Paul?"
"What?"
"'A publicist in rock 'n' roll'," I shouted again, now getting ready to get off the phone, and on with my day's work.
"All right," I hear on the other end of the phone. "All right. So I won't tell you. Just one last word of advice, however, little partner."
"What's that?" I asked, exhilarated that I had killed the joke about the Rabbi.
"I've made you, Gil. I can break you."
"You can what?"
"I've made you. I can break you."
Paul was now laughing out loud at the other end of the phone, and was the first to hang up. In Worcester, I was a bit slower, and preferred to stare somewhat dumbly at my red telephone until the circuit broke, and the dial tone re-established itself, setting things up for my next phone call, which turned out to be from a reporter from Los Angeles interested in an interview with the Rolling Stones.
The Tennis Courts
"If I had seen Ronald Reagan playing singles with the Pope, it wouldn't have caught my eye like those guys did."
A foolish thing happened during the Stones' first week in North Brookfield, and it served to blow whatever cover of secrecy remained to us, and involved us in a squabble with the local area's largest newspaper, the Worcester Telegram and Gazette.
Up until that time, I had been successfully buying press silence with promises of better things to come for us all � the studio, radio, TV, newspapers � everybody. That's how Wasserman told me to play it, if and when things got hot enough for some media sort to threaten to go public with the exact location of the band. "Double the ante," Paul had instructed me from his hotel in New York City. "Tell 'em we're keeping a friends and enemies list, and that the friends make out in the end."
That proved to be an easy strategy to make work. Nobody wanted to be on the Stones' shit list, and everybody wanted to receive some special extra consideration, like being sneaked into a rehearsal later in the project, presumably once the band had relaxed, settled in, and figured out how their old hits went. (This they actually did using the record player in Studio B, and the complete set of Rolling Stones records which I had dutifully provided.) "It's not going to do any of us any good if they leave," I often said in a grim tone of voice, on the phone. "And they'll leave if someone like you says they're all here, just down the road in nearby North Brookfield. Don't be the one to make them leave. Wasserman would tell you the same thing if you could get a hold of him, which you probably can't."
"O.K., Gil," was invariably the reply. "But do you realize the pressure we're under to come up with something, anything? They're calling me at home, Gil. Just promise me no one else will break it first. I'll lose my job, Gil. I'll lose my job! Do you understand?"
I sympathized with these guys, and enjoyed talking with them on the phone. I kept their telephone numbers all in one place, retyped the list daily, and fed them all sorts of stuff "off the record" for which they were infinitely grateful. Most of the "inside" sources, "authoritative spokespersons," or "elements close to the band" who got quoted in those early news stories were actually me, dribbling out what I could in an attempt to keep these guys alive, and at the same time remain consistent with my promise to the band, which was actually a written promise incorporated in our final letter of agreement, not to make any representations, either written or oral, on behalf of the Rolling Stones.
However, this strategy was one which worked well only until it didn't work any more at all, and that occurred with the Telegram and Gazette, a staid and sometimes reactionary news organ which loves to report, or at least to insinuate, that otherwise law-abiding citizens sometimes use illegal drugs like marijuana.
Our last experience with the Telegram and Gazette had involved their sensationalized coverage of Stevie Wonder Day in September of 1976, and their claim that our Police Chief, Harvey Thomasian � who's one hell of a nice guy � had officiated as Security Chief at a "$30,000 Day of Decadence," during which illegal substances were allegedly enjoyed by certain guests of Stevie Wonder and Long View Farm. That article embarrassed Harvey, caused a lot of needless grief for me, and deepened my otherwise casual relationship with regional law enforcement officers, and the Feds, too.
In any case, it was the Telegram and Gazette which called that day in the person of a reporter, Kevin Wolfe, saying that the charade was at its end, and that the paper � in this case the morning Telegram � was going to go with a page one story revealing the present location of the greatest rock 'n' roll band in the world. Whether I liked it or not. Anyway, Wolfe explained, they had eyewitnesses who had actually seen elements of the band at the North Brookfield tennis courts down at the bottom of Stoddard Road, and that quotes from them were in hand. The best quote turned out to be "If I had seen Ronald Reagan playing singles with the Pope, it wouldn't have caught my eye like those guys did" which went out on all the wires, and which has turned up since in very odd places. US magazine for example.
"All right, Kevin," I said, "the jig's up. Only, you have 'no comment' from me, and you're going with your eyewitness stuff alone." I figured that would give us an extra day or so before things got really hot. Anyway, there wasn't any choice. Kevin's editor came on the phone himself, and basically told me to go screw myself. He was in the business of gathering news, he explained
"Like that some people shared a joint before listening to a new Stevie Wonder album, back in 1976?" I taunted.
"What?" he asked, offering no recognition of, much less apology for, the last lovely things his paper had to say about Long View Farm.
"Never mind, Mr. Widdison," I said. I knew the toothpaste was out of the tube, and that we'd have to let it fall wherever it wanted to. Here's where it fell: the Telegram reported that Mick Jagger had come down to the North Brookfield tennis courts to distribute drugs to local kids. He "dispensed an autographed album to one fan in the parking lot," the article went, "as well as a cigarette of questionable legality." And Keith, also present, did nothing to stop him.
That took the lid off things, as only allegations of drug abuse can do in a sleepy New England town. Our phones rang up, all of them, starting at 5 AM that morning: our night man quit, thinking incorrectly that he had been responsible for a "leak," WAAF-FM read the Telegram article on the air, and the State Police cars began cruising Stoddard Road. All this over a "cigarette of questionable legality." But it was the kid's cigarette, as it turned out � not Mick's � and a Marlboro to boot. Mick took a drag out of it while autographing the guy's record album jacket. (And Keith wasn't even there. He was still in New York.) Nevertheless, it all made great front page banner headlines, and the eventual retraction which came some two weeks later was well buried on an inside page, as such retractions always are.
Kevin Wolfe, the young reporter, was later fired, or quit, in an action perhaps totally unrelated to this silly flap over the tennis court article, although I hope not. I hope he quit out of remorse. It was a lousy way to announce to the world that the Rolling Stones were at Long View Farm.
Bill & Astrid
"I'll tell you what's wrong! It's something in the bathroom. Something crawling. A spider."
Bill Wyman stood squarely in front of me, looking me straight in the eye. He seemed rooted to a terrain he was willing to defend at all costs. He was mad. "You're the owner of this place, right?"
"Yes, Bill," I said. "I am."
"Well, there's something terribly wrong down there in the 'Cottage', as you call it, and I'm asking you to do something about it, right away."
"Bill," I said, "what is it? What's wrong?"
"I'll tell you what's wrong! It's something in the bathroom. Something crawling. A spider."
"There's a spider in the bathroom?"
"A spider. Came right down on Astrid from the ceiling, just as she was using the toilet. She's very upset, and so am I, I might add."
"If there's a spider in the bathroom, then I'm upset, too, Bill. But don't worry, we'll get after it right away. How's everything else down there?"
"T.V. set's a bit dodgy. Can't get all the stations. Pity, too, since I'm here to do some taping off the air."
"No problem, Bill. We'll have that attended to, as well. Besides that, how are things?"
"Well, otherwise O.K., I guess. One thing I'm going to need is a good cassette deck down there. I've some interviews of my own to give, and we'll want to record on cassettes."
"No problem, Bill. We'll do that, too. In the meanwhile, let me get the anti-spider division in motion."
"That would be very helpful. Very helpful indeed. I would be further obliged if you'd give your assurances to Astrid, as well. She's on her way over here now." Bill did a crisp right-face, and disappeared out the door. Within seconds, lovely Astrid was standing in his place, looking fairly put out herself.
"Astrid," I said. "Did Bill tell you we were going to paint your bathroom today?"
"Oh, Geel!"
Astrid called me "Geel" � pronounced "eel" with a hard "g" out front � not Gil. Maybe that's the way "Gil" translates into Swedish. I don't know.
"Oh, Geel," she said. "What about the spider?"
"Won't paint him, Astrid. We'll take him out first. Sorry about that, really."
"Geel... " she began again.
"Astrid," I interrupted. "Look at me. You don't recognize me, do you? We've met before, you know."
Astrid stopped in midstream, forgot about the spider, and stood looking at me. Her right-hand index finger was wagging at me, slowly, and she attempted to solve this little puzzle.
"Astrid, you won't believe this, but it was twelve years ago � in London � at Olympic Studios. In the control room. They were recording 'Sweet Virginia' and I was there as a friend of Jimmy Miller's."
"Jimm-eee. Oh, Jimm-ee," Astrid sang.
"A friend of Jimmy's, I was. We hung out in the control room for half the night, you and me. I thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Ever seen, mind you, Astrid. I remember it as though it were yesterday."
Astrid was to claim starting that very evening that she remembered me, too, but I know she didn't. It was a great beginning, though, for the two of us. She moved a step or two closer to me, and the mood changed.
"Geel," she said. "I knew there was something, how to say, special about you. Now I know, we're old friends! Oh, Geel, it's so good to have a friend here. I just didn't know what I was going to do for a while." Astrid's right hand dabbed at an eye with a handkerchief, and she moved a step closer still.
"It's them!" she said. "Them. I just don't know what I'm going to do when they get here."
"They? Who's 'they'?"
"You know, Keith and Woody. Why, do you know where Keith's bedroom is? Well!"
"Down in the barn, right? The Gold Room?"
The Gold Room was a favorite of the stars. We could have named it after Cat Stevens, Arlo Guthrie, James Coburn, John Belushi, or a host of others. But we called it the "Gold Room" instead. It's right next to the sauna, and the Jacuzzi.
"Right next to us," Astrid cried. "His bedroom's just across the wall from us." Astrid seemed ready to burst into tears.
"Look at me," she said. "I'm exhausted already � just the thought of it � and he's not even here yet. The noise � hour after hour. Those cassettes of his. Well, there'll be no sleep for me, I can see that right now. Geel, you must simply do something. I know you can."
Astrid now had her hand in my arm, and she was tugging at me ever so slightly, moist eyes looking up at me, just about ready to cry real tears. "Something, Geel! Something."
"Astrid, listen to me. I've got an idea."
Astrid perked up almost immediately.
"You need a place for all the clothes you've bought, right?"
"I can't even unpack them, Geel. There's no place to put them. I just can't go around in, how you say, rags, can I?"
"Listen to me, Astrid, we'll go out and buy a bedroom set � a real nice antique one � and we'll put the chest over there, against the wall to Keith's room. That'll quiet things down and give you a place for your clothes at the same time."
"Do you think, Geel... ?"
"I'm sure it will work, Astrid. And if it doesn't, we'll do something else. I promise."
"Promise, Geel?"
"Astrid, we're old friends, right?"
With that remark, this particular scene was concluded. The next one standing out in my memory was Astrid, in cut-offs and a kerchief around her head, directing traffic in the doorway to the Cottage. A paint ladder and empty paint cans were on their way out the door, carried by two paint-spattered youths from North Brookfield. A large moving van was parked just outside the Cottage, on the gravel drive, and the rear gate was open. Half the antique bedroom set had already been lowered to the ground. The other half was still in the truck, being shuffled about by two cursing and temporarily stymied moving men. A large Sony TV set was waiting in the arms of two burly technicians, who were themselves waiting for the boys with the paint ladder to get out of the way. A representative from Preview � the local pay TV concession � was busy stringing UHF cable to a point just outside the stained glass window. Jesse had just hooked up a cassette deck to the Cottage hi-fi. Two female attendants were busying about inside the Cottage, exchanging the existing curtains for those of another color � Astrid's favorite color. The spider had been removed. Astrid was in her glory.
"Geel!" She waved to me from across the driveway. Ebullient. Happy. Pretty beyond words.
"Geel! Look!"
She waved her arms about in wide circles, in an effort to encompass, enclose, and demonstrate the activity which raged around her.
I smiled, waved back, and counted this incident over.
A Typical Morning
"House arrest', he said. 'Can't leave New York.' It's so weird, Gil, Abbie Hoffman!"
I can remember 4 AM going by --- jarred awake with a splitting headache in the water bed, in the little apartment downstairs in the barn which we call the "Flat." Geoff and John usually live there, and I --- lest it be forgotten --- usually live in Mick's room. Upstairs on the sound stage I could hear the Rolling Stones playing, and playing very loudly. I felt as though I was in a wartime bunker. Mostly bottom end, I was getting. Boom-boom, ker-blam; boom-boom, ker-blam! Charlie Watts and Bill Wyman. The band was playing 'Sweet Virginia.' That's what woke me up, since I had seen them record this song 12 years earlier in London. I was visiting my friend Gary Wright and his friend Jimmy Miller, who was then producing the band. But now, my head hurt. The eastern horizon was just beginning to glow with tomorrow's sun, and I suddenly remembered why my head hurt so badly, and why I had cracked up the Cadillac only a couple of hours earlier. Too late, too lonely, too drunk. The Stones stopped playing 'Sweet Virginia,' and somehow I fell asleep again, although not for long.
Suddenly it's very light in the room, my head is still hurting, even more, and I hear Kathleen saying, "Gil, it's me."
I groaned. Then I felt Kathleen's cool hands on my back. "Here," she said, "maybe this will make you feel better." I felt the cold air on my body as Kathleen brushed the sheet aside, down, and off, and suddenly I was wide awake. Her hands felt good on my back.
"I can just stay for a second," Kathy whispered, "it's already nuts across the way. Can you imagine, I just took a phone call from Abbie Hoffman! Wouldn't let me off the phone for ten minutes, since he's from Worcester and all. Wanted tickets for the Stones concert at Madison Square Garden. So I said 'What about Philadelphia? That's first.'"
"'House arrest', he said. 'Can't leave New York.' It's so weird, Gil, Abbie Hoffman!"
Kathleen was making the tips of my fingers tingle. "That's great, Kathleen, keep on doing just that. You're onto something there. I never get my back rubbed anymore."
"Oh, shhhsh, Gil, you could if you wanted to. You could get somebody to do it if you wanted.
"So, listen," Kathleen continued, "Bill Graham's coming today. Driving up with Mick Brigdon plus three, can you imagine that? Sheraton-Worcester's full. It's still the concert stage they're talking about and whether or not it'll get built in time for Philadelphia. Also, I found out that they won't be needing the aviation hangar at Westover, so you'd better call General what's-his-name out there and give him the bad news. Too bad. $10,000 for a month isn't so bad, when you think about it. I mean, there're atom bombs in those planes out at Westover, aren't there?"
"Lower, Kathy. Lemme roll over."
"You stay just the way you are. Don't you dare roll over."
"All right, all right," I said. "So what's going on across the way?"
"In the Farmhouse? Well, they're all still up, I can tell you that. Except Mick, who went to bed about five, somebody said, and of course Bill and Astrid. Haven't seen them either, but they're in the Cottage for sure. But Woody, Charlie, and Keith are up there now, raging around the kitchen, and playing some cassette of Keith's. Fifties rock 'n' roll. Loud. Charlie's going to fall over if he has one more drink. He was sitting on the bench by the window when I came in, swaying back and forth, not saying anything. I had just put little Robert down and got him a juice when Woody said, 'Kathleen, come over here and let's wake you up a bit.' Can you imagine that? Me, getting powdered by Woody and Keith. 'No,' I said, 'I can't do that.' 'Why not?', Woody asked. 'Won't they let you?' So I did just a little bit, you know. Can't hurt. I really like those guys.
"Mick. I just can't understand how he can get any sleep up there, with Keith playing the hi-fi like that. Keith does it on purpose. He must. Funny thing happened, you know! Stu took the fuse out of the pre-amp on his way to bed. Maybe Mick told him to, I don't know. Anyway, I guess Keith and Woody found out, because all of a sudden they couldn't make the hi-fi even go on, at all, so they sent for Chuch, and Chuch came over with a new fuse, mind you, and the next thing you know it's the Big Bopper, Chuck Berry, and all the rest, all over again. We never play records that loud, do we? That Keith . . ."
"Kathleen, are you in there?" It was Jill at the door, with her baby, Joel, strapped to her back. "It's the cows," Jill shouted through the screen door. "Some Stones watchers kicked down the fence, trying to get to the barn, I guess, and the cows all went out through the hole. I'll go down, but the phone's ringing off the hook over there. Mick just buzzed."
"What did Mick want?" Kathleen interrupted.
"Said he couldn't sleep with the hi-fi so loud. Said he wanted a chiropractor to come out sometime today. Said he wanted someone to do stretch and toning exercises with
today, and he asked if anyone named 'Prince Rupert' had called during the night from overseas."
"Tell him Prince Rupert called and wants him to call back," I shouted out to Jill. "I took the call myself."
"Well, I've got to go," Kathleen jumped off the water bed, causing it to swell and heave and knock me about. "Who cracked up the Cadillac?"
"I did," I said. "Just a couple of hours ago." .
Typical Mid-morning
"No, you can not talk to Mick Jagger."
I could see from even halfway across the drive that Kathleen was on the phone. The first three lights on the keyset were blinking, indicating people on "hold." I could see them blinking through the top half of the Dutch door, which was open. The red telephone was off the hook, and lying in the wastepaper basket, indicating someone else on "hold." Kathleen was smiling, and just about to speak.
"No, you can not talk to Mick Jagger. No. That is simply not possible. What I will do, however, is take your name and telephone number and see to it that he gets a message, if and when I see him. O.K.? Go ahead. Yes, I'm writing, Carolyn. You think he might remember you from Detroit, three years ago. Yes, I've put that downArea code three-one-three, O.K. Two-nine-three, six-eight-, three-four. O. K., I've got it. Good speaking with you again, Carolyn. How do I know it's you? I can tell your voice. Please, Carolyn, don't call back. It's silly and costing someone a lot of money. Oh. I see. It's costing your boyfriend a lot of money. Listen, I've got three other people on hold. Really, Carolyn. Goodbye."
Kathleen slammed down the receiver. "That's three times so far today. She must have called six times yesterday. Each time with a different story. The first was that their fathers knew each other in Tripoli, next that she had a message for him from Bianca, and now that she saw him at a party in Detroit three years ago. When will it end?
"Now, let's see." Kathleen pushed one of the three blinking telephone buttons. "Yes, Bill, sorry. I understand that Mick said he wanted to see you today, but you've just got to stay over there in the motel until I know when. I don't know when, yet. Honest, I'll call you as soon as I see him. I know. I really understand, you've come a long way. I know. Patience, Bill. Some people don't get to see him at all, like the lady from Japan. She had to go all the way back to Tokyo. Never got to see the man even once, and Mick told her he wanted to speak to her, too. Bye-bye, Bill."
Kathleen turned to me, oblivious of the two remaining blinking lights. "We've got to do something about Solveig. She's crying again, in front of Mick, too."
Solveig is a most beautiful twenty-one year old Swedish girl whom I found � met, I should say � in Tobago last winter. She pronounces her name "Soll-vay." Ravishing creature. She worked the Geils gig, took some time off, and came back for the Stones, much to the astonishment and delight of her friends and parents back in Stockholm. She has long, lean legs and long blond hair. She looks very Swedish, and must be three inches taller than Mick Jagger.
"She's what?" I asked.
"Crying in front of Mick. Being rude to him. Not answering him when he says something to her."
"Kathleen," I said, "stay out of this one. There's more than meets the eye here. If Solveig is crying in front of Mick, it's not from overwork."
"Well," Kathleen said, "I don't know what it is from, then."
Kathy suddenly became inaudible beneath the roar of a single-engine Cessna which had swooped down to within two hundred and fifty feet of the top of the Farmhouse, rattling the panes of glass and making the dogs bark. It was now out over the valley, dipping its left wing, then its right.
"That's him again," Kathleen shouted. "He always calls fifteen minutes later, once he's on the ground, and asks, 'Did Mick see me that time? Did Mick see me?' Stupid ass. I told him if he did it one more time I was going to report him. Now I will, if I can find the I.D. number of the airplane. Wrote it down here somewhere the last time he flew by. Nearly hit the barn that time. It's got to be here somewhere."
A large figure suddenly materialized in the doorway to the office. "Ah, yes, Kathleen. Good morning, Kathleen." It was Alan Dunn.
"I'll get the phone," I said to Kathy, "you talk to Alan."
"I should like to discuss last week's invoice, Kathleen," Alan began. "There are several items to discuss, one of them in your favor, actually."
"Well, O. K.," Kathy replied. "I need my copy first, though. Oh, here's the number of that damned airplane. Just a minute, Alan. Just you sit right there, and talk to Gil or something."
"Gil doesn't talk to me anymore. He sends me memos instead. Don't you, Gil? You and your memos." ( See >>>Appendix F.(From Gil Markle to Alan Dunn)
"I like to have things written down, Alan."
"Ah, yes, so you do, Gil. So you do. I'd put the same energy into stopping those press leaks of yours, if I were you. I don't know how that Providence paper knew what they knew yesterday, but your name was all over the piece, and so was Kathleen's. Mick was very put out by that, I want you to know. So was Bill Graham."
"Here, Alan," I said. "You take this phone call." It was from a particularly persistent reporter from a paper in Lowell. This fellow really saw no reason why he should not write a page one story for his newspaper giving the exact present location of the Rolling Stones � Long View Farm, in North Brookfield, Mass. He was going to write that story today, unless we could somehow talk him out of it. I thrust the phone at Alan Dunn.
"Let's see how you do it, Alan," I laughed. I figured it was time for me to get out of there, and went off toward the kitchen for the first of several cups of coffee. It was 10:30 in the morning, or thereabouts.
Guns
"Call Harvey. There's a guy with a gun down there... This one's for real."
"Mornin', guv-ner." It was Jim Callahan, Chief of Security, who poked fun at me whenever he could. "How's His Majesty this fine morning?"
Callahan is a professional protector of rock stars. He's worked for the Stones before, and for other high-profile rock 'n' roll bands, too. Jim is a very large man, with a particularly large midsection which always seems to arrive first � before the rest of him, I mean. Callahan has been known to take a drink or two during the evening hours, although never in a manner which detracts from his vigilance, or his eagerness to protect the bodily health of his clients. I poked fun back at him whenever I could, too.
"I'm O.K., Jim, how's Operation Crowd Control? Punch up any kids yet today?"
"Never once did that, Gil. Never once."
Jim now had me by the shoulders, and was looking down at me.
"You never have to do that, Gil." He was speaking intently, and was rocking me back and forth ever so slightly.
"Sweet reason, instead. I say to them 'Look 'ere, mate, you're not gonna see Mick, or Keith, or any of 'em, so just drive on by. Right?' Always works, that. No need to hurt anybody, is there?"
"No," I said. "None at all."
We were both interrupted by Bob Bender, second in command, Security, who burst in through the front door. He had a very pained expression on his face.
"Call Harvey. There's a guy with a gun down there. A real weirdo. Wearin' a helmet, comin' from Stanley's barn toward the rock wall. This one's for real."
Jim Callahan ran outside, I nodded to Solveig, and Solveig called Harvey Thomasian, who's our Police Chief in town. Sure enough, Bob was right. Five hundred yards off to the east, picking his way slowly and gingerly toward us, was a man with a rifle and a funny hat. Outside on the gravel drive, Jim, Bob, and one of our local Selectmen, Howie Ferguson, were having a feverish discussion and waving their arms about. It seemed that Howie was volunteering to go down there and intercept this guy. A police car roared up, and out hopped young Joey, a rookie patrolman with a very large pistol strapped to his belt. He was unsnapping the leather thong which held the pistol in the holster, and an instant later the large gun was in his hand, and he was waving it about. Someone apparently told him to put it away, because he did.
I was still going to get a cup of coffee, even if it killed me, and so I lunged away from the window back into the kitchen, nearly colliding with Mick Jagger, who had just descended from his bedroom upstairs.
"Good morning, Mick," I said.
Mick walked straight by me, saying nothing, and continued in a beeline for the stereo, which was now playing Solveig's favorite "beautiful music" station at a very low volume. He snapped it off.
"Good morning, Solveig," he said.
Solveig didn't speak, and she had her back to us. She was working the orange juice squeezer.
"Great reception," Mick muttered.
"Well, I said hello," I said.
"Uhm... so you did. So you did. Looks like a bit of excitement out here, what?"
"Some guy with a gun down in the field. Could be a hunter. If it gets any worse, we're going to put you in the root cellar."
Mick didn't laugh. Perhaps he was thinking about his orange juice, or its squeezer. Didn't bother me any. I grabbed my coffee and went back to the office to see Kathleen, who was on her feet and in the middle of an emotional dispute with Alan Dunn.
"After all we're doing for you," I hear her saying, "and you bother us with things like this. No. I know of no cheaper way to get people from Logan Airport to Long View Farm. Here, look at it. This is what we're paying � either it's the limo or the rental car � take your choice. Really, Alan!"
"Guy with a gun outside," I offered, "and Mick's up."
"Mick's up?" Alan asked, straightening in his chair.
"Yup, in the kitchen now, with lovely Solveig."
Kathleen shot a glance at me, and smiled. "Probably that hunter friend of Stanley's. Does he have a funny peaked hat on? If so, that's him. The rifle's an antique that you have to load each time. He shoots rabbits with it."
Alan excused himself and headed back toward the kitchen, and his day's work. "Don't worry, Kathleen," he said on his way out the door. "We'll work all that out later. No offense intended."
"He's such a gentleman, isn't he?" Kathleen oozed. "Good thing he left. Don't have time to discuss the invoice right now. Keith just buzzed. He wants two bottles of champagne, right away. Says he doesn't care how we get it, or what we have to do. Wants it right away. Maybe Helen would drop a couple of bottles by. Can't call out, unless I get rid of these Stones watchers."
All the lines on the telephone were busy again; three of them blinking with people on 'hold'. Kathleen punched one of the blinking lights.
"Long View. No, you can't speak with Mick Jagger. No. No, really that's impossible. You're his brother! Come on now, do you expect me to believe that? I didn't even know he had a brother. No, really, you've got to get off the phone so I can get Keith his champagne. I'm going to hang up. Goodbye."
"It's so crazy, Gil, I don't know. Sometimes I think I'm losing it, like with that guy, Chris, who says he's Mick Jagger's brother! Let me see, Helen Howard. Eight-six-seven � Mick Jagger's brother, can you believe that! � six-seven-oh-nine. Like the girls who came by here yesterday in the rented limousine, thinking that would get them in. First they tried the roadblock down below, then the one on Route 67. Same story each time, said they were on their way to see Mick Jagger. What people will do! Helen? Hi, Helen, it's Kathleen. Listen, you've got to help us out...
I excused myself, head reeling, only to bump headlong into Solveig in the library.
"Geel," she said. Like Astrid, a sister Swede, Solveig called me "Geel," not "Gil." "Nancy's on the phone for you," she said. "She wants to know where Abigail should start school � Truro or North Brookfield?"
"Hello," I shouted into the phone.
"Hi," Nancy said. "I want to know where Abigail should start school � Truro or North Brookfield?"
"Nancy. I don't know. Next week, you mean? Listen. We're under siege here."
"I thought you were going to find a house for us to live in."
"Yes, I know, I wanted to. I want to. But you simply could not believe what we're going through here. It's a man at every pump. People working twenty hours a day. You've got no idea. I've put the word out about a house. No results yet."
"Kathleen says there're at least twenty houses on the market in North Brookfield."
"That might be. I don't know. But if it's next week you're talking about, you should start her down there, in Truro. This gig is still going to be happening a week from now � otherwise we could use the Farm..."
"Fine," she snapped. "That's all I wanted to know. I've got to go now. Goodbye."
"Nance," I said, are you sure that ..." But it was too late. She had hung up the phone. There now were several young policemen outside on the driveway, guns drawn.
My Friend Mark
"This place isn't mine anymore. It belongs to the Rolling Stones, and they don't want me giving interviews here."
"Well, Gil, the time has come."
"For what, Mark?"
"Well, I was just saying to my editor the other day � you know � Larry O'Neil � he covered Stevie Wonder Day at Long View for the paper. 'Larry,' I said, 'we've really got enough on Gil Markle now to do a real profile. Something for the Sunday edition. It's no flash in the pan any longer. This guy has made real changes. I say, let's go, send me out there with a Nikon and let's see if we can't take the bushel off the candle. Tell the world what this guy's been doing.'"
"You said that, Mark? I mean, I didn't think you were all that excited...!"
"Well, I am, Gil. Have been for years. And you wanna know what Larry O'Neil said?"
"Yeah, now I do, for sure. What did he say?"
"He said, 'Sunday edition only? Schmuck! You mean the week end edition � morning paper and the evening paper!"
"Well that sounds great, Mark, but I really don't know that this is the time..."
"Time! Any time's right when you're doing what you're doing, Gil. So, how about tomorrow, or the next day? Now, Gil, while the iron's hot."
"The iron's hot all right, Mark. Too hot. I mean, you know the Rolling Stones are at Long View now, don't you?"
"Yeah, Gil. Far out! The Stones! Had to happen sooner or later. Like I said to Larry O'Neil, that Gil Markle . . ."
"Mark," I interrupted, "you're aware that I'm not authorized or permitted to arrange news coverage of the Stones, or any interviews with band members, or anything like that . . ."
"Hey, Gil. Wait just a minute. It's not them. Not them, Gil. It's you, man. You! Listen, me and the photographer, we'll hug the corners if you want, won't say anything to anybody. Just like flies on the wall. That way we'll get the stuff we need on you, take a picture or two, and have it all together in time for the weekend edition. How about it?"
"Mark, you don't understand. At this very moment there's a roadblock down at the bottom of Stoddard Road. On the other side of the barricade are reporters, photographers, TV journalists, the freelancers, and our job is to keep them there.
"If they call, I'm supposed to say I don't even know that the Stones are here. Can you imagine that? 'No comment' is all I'm permitted to say. And you want me to radio down there on the walkie-talkie and say, 'Oh, will you please let the crew for the Herald American through? They're coming to interview me.' Mark, people would laugh in my face. This place isn't mine anymore. It belongs to the Rolling Stones, and they don't want me giving interviews here. They think � and I know it's not so, Mark � that it's not me, but really Mick Jagger or Keith Richards that you want to see."
"Gil, after all these years, and I have to hear that from you. You were a friend of mine. A real friend. And now, to hear that. Gil, I just don't know what to say."
"Figure out what to say to your editor, Larry O'Neil, not what to say to me. I'm only doing my job, Mark."
Mark didn't hear that last part. He had hung up. Needless to say, no profile of me appeared in that weekend's paper. I did, however, get Mark invited to the press conference � held on the day the Stones left for Philadelphia. That media event is described in detail very much toward the end of this book.
Philadelphia
"Listen," Wasserman shot back. "What's the difference between a tube of Crest and a Polish hockey player?"
"You just drive. Can't have you smoking joints while you're driving, can I?"
Mick Jagger was talking to me, from the back seat of the Cadillac. He was leaning forward, into the space between the two front seats and speaking either to me on the left, or to Alan Dunn, on the right. He was puffing on a large cigarette which, on the basis of my occasional experience with these matters, contained hashish. We were on our way to the Worcester Airport, and Mick was on his way to Philadelphia, for an important press conference.
"You're right, Mick," I shot back. "Never while driving."
"You know," Mick said, now turning toward Alan Dunn, "it's best this way, isn't it? I mean, just me. No Woody, no Keith, no Bill, no Charlie."
Alan inclined his head slightly toward the center of the car, and toward Mick, and intoned a humming sound obviously meant to approve, not challenge, Mick's insight.
Not much insight was required under the circumstances. Keith had not slept in two days; ergo, Woody had not slept in two days. Not exactly the stuff to put before cameras on the day of the grand announcement; namely, that the Rolling Stones were indeed planning to tour the United States starting just three weeks later, in Philadelphia. Paul Wasserman � press agent for the Stones � had seen to it that there was media coverage of this one event. A bone thrown out for them to fight and fantasize over. Then... under cover again.
Charlie Watts would have come along, for sure, had Mick required him to do so. Charlie played in service of the myth. But Charlie was tired and a touch soggy himself. Charlie and Mick alone. That didn't make much sense, anyway.
Bill Wyman would have come, too, no doubt about that. Bill was quite keen on the topic of press conferences in general, and had already scheduled several for himself at Long View Farm, and at Mrs. Langevin's, downtown. He also had gotten lots of sleep the night before.
"No," I heard Alan say, "wouldn't have done to have you and Bill there alone, either. No, not at all."
"Wrote them all a little note," Mick volunteered, "telling them to come. Kathy typed it up for me in four copies, and she slid them under their doors. Thought that might help."
"You mean Keith has started to read his mail again these days?" Alan laughed.
Then Mick laughed.
Then Gil laughed.
"You watching the road?" Mick asked.
Sometimes I know when to keep my mouth shut, and I did then. We were just gliding up the long hill to the airport anyhow, and I was more concerned over our schedule, and whether or not the Twin would be there as planned. It was, with Pilot Adams and co-Pilot Mahoney circling about the aircraft, kicking the tires, and checking their watches. "Just walk through those people at the gate." I warned Mick. "Radio people. They want an interview with you."
"Interview?" Mick asked scornfully. "How many interviews do I have to do in one day?"
"Just walk right by them," I advised. "I'll tell them something."
"4 PM return, right here," Alan Dunn said in a businesslike tone.
"The pilots will call from Philly just after you've left the ground, Alan. Don't worry. We'll be here to meet you."
Mick had already popped out of the back seat of the Cadillac, and was sprinting along the gauntlet of well-wishers and reporters toward the airplane. Adams and Mahoney were in motion; the right-hand engine was already spitting pops and puffs of smoke, and the chocks were off the wheels. Alan Dunn jumped into the airplane after Mick, the door swung shut, and the plane taxied out toward the runway with a roar.
Wasserman called me later that afternoon. "Well," he said, "I hope this takes the heat off for a while."
"Heat off?" I asked. "How so?"
"The announcement," Wasserman said. "Mick announcing the tour, and that they're rehearsing somewhere in Massachusetts."
"How's that going to help?"
"It's the 'Lightning Rod Theory,'" Wasserman said. "Draws off some energy, maybe it'll give you a few days' more peace. Now they've all got something to print. Doesn't really matter what, just so they're able to say something, something to get their editors off their backs. It's when Mick says nothing � when he stays underground � that things heat up and your telephone rings there at Long View."
"And so what do I say now when they call, Paul? Still 'no comment,' or am I going to get to read some new lines for a change?"
"Gil, you keep on missing the point." Wasserman said. "You don't have to say anything. It's best that you say nothing. Keep on telling them 'no comment,' if they call. Don't worry, you won't lose them, they'll call back."
"I know, Paul," I said.
"Listen," Wasserman shot back. "What's the difference between a tube of Crest and a Polish hockey player?"
"Difference? Seem to be a lot of differences. I wouldn't know where to begin."
"Does that mean you're asking me what the difference is between a tube of Crest and a Polish hockey player?"
"No, Paul. I definitely am not asking you that. Let me think about it for a few days. You're coming up when, Friday, again?"
"Yes. I really wish you'd let me tell you what the difference is... "
"No, Paul. Absolutely not. I'm not going to play games. I'm a show business professional, like you." That made Wasserman laugh, and we hung up.
The Pantry
Offstage, Mick walks in a manner which I would call "determined." Jaw set, eyes seemingly riveted on an imaginary finish line, he glides along evenly, one foot in perfect cadence after the other, head level, no bounce up and down at all.
It was mid-afternoon, and there were five grown men standing up in the parking lot behind the barn. They were staring at the ground, then looking up to talk and gesticulate, then looking back at the ground again. Mick Jagger was among them. So were Keith Richards and Charlie Watts. Bill Graham was there, who was in charge of booking the concert halls and stadiums for the tour. So was Mick Brigdon, who works for Bill. They were discussing the large traveling stage which they'd use on tour, and had applied masking tape to the pebbles of the parking lot in order to mark out a half-sized scale model. They paced around the model, speaking sometimes two at a time, and on the subject of the stage � its selling points, its weaknesses, its cost, its construction schedule, and so forth. There was no apparent consensus. Keith, for one, stalked off to his more customary post in the Game Room, leaving a warning and a threat behind for others to consider. Charlie seemed out of patience, eyes rolled occasionally to the top of his head in evidence of boredom. Mick, who had been listening mostly, chin resting upon the knuckles of his right hand, motioned to Bill Graham, and the two of them stepped outside the masking tape markers. Mick spoke briefly, Bill Graham nodding in agreement. Then Mick separated himself somewhat from Bill Graham, slapped him approvingly on the upper forearm, and turned to walk down the gravel drive � toward the Farmhouse, and the back entrance to the kitchen.
Offstage, Mick walks in a manner which I would call "determined." Jaw set, eyes seemingly riveted on an imaginary finish line, he glides along evenly, one foot in perfect cadence after the other, head level, no bounce up and down at all. It would be unlike him, for example, to pause along the way, take a kick at the railway ties which line the edge of the back drive at Long View, and pick one of the wild roses growing there.
No, instead, Mick has already made it down the stairs, and is crossing over the red brick patio, past the picnic table, and has pulled open the wooden screen door to the kitchen. It slams shut, rattling the plates on the shelves over the dishwasher.
"Good afternoon, Solveig," Mick says.
Solveig was once again at the electric orange juice squeezer, applying half-oranges one at a time to the spinning porcelain appliance.
"Hello, Mick." Solveig uttered the words with infinite weariness, sighed, and then shook her long hair over onto her shoulder and ducked into the pantry, nearly colliding with me. I folded shut my purple phone book, grabbed up the three pink slips for me stuck between the pantry phone and the wall, and figured I'd leave the pantry to Solveig, in order that she might collect herself in peace.
"How's your shift doing, Sergeant Solveig?" I joked with Solveig every now and then, too. Solveig looked at me, and just shook her long blond hair in reply, head bowed towards the remaining stack of pink slips piled beneath the pantry telephone. Her lower lip was quivering, so I got out of there.
"Well, well, aren't you Mick Jagger?" I said, rounding the counter in the kitchen. "How's the stage construction division doing? See you have things all blocked out up there on the gravel driveway."
"Can't talk," he gasped. "Taking my pulse . . . seventy-eight . . . seventy-nine . . . eighty . Coming down lower and lower. That jogging. Really works."
"And the stage? How's it working? Gonna be built in time?"
"Dumbbells," Mick said. "Buncha dumbbells. Got to watch over every little thing, I do."
I thought I'd change the subject. "How did you like the restaurant last night in Sturbridge?" I asked. It had been "'reservations for two' in the name of Hall, please. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Jerry Hall. Your best table, please. What? In that case let me speak with your supervisor. You are the supervisor? All right. This is Gil Markle. I own Long View Farm, the recording studio in North Brookfield. Yes. Yes, that's the one. You read about it yesterday in the paper? Yes. That's us. So listen. Two, please. Yes, him. But the reservations are under 'Hall.' It's very important you say 'Hall,' and not his real name. Yes. It's that sort of thing they're worried about.
"Your best table, right? By the fireplace. Okay. I'll call you in thirty minutes, and you can tell me if they got there O.K., and how things are working out.
"No, really, that's quite all right. Just serve him a good meal and try to screen the other clients away as best you can. They'll ruin his meal, if you let them."
Mick seemed relieved at the prospect of discussing something other than the stage, and had a basically good report for me. "Oh, all right, you know, Gil. All right. Always a bit the same, though, with people wantin' me to sign their little daughter's menu, or something like that."
"Yeah. That's a drag," I said. "But if it didn't happen, I bet you'd be more upset still."
Mick shot me a glance, smiled, and let the fast ball pass, without swinging.
"You know though, Gil, there is something you could do to help. Funny request, this, so bear with me."
"Shoot, Mick. Your slightest request... "
"Well, it's this phone call I'm expecting. This is a call I want to take, you know? But I don't want anybody to know about it. Don't want people to know that this person called me. Got it?"
"Like if my wife was here, and my girlfriend called, I'd want to talk to the girlfriend without my wife knowing I did. Sorta like that?" I was laughing.
"Yeah," Mick laughed back, "sorta like that." And he scribbled a name down on a piece of paper. A man's name I no longer remember.
"That's the one," he said. "Wanna take that call... "
" ...without anybody knowing about it," I said.
"Yeah," Mick laughed again. "Thanks again for the restaurant last night. Jerry loved it."
"No problem, Mick" I said.
Mick turned on his heel, fixed his gaze on a point some distance away, and walked off. No bounce; no detours. The audience was over. Mick now wanted to be somewhere else.
The Rock Wall
"There's a particularly mean looking one... Tattoos. Beer. Something metal hanging from his belt. Tell Callahan I may have to go out there."
There's a long rock wall down at the bottom of the valley dividing our farm from Stanley's. Seen from the Farmhouse, it begins off to the left on very high ground, dips down behind the riding ring, and continues off and up toward the right, behind the pond. On the other side of the rock wall, which is about a quarter mile from the front porch of the Farmhouse, the land dips down sharply, toward Stanley's house and barn. You can stand on Stanley's side of the rock wall and be only as tall as a person kneeling on the Long View side of the same wall, and so the rock wall provides natural camouflage and cover for people coming from Stanley's who might want to spy on Long View.
"Stanley," I said, "you can't let people onto your property. You don't understand what will happen. People are coming from all over the country trying to find out how to get to Long View. They'll come across your land in droves, trying to make it to the rock wall. The wall is within a rifle shot of the porch at Long View, and that's too close. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, Stanley? Besides, they'll trample your hay and hassle your cows and maybe set fire to something. You've got to listen to me, Stanley, you just don't know what you're up against." Stanley looked at me for a moment, spat, and spoke.
"Would'a been eighty-seven today, Bessie would'a. Typhoid took her away in the winter of '44, leavin' Jeb with those six kids of hers, and not the brains God gave a green apple. Never much good, Jeb."
Stanley always knew how old a lot of dead people would have been had they not died when they did. That's loyalty to a frame of reference like I've never seen before.
"Stanley," I said, "what does that have to do with the Rolling Stones? I'm simply asking you to close off your road, for God's sake. You don't know what you're dealing with." Stanley changed his mind before he was done, and closed off his driveway with piles of hay bales
and wouldn't let people walk across his land toward ours, and that helped a lot.
But on this particular Sunday afternoon, early on during the stay of the Stones at Long View, Stanley was doing nothing to help. Visitors would get as far as the roadblock at the bottom of Stoddard Road, argue in vain with the officers on duty, and generally be shunted on past the reservoir, toward Stanley's. And at the spot where Stanley's driveway met the road, there was a really good view of Long View in the distance, up on the hill, and so it's here that the cars would slow to a halt, and usually park. We could see them easily from the Farmhouse at Long View � see them roll up their windows, lock their cars, and casually walk up Stanley's long driveway, toward us, until the driveway ended. Then they'd set out across the field, generally in groups of two's or three's, heads bobbing up and down as they ducked from one piece of natural cover to the next, edging ever closer to the rock wall, to Long View, and to the Rolling Stones. We had several pairs of binoculars going.
"There's a particularly mean looking one," said Bob Bender, Stones security man, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, peering intently through the glasses, toward the east. "Tattoos. Beer. Something metal hanging from his belt. Tell Callahan I may have to go out there."
Although Jim Callahan was chief in charge of security for the Stones, his main concern was the bodily safety of the stars, not logistics or perimeters. Bob Bender was more interested in the perimeters, and crowd control, and so was I.
"I'll go down there," I said to Bob. "I need some exercise, and I know where not to step. It's wet in places. Just give me a few minutes to finish my drink."
That was fine with Bender. He'd much rather stay up by the swing, smoke cigarettes, and play with Robert, Kathleen's three year old son. Robert and Bob Bender got along famously. They would imitate each other. So I swilled down the end of my screwdriver and ambled down toward the pond, where I'd cut across over to the wall. From there I would see what was happening, and maybe talk some people into leaving. I had my boots, jeans, shirt and tie, and the black pin-striped jacket that Cat Stevens gave me just before he left. My standard countryside rock mogul get-up. ( How many times more do we have to hear that Cat Stevens gave him that suit jacket? The fact is, Cat Stevens couldn't stand the thing, and he'd just sent the girl who gave it to him off in a limousine, back to New York, in tears. That was in 1977. "Here," he said to Gil, "you keep this stupid thing. It'll probably fit you." Gil makes out like it had been presented to him in a box, or something. B.S.)
More activity now, it seemed, as I got closer. More frequent bobbing up and down of heads at the wall itself. First over to the left, accompanied by a puff of smoke indicating not artillery, but probably a joint being passed around. Then off to the right, punctuated by a howl of some sort. Some kid attempting to sound like an Indian, was the best you could make of it. Then right down in front, not one head bobbing, but all of a sudden six of them. There was clearly something going on on the other side of the wall, now just a few steps in front of me, on the top of the rise.
A few moments later I was to realize as never before the extent of our security problem at Long View; one second I was making my way toward the rock wall, listening to the birds cheeping, and even a bit lost in deep-country reverie, the next second I had reached the rock wall and was looking over it, first to the left, then to the right, and into the eyes of scores of Stones watchers, all crouched up against the wall, sometimes two or three deep. They had binoculars, joints, beers, infants-in-arms, girlfriends, and an occasional walkie-talkie. These people were of all ages, and they were all looking at me. Intently. I glanced nervously over my shoulder, and back toward the Farm. I could see Bob Bender on the porch, looking at me through his glasses. He waved one arm over his head. The little lump down and to his right had to be Robert. All of a sudden, I wished I was back up there.
"Well, looky-here," a nearby voice said. I wheeled around to confront a young kid who looked about fourteen. He was obese from beer, and on his upper lip he had a dirty-looking peach fuzz, which was apparently under cultivation. He wore a plain white tee-shirt, which was sweat stained and soiled with the dirt of the land. It strained around the spare tires of his fat, adolescent stomach. Only a corner of the shirt was tucked into his jeans, which were also filthy. He wore a wide, black belt that had silver studs or bolts in it, or something. This kid was mean, and not much fun to look at.
"Well, wadda we got here? Da Stones in dere?" he spat at me. "You got da Stones up dere?"
"Yes," I said. "The Rolling Stones are in there, and let me tell you, they're madder'n hell. Mad that they've come all this way for some peace and quiet, and that they get this, instead." I waved my arm in a grand flourish, encompassing all those crouched by the wall, smoking joints, and laughing at me.
The kid spat again, then moved toward me, smirking. He was flanked by two urchins who were obviously much younger still, and who were trading playful pugilistic shots at each other, yelping, and occasionally bumping into the filthy jeans of the bigger kid.
"Hey," the big one said. "You a banker?"
"Let's play wit da banker," the little one on the left said.
"You wanna play, big shot?" spoke the little one on the right.
The fourteen year old obese one was still smirking, and now had his barrel chest and peach fuzz lip only a few inches away from the buttons of my Cat Stevens jacket. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman Stones watcher off to the left old enough to be my mother. She was crouched behind the wall, too, in a good position, and she was shaking her fist at me. Shouting something, too, but I couldn't hear quite what. Then I figured it out. She was booing me. And then suddenly some others started booing me, too. The boos traveled quickly along the rock wall in both directions, to the left and to the right, until I was hearing good stereo.
"All right," I said, in my most calm and measured tones. "But it's simply not going to work. They're not going to come out of the house with their six security guys and dogs and whatnot and come down here to the rock wall to sign autographs. The fact is, Mick's in New York, and Keith has just crashed after being up for three days, and everybody else is asleep, too. You'll be here a couple of days before anything stirs up there, and I can guarantee you they're not going to play tonight in the barn, so you're just wasting your time and getting cold and wet."
The boos had now subsided somewhat, and a few people were actually listening to me.
"And I'd be happier if you just up and left. It would make our job easier. You ought to think of us once before trampling over our land with your beer cans and binoculars and getting people all paranoid and up-tight. John Lennon was shot last December, and he's dead now. Can you imagine what's going through their minds up there at the Farmhouse when they look down here and see puffs of smoke, walkie-talkies, and guys with tattoos and too much to drink? They start talking 'security,' that's what they do, and that comes down hard on us. So why don't you go home and warm up? Maybe they'll play tomorrow night, who knows?"
"But that's Monday," I heard someone growl, and I realized with some relief that Monday was the first day of school for most schools in Massachusetts.
"Yeah," the fat kid said. "Dat's Monday."
Bob Bender was still up on the swing, with Robert, looking at me through his large binoculars. I waved back at him this time, forced a smile in the direction of this rag-tag bunch of Stones watchers who were now in some visible disarray, not knowing what to do � whether to go or to stay.
"Listen," I said, "you do what you want. Just don't count on seeing any Rolling Stones, 'cause it's not going to happen. Not today, at any rate. I'm going back up there. You do what you want."
Already I could see one or two groups along the edges gathering up their things, kicking at the rock wall, and preparing to leave. The lady old enough to be my mother was muttering something, but she wasn't booing me anymore. The fat kid suddenly seemed at a loss for words. I wasn't going to get socked, after all. Must have been what I said about Mick being in New York. Or about Keith having crashed. Invoking the word and image of the Rolling Stones produces results. Interesting, I thought. These people were going to go away because Mick was in New York, and because Keith was asleep.
And, maybe I had something to do with this charade, too. Gil Markle � honest broker in the service of superstars. That fat kid hadn't scared me a bit. I straightened up in my boots, wheeled about, and headed back toward the Farm, feeling quite satisfied with my performance, and useful for a change. It occurred to me that if we got through this weekend, and school actually started, we'd have it made.
Woody
"Lemme tell you something. I've been in the band for years now. I never ate with them all before. All at one table, I mean. I never saw 'em all together over a bottle of wine before I came here."
Ron Wood, who's sometimes called "Ronnie," and at other times "Woody," is by far the friendliest member of the Rolling Stones. He will always say hello to you, for example � even go out of his way to do so. And he will address you using your first name, and in a manner which is always upbeat, happy, confident, and selfless. Selfless. Yes, that's
exactly the word I wanted to use. Woody � who's a most talented guy � doesn't make you wrestle with this fact day in and day out. He seems interested in you, instead. He hangs out with fellow guitarist Keith Richards almost all the time. Keith beats on Woody, which is funny most of the time, and a concern to Woody's friends for the remainder of it.
The door to the Game Room was closed, and I figured no one was in it, since it was 11:30 in the morning, so I burst through as though I owned the place, figuring I'd check things out a bit, and see if the Advent TV was working. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn't.
"Woody," I said. "Fancy meeting you here!"
Woody was prowling around the pool table, taking an occasional shot. He'd not yet been to bed, as I could tell from the prowl, which was a touch unsteady. He relaxed his aim on the ball, which was teetering on the edge of falling into a pocket, straightened up, and smiled broadly.
"Hi, Gil!" he said. Woody was genuinely happy to see me. "Howya doing?" he asked me.
"O.K., Woody, I guess. You'd know the answer to that question better than me. I'm just hoping things are going well for you guys, and that we're doing a good job for you... "
"You mean, you don't know already?"
"Well, Ronnie, I've been staying out of sight, mainly � not jumping into the middle of things, you know?"
"Gil. The band loves it here. Loves it here. Honored to be here, Gil. First time I heard talk like that from any of 'em."
"Lemme tell you something. I've been in the band for years now. I never ate with them all before. All at one table, I mean. I never saw 'em all together over a bottle of wine before I came here. Here, take this."
Ron Wood passed me a large and healthy-looking cigarette. I can only assume it contained English tobacco and black hash. Then he grabbed a cube of blue chalk off the shelf, applied it to the business end of his cue stick, and continued his playful taking-of-shots at whichever ball seemed closest to him on the pool table.
"Never happened under one roof before," Ronnie continued. "No problem if more than one roof is involved. Bill and Astrid, they'll disappear almost right away. Mick'll be up in his penthouse with his friends, and his telephone. Charlie not far away probably. Keith and me'll be messin' up in some dungeon downstairs letting out our energy. People in different places, usually. But under one roof? Never saw it before."
BLAM! The door to the Game Room flew open, propelled by Keith Richards's right boot. It slammed against the wooden wall, and bounced back again, catching Keith on the elbow, and partially spilling the orange juice and vodka Keith was carrying in that hand.
"Ronnie, that was yours. Always carry yours in my right hand."
Keith gave the half-filled drink to Ronnie, slapping him on the back as he did, and causing him to spill even more of the screwdriver onto the cement floor. He spied me on the other side of the large TV couch � an infrequent visitor here in the Game Room. "Hey, Gil, whaddaya doin' here in the crypt?"
"Just checking out that everything's working, Keith," I said lamely.
Keith swings a leg up and over the couch. It lands right in the middle of the cushion. Keith steps up onto that leg. He's now standing in the middle of the couch on one foot, Advent video projector immediately to his right � three circles of blue, red, and green, shining cone-like through the air, and illuminating Keith Richards in three basic colors. Keith lands on the floor beside me, cat-like, and now on two feet. "Haven't seen you to talk to since the time before, when Patti and me were here."
"I know. I've been concentrating on the gig. There's not been much time. I want to talk to you about that tape of yours, however. I haven't found time yet to do the edits. So how are we doing, Keith? I mean, the Farm and everything."
"Yeah," Keith said. "Everything's fine, man. Just don't schedule any more 'a those meetings down here, or Ron and me'll revolt."
Ronnie looked up, smiling over his cuestick.
"Meetings? You gotta be joking, Keith," I said. "You must be joking."
"Wasn't much of a joke in here yesterday. A dozen of Mick's clothes designer friends in here watching videos on that damned wide-screen TV of yours. Who brought 'em down here anyway?"
"I did. Keith," I confessed.
"Yeah," Keith acknowledged. "Good thing you like rock 'n' roll, or Ronnie and me'd gang up on you."
Ronnie had just got off a shot from the far end of the pool table which had miraculously put three balls into three different leather pockets. He smiled up at us once again.
"Don't listen to him, Gil," he said.
Fraternity Brothers
"So, whaddaya think, then? Mistake for me and Rachele to drop by? Few minutes together. You remember Rachele. Skidmore?"
"Phi-Psi" are Greek letters standing for the first two words of a four-word slogan, which is the secret slogan of a college fraternity I once belonged to. Still do, I guess. Those things are for life. "Phi-Psi" is something you'd say to a properly initiated fraternity brother as a means of underscoring your fraternal concern as distinguished from your merely personal concern. I still get the alumni rag put out by the national office of my fraternity, and it is regularly replete with "Phi-Psi's," much to my astonishment. I wouldn't have thought there was a market for that, any more.
"Hey, hey, Gil, Phi-Psi! Howya doin', soldier?"
"Todd Richards, fraternity brother, is that you?"
"Better believe it is, Gil. A voice from the past. It's been years since those days. Been years. Too long. I tell you, though, Gil, I deliberately didn't want to call you -- the pressures and everything that you've been under. I know what's going on up there. I've been reading the papers. And I wanted you to think, Todd Richards -- that's a friend who didn't call. That's what I wanted you to think. So I didn't call. Figured all your other friends were calling you, so I didn't want to. Know what I mean?"
"Boy, do I ever, Todd. People have been calling me I haven't heard from in ten years. 'Hey, Gil, baby, too long no see. Listen, me and the wife, we're just down here in Sturbridge. Thought we'd take a spin up and see that pride and joy of yours. You musta worked hard and long for that, Gil. Like I was saying to Jane just a few minutes ago. It's not everybody who'll put all he's got on the line... I mean on the line, and... '. Stuff like that, Todd, you know. Friends who just don't understand."
"Yeah," Todd said on the other end of the phone, "I know what you mean. Listen," he said, "I know this is a stupid thing to ask under the circumstances, but Rachele and me, we'd figured we'd take an afternoon outing -- never thought we'd come all the way up here from the city just for some fresh air, but we did, and we're down here in Sturbridge and thought you might like to join us for a drink. We're in some Yankee Peddler Roadhouse -- only a few miles away from you, as it turns out."
"Todd," I said, "fraternity brother of mine, there's no way. I'm answering phones. Couldn't get away if I wanted to. Chained to the desk, like we used to say at Rensselaer."
"So, whaddaya think, then? Mistake for me and Rachele to drop by? Few minutes together. You remember Rachele. Skidmore?"
"Todd. It can't happen. They'd dump you in together with the photographer from the London Sun, who's in the back of the police cruiser at this very moment, claiming some sort of international immunity. Said he knew me. The son of a gun did, too, but it didn't do him any good at all. No good at all. I'm insulted, but I'm warning my friends to stay away."
"Geez, Gil. It's been years, you know. Remember the time we did up Rose Street, in Albany, before you knew what it was all about, and needed fraternity brothers like me?"
"Rose Street? You mean the red light district?"
"Don't feel bad, Gil. It always takes one or two of those outings before you know what you're doing. Well, frat brother of mine, co-holder of the secrets of the founding fathers of our order, and good friend -- if it can't be this time, it'll be another. You gotta explain it to Rachele, however."
"Gil, is that you?"
"Yes, Rachele. You remember me?"
"Do I remember you! Gil, how can you say such a thing? What about the night -- hold on, I want to see where Todd went -- O.K., what about the night after the winter carnival when Barbi got taken back to the institution, and we ended up in the ski-hut?"
"I remember that, Rachele. I really do."
"There's no way we can come by, Gil? Even just for a second? I mean, Gil, it's been years since Barbi and the ski-hut, and everything. Just for a few seconds?"
"Rachele, it can't happen, my hands are tied. I'm working for these people, and they don't want any guests."
"You don't seem to be the same Gil to me."
"I am, Rachele. I'm the Gil who got his wish."
"Well, I don't want to know what you mean by that. Here, talk to Todd again. He's just back from the men's room." .
The Red Line
"I don't know, all I know is she called and she wants some money. So I told you, right?"
The red line rang, which is my special "hot line" to Worcester, and I grabbed it. It was Wendy. "O.K.," she said, "you've got a teeth cleaning at 11:30... "
"Cancel it," I interrupted.
" ...O.K., next is your operations meeting at 1:30. Geoff, Bret, Ted, and maybe Paul."
"Tell them I may be late, and to start without me."
" ...next is the bank, at 3:00. Jim Herzog. Ron will be there."
"O.K. That one I gotta do."
" ...and you have about thirty pink slips, most of them reporters. What do you want me to do with these?"
"Nothing. I'll see them when I get in."
"Also, Nancy called and says she needs some money. Some trip she wants to take with the kids, in some truck? I don't know, all I know is she called and she wants some money. So I told you, right?"
"You told me, Wendy. Please be nice to me when I get in there. I'm not going to be able to do much today."
"Don't smoke on your way in and you might get more done than you did yesterday," she laughed.
"I'll see you."
The fact is that some radio guy had given me a couple of sticks of Hawaiian, hoping to further ingratiate himself and his radio station in our eyes, and perhaps, yes, perhaps even get a special interview with Mick Jagger. And I had been smoking a little of it on my way into work, if the truth be known. The only time I ever get to myself, it seems, is that twenty minutes in, and twenty minutes out. No telephone in the car. Just a well-maintained Nakamichi cassette deck and a pair of studio Auratone speakers, which I generally run at a pretty high volume level, cruising along on automatic speed control, slowly, smoking roaches, and thinking about my career. I get some of my best ideas riding along in the Cadillac that way. Always did. Still do. Most of what you're reading here was either conceptualized, noted down, scribbled about, or cassette-dictated in the car. Not this particular paragraph, however, which I'm doing in a bar, looking for companionship some ninety days after the Stones have left Long View Farm, and some sixty days after I got the news from Nancy, which I'm determined to tell you about at some point along the way. As soon as I can work it into the story. \** .(f \** Essay delivered on a napkin, in a nearly indecipherable scribble. Ends abruptly. B.S. .)f .
Neighbors
"We listen generally 'til dawn, the missus and me, talking about the old days, and the farm back in Leominster before the superhighway came through."
The Cutrumbeses were farmers � real farmers � and had been for years, working their dairy spread in the town of Leominster, some fifty miles to the east of North Brookfield in the direction of Boston. But those fifty miles make a difference in our part of Massachusetts, and the sad fact was that the Cutrumbeses had not been happy in Leominster for some time. All the farms adjacent to theirs had been sold to developers years earlier, and the Cutrumbeses' spread was surrounded by suburbia. Two-car families, asphalt driveways, parking lots, shopping malls, the works. The last straw came when the superhighway came through, bisecting the Cutrumbeses' farm into unequal sections, filling the air with diesel exhaust, and somehow spoiling the taste of the milk given daily by the Cutrumbeses' herd of cows. The cows seemed sad � sadder than usual � and Jack Cutrumbes, 41, decided to take action.
West was the only way to go, and in June of 1981 Jack Cutrumbes bought the Mogul spread in North Brookfield � 125 acres of quiet beauty just a stone's throw and holler outside the center of town, and only a few yards from Long View Farm. Six weeks later, the Rolling Stones came.
"Hold on, Jack, I can't hear you."
It was that single-engine Cessna again, this time only a hundred and fifty feet overhead. Jack looked up at it, dreamily, elbows resting on the white fence just outside his barn. I pulled the Cadillac off the road. I wanted to have a word with my new neighbor, and see how he was weathering the storm.
Jack was still leaning on the fence, pipe in hand, but he was no longer looking at the Cessna, which was now describing lazy circles over Long View. Cutrumbes was pointing in the other direction instead, at a fast approaching helicopter owned by Channel 3, Hartford. They had wanted to land the thing on the top of our big hill, "just for some long shots of the Farm and barn," but I had refused.
"Well, we're going to do a fly-by then," the pilot announced. "Not much you can do about that."
And there wasn't much I could do about it either, except duck, here outside Jack Cutrumbes's manure pile. The helicopter roared overhead, tilted crazily, and headed back toward Hartford, leaving an obnoxious trail of noisy thuck-athuck-thucks. Its side door was open, and I could see a man, canvas safety straps, and a large TV camera.
"Jack," I said, "I don't know how to apologize, or what to say. This isn't my idea, I can tell you that."
A swirl of loose hay and dust engulfed us as two carloads of Stones watchers swept by, followed closely by Harvey Thomasian in the North Brookfield police cruiser.
"They'll be back," chawed Jack. "They'll be back. Come by once, find out that that's Long View, then they'll go down the bottom of the hill, turn around, and make another pass. Bothers me more when they come from down below, cruising by your place, then turn around here. Not so much the noise and the beer cans. It's more the matches and the cigarettes I'm worrying about. Could set us all afire, what with the hay just in off the fields."
"I know what you mean," I said. "I've got people watching out for fire down there 24 hours a day. Should see what I have to deal with up in the loft. Roadies putting butts out everywhere but in the ashtrays. No hay up there anymore, of course, but lots of dry wood. You getting any sleep?"
"Nope," Jack said. "Makes the windows rattle up here when those fellas play. So we got no choice. We listen generally 'til dawn, the missus and me, talking about the old days, and the farm back in Leominster before the superhighway came through."
"I don't know what to say, Jack, except that I'm sorry. I didn't think it'd be this crazy. Can't continue on too much longer."
"Aw, they've got a right to their livin', too," Jack allowed. "Talked to one of 'em just yesterday. Came jogging by here, he did, all out of breath, face redder'n a beet at Thanksgiving. Stopped here, just where you're standin'."
"Can't make it another step," he says. "Ran all the way around the block. Five miles, must be. Left the owner behind way back by the reservoir."
"You one of them Stones?" I asked him.
"Yup," he said. "Sure am."
"Found out later it's that fella Mick Jagger everyone's tryin' to get to see. Nice guy. Don't know what the fuss is all about."
"Well, Jack, I'm glad there's been some compensation there for you. I'm going to talk to Harvey and we'll get the road closed off on the weekends. That'll help some. These cars are just too much. You just moved here, and you don't know, but we generally get only two or three cars a day on this road, including the milk truck."
"Look out!" Jack shouted, as he grabbed me by the arm just as the same two carloads of Stones watchers roared by again, now in the opposite direction, Harvey still in seeming pursuit. The air now smelled of exhaust.
"Stopped answerin' the phone." Jack continued. "Had to. Reporters, radio stations. One fella from Los Angeles called every hour on the hour, starting at midnight, mind you. Wanted to know what tunes they were playin' in the barn. Couldn't tell 'em anyway. All sound the same to me."
"It might make a difference if you'd come to a rehearsal one night, Jack. Maybe I could speak to one of the people in charge, and see what they'd say."
"Already invited," Jack said.
"You're what? I can't even get up there myself whenever I want. Are you sure?"
"Yup " Jack said. "Already invited. Unless that fella wasn't Mick Jagger after all."
Jack was laughing as I slid back into my car, and I can remember thinking as I headed back down toward Long View that Jack Cutrumbes and his family would probably make it through with no additional help from me. He'd been invited to a rehearsal by Mick Jagger.
Kathleen
It suddenly dawned on me that Stu needed none of my help at all, and only a little from Kathleen, in order to scout out a club suitable for a surprise appearance of the Rolling Stones.
Somewhere toward the middle of the Stones' stay at Long View Farm � I think about the time that Keith fell off the deck (I've found out what Gil is referring to here. Seems that Keith did twist his ankle one morning, careening off the porch just outside his room. They thought it was broken for a while, which would have been very bad for the upcoming tour. The whole thing was hushed up. No one, except Woody, knew about it until it was clear that Keith was all right, and just a bit hung over. B.S.)� the radio station 'KNX in Los Angeles called Long View and got Kathleen on the phone, and Kathleen gave a very sweet interview about the horses and cows at Long View, and how we loved to cater to our guests � particularly famous ones � and how Stanley's cows down across the valley are giving more milk ever since the Rolling Stones came to stay. Only, they asked her one question which she had no answer to, and which she chose to save for me.
"Gil," she said to me that evening, "what's this about the surprise club date that the Stones always do, usually in a small bar, just before their concert tours are supposed to begin? Are we going to have to deal with this, too?"
Ian Stewart, the unofficial, extremely influential and "sixth" member of the band, happened to be within earshot, as was not uncommon during those rare moments when Kathleen found the time to take a few sips of wine, and laugh about things, and he gave an audible grunt and cough from the next room which startled us both.
Kathy and I exchanged a terrified look, wondering if we'd been overheard saying something wrong.
Stu coughed again, and lumbered down the library stairs into the office where Kathy and I always hung out. Stu is a most affable, friendly, and unflappable fellow, and he's said to be the best Boogie-Woogie piano player in all of England. He loved our Baldwin, and liked us a lot.
"Not to worry," he said. "You're not going to have to worry about that. But you could help me a bit, the two of you." (He was looking mostly at Kathleen, and not at me.)
"What, Stu?" she said, taking him by the arm and looking up at him with her brown eyes.
"Just thought I'd take a spin around town tonight � see a club or two � and get away from the craziness for a while. Don't know the area too well, and thought you'd like to come." (He was now looking directly at Kathleen, and not at me at all.)
Kathleen had an extremely good relationship with Stu, through whose good offices much reliable and inside information about the band was passed to us day-to-day, and it would have been inappropriate, maybe even professionally dangerous, for her to refuse. And Kathleen liked Stu, besides.
"Not him, though," Stu continued, hooking a thumb in my direction, "otherwise they'll know what we're up to. Him they all know."
"I'll need to do something with Robert," Kathleen said, not looking to me for any sign of encouragement, much less permission. "I know, I'll leave him with Julie."
"Kathleen," I said, "are you sure that Julie's free, and what clubs are you going to, anyway? You can't just bring Stu anywhere you know. And besides . . ." But no one was listening to Gil. Kathleen was already moving toward the phone to call up Julie, and Stu already had an ignition key in his hands, and it suddenly dawned on me that Stu needed none of my help at all, and only a little from Kathleen, in order to scout out a club suitable for a surprise appearance of the Rolling Stones.
That was the night that Ian Stewart decided on Sir Morgan's Cove, a dark, dank, and fairly unknown bistro on Green Street, deep in the bowels of Worcester. He might have chosen Ralph's � the chic and trendy club owned by friends of mine � but Ralph had packed the bar that night with a deliberate hint to a reporter that the Rolling Stones might put in a surprise appearance, and Kathleen and Stu couldn't get near the place. There were hundreds of people mobbed outside, all grumbling and exchanging Stones rumors. And so they went down to Sir Morgan's Cove, the two of them, where they might not have gone otherwise, and had a wonderful time. Kathleen was talking about it for days.
As it turned out, the world's most famous rock 'n' roll band played Sir Morgan's Cove some ten days later, and under circumstances which caused such great upheaval, consternation, and excitement throughout the entire Northeast as to deserve greater elaboration in what follows here.
Club Owners
"Wan-sum blow?" Tony asked.
"The Stones? Looking for a club to perform in? This area? Soon?"
You're a club owner, and you're struck as though by thunder. The Rolling Stones. That would solve all the problems, all at once. Gate, forever after. License to print money. A picture of you and Mick Jagger hanging over the cash register.
The band has been checking clubs out in the area; that's what the word was. Ralph's was mobbed a couple of nights ago. Maybe you've been checked out already. Maybe there's someone in here right now checking the place out.
Your bartender comes up to you, drying off his hands.
"That guy you were talking about, you know, who owns that recording studio where the Stones are... ?
"Well, that's him down there at the end of the bar. No tab on that, right?"
"Right," you say, with the full flush of Stones fever now upon you. "Don't let him pay for anything."
I drank pretty much for free during that period of time, as you can well imagine. Also, I got talked to by a lot of eager club owners, who believed, each of them, that I could somehow wield influence over the Rolling Stones, and make them show up anywhere I wanted. Flattering, I must say. It's also possible that I wasted time, once or twice, in clarifying the exact nature of my role. Let's face it: I liked the attention.
And so the club owners were calling me like crazy, and I had no choice but to deal with them in one way or another. Randall Barbera helped me a lot with that. One afternoon, for example, he volunteered to spend some time with a particularly ambitious owner, Tony Rio. Tony owned "The Hideaway," which to my thinking was as good a venue as any, and which stood a chance of being chosen by the band for their surprise appearance. Randall had visited The Hideaway with Tony, and with Tony's sidekick, Ron, and they had all just driven back up Airport Hill with the intention of seeing me for a few minutes, and summarizing their day's conversation in my presence. Why me? Again, I was never sure. Tony Rio apparently felt I had some voice in things.
Tony made the opening statement. "I jus' wan-cha ta know, Gil, jus' wan-cha ta know that me an' my partners have you and da Stones in da highest respet... "
Randall mercifully interrupted the man, and volunteered this on his behalf.
"Good room, Gil. L-shaped. All the sound reinforcement gear was left there from when the place was a disco. Best thing is the underground entrance. You can drive a truck into it. Right up to the back of the stage. Quick-in; quick-out."
"Wit' protection," Tony added. Tony then motioned silently to his pimply sidekick, Ron, who stepped forward to his side, at full attention.
"Wan-sum blow?" Tony asked.
Ron needed no further confirmation from me, but was already busy with his fingers and a little silver box, like those normally used to deliver Stanton phono cartridges to market.
"Wan-sum blow?" Tony repeated.
"Well, why the hell not?" I thought. Randall had already moved, and was applying a short length of candy-striped plastic straw to the box of powders. It was Ron now who spoke. "L-shaped room, Gil. Can hold 550. Perfect security for the band, and for you. Don't see why you don't bring them down, so they can take a better look."
"Gentlemen," I said, "it's not up to us. Let's face it. I'll do what I can, but... "
I was interrupted with the news that I had a phone call. From an old girlfriend of mine, or a friend of an old girlfriend of mine, or something like that. I took my leave of Tony Rio, and sidekick Ron, and their cocaine, and left everything in the capable hands of Randall Barbera.
"You've got some guy named Rick Present on six-eight. Says he's a friend of an old girlfriend of yours, and that she told him to call you."
"An old girlfriend?" That was good enough. Good enough for me to take the phone call, I mean.
"Rick," I bellowed into the mouthpiece. "Who are you?"
"Delicate subject, Gil," the voice said. "Let's say that I took on with Laurie for a while when you left off. You know. She must've told you about me. I'm the one that got her back on her feet. She was a real wreck, you know."
"Ah, yes, Rick -- I know who you are. Laurie's new boyfriend, right?"
"Wrong. I'm up here in Maine, now, running a rock 'n' roll club in the outskirts of Bangor. It's completely lost up here in the woods. Perfect security."
"Perfect security, against what?"
"Gil, listen to me. Bygones are bygones, right? All I know is, I've got the club for you -- the perfect club for you. Bangor Airport is just an hour from Worcester. It's still in the Continental United States, but too far for the fans to drive, right? Even if they knew, which they won't. I mean, it's tundra up here. There's no way the crowds could follow."
"What are you talking about, Rick?" I interrupted. "About the Rolling Stones, I bet."
"The word's out, Gil. I had six other club owners call me just today. All fools. Putting out the word that the Stones might show up, just to pack their bars at night. I don't see much sense in that, although they say it works. Me, I prefer to play ball, and maybe get the band in here -- I mean, really in here -- for a night or two. Laurie maybe never told you all about me, Gil, but you've got to understand that... "
"... wait a minute, Rick, please. I'd help you in a minute, but that's not what I'm doing here. I just own the place, you know, and answer the telephone from time to time. Not really in charge of their arrangements, at all."
"So they're there with you, at the Farm, right?"
"Yeah, Rick, I guess. Can't even say that to reporters, you know. Listen, I've put your name down and the specs on the club. I'll bring that to their attention, and they'll do what they want."
"Far out, man. When can I expect the call? Tomorrow? Tomorrow night? How soon do they have to move?"
"Don't wait by the phone, Rick," I said. "It may or may not ring."
"Geez," Rick drawled. "You seen Laurie lately?"
"No, Rick. Not for a couple of years."
"Me either," Rick said, "haven't seen her either. Dynamite chick, though."
"Give me your phone number, Rick, and the name of the club once again." And Rick did. Area Code 207; funny number, funny name. That's all I can remember now, except Laurie said later she had absolutely nothing to do with the phone call, and that Rick was never really her boyfriend anyhow.
A Typical Rehearsal
"Always a bit rough around the edges. You expect them to be." The band forges on, and starts "Hang Fire" all over again from the top."
"Oh, they're playin' tonight, Gil. No doubt about it. Didn't last night, even though everybody was here and ready. Think it was Keith who just couldn't get it together. The night before it was because Mick didn't get back from New York. So that was two nights people were basically just lying around. They'll play tonight for sure."
It's Jesse Henderson speaking, Long View Chief Engineer, standing up against the Dempster Dumpster in the shed, nursing a beer. He caught my attention as I walked past. It was now after supper for the "regular schedule" eaters and their guests, of whom there were many tonight. A Saturday night in mid-September. Kurt Loder from Rolling Stone magazine had arrived, hoping to get some material for his cover article on Keith Richards. Nancy Griffin, who wrote the copy for the eventual spread in Life magazine, was also there, demure, out of the way, and taking notes. Abe Brenner and Mark had just arrived. These were friends of Keith's, as best we could tell. It was rumored that Abe Brenner �who looks old enough to be Keith's father � had once gone to jail for Keith in some drug-related police action. We didn't ask too many questions about Abe Brenner and Mark, who didn't seem to sleep much � either of them � and who always seemed to arrive just minutes before the best parties began. They had somewhat sallow complexions and traveled via a different chartered airplane each time.
"Yeah," Jesse repeated. "Gotta play tonight. Piano's tuned. Rhodes, too."
"Space heater for Bill Wyman?"
"That's up there, right beside his stool. He should have no bitches. Works great."
"And overall, the place looks O.K. up there?"
"Except for the butts on the floor. They won't listen to me, Gary and Chuch. They put 'em out on the floor on purpose. Their way of getting even, I suppose. Everyone else beats on them, they beat on the studio. Weird, but I can understand it."
Gary and Chuch were roadies, and this was not the first time that they had worked for the Rolling Stones. They were in charge of all the gear � like the amps, and guitars, and the dozen or so packing cases full of assorted paraphernalia. They also functioned somewhat as court jesters whenever they were in presence of the band. They would do errands, roll joints, and � most important � absorb punishment otherwise meant for the band members themselves. Gary and Chuch would lose things that were somehow fated to be lost; it's either Gary or Chuch who would get his front tooth chipped on the corner of the pool table in the Game Room, not Keith Richards. A door swinging open unexpectedly would catch one of them square in the forehead, not Mick Jagger. Hangovers the morning after? Not the band members, as best we could tell. Gary and Chuch would suffer instead. They provided Karmic insulation, you would say, in addition to the usual services provided by professional road men. They rendered themselves up for poundings and punishment in service of the myth, and that's what they were really paid to do, if you ask me. And they put butts out on the inflammable wooden floor of Studio C � at one point almost prompting an ultimatum from me which would have been served up to Mick himself. Fortunately, this never had to occur.
"Thought I'd hang out up there a bit tonight, Jesse," I said. "See how things are going."
"Might as well, man. They won't kick you out. That's for sure."
"I've been trying to set an example, Jesse. They don't need us up there, even though they say we're welcome. We're welcome, but we're not either, if you know what I mean."
Jesse knew what I meant. He'd seen Long View staffers hustled quietly away by Jim Callahan or Bob Bender upon the raising of an eyebrow from Mick Jagger, and hadn't seen me up there very much at all. Oh, I'd take a tour through, once a night, but these were official visits only, not listening visits. As owner, I'd appear sometimes during the first few hours of the rehearsal, pass a remark or two in the company of lovely Patti Hansen, take an approving puff of the everpresent "joint a l'anglaise", dim the house lights a touch in evidence of Owner's Concern for Creative Environments, and then get the hell out of there. In a straight line, no detours, no dallying about, no mesmerization even .nh contemplated, much less acted out. I had to be the one to lead the charge in this whole area of professional self-image. We were doing this as paid "pros," and that left no room for any personal displays � affected or genuine. They didn't come here to see us, or hear our theories about their music, their personal lives, or whatever. Nor did they coome here to be friends with us. So enter, bow, depart; and don't get your feelings hurt if you fail to establish eye contact with all five members of the band.
It was a bit earlier than usual that night, when they started playing. Patti Hansen had appeared in the kitchen about 10 PM, willow-thin and a touch wan, wearing only a robe. "Keith's up," she said to John Farrell. "Wants his breakfast."
"Usual?"
"Usual," Patti said, and John disappeared into the pantry for some raw hamburger and for the potatoes to make the home fries, and for the bottle of H. P. sauce. Patti would bus the completed "breakfast" over on a tray. She didn't mind; it gave her something to do "in the morning."
An hour later, Keith was up on the stage � wire-haired, crazed looking, and full of Long View protein. He stands still as Gary slings one of a dozen or so guitars around his shoulders, which are bare, and rippling with muscle tone. The guitar settles down and hangs low � as low as Keith can reach with his long arms. Keith slices across the metal strings with a guitar pick, and a massive, barn-rattling "SPRONG" issues forth from the Cerwin-Vega monitors.
"SPRONG . . ." Keith goes again. That "SPRONG" was in the key of "A", I thought, which made sense, since "Hang Fire" was the first tune on the top of tonight's "list." Mick's list, I mean. He kept it over on the packing case behind the piano, and he referred to it constantly during the night. Mick was very organized, and was writing things down all the time. It's unusual to see people "write things down" in rock 'n' roll. Practically unheard of. We "feel" in rock 'n' roll, and don't need to think.
Keith's ready, and the band lurches into "Hang Fire" � little Jade's favorite tune off the new album. The barn sounds great. Loud. Wooden. Almost cathedrallike. There's natural "slap" on the snare drum � echo from the far wall � and it sounds just like the "slap" engineers labor to synthesize in the studio, using delay lines. About a third of a second. House lights are off; only spots illuminate the stage. Red night lights � the sort that glow in the cockpits of bombers and supersonic jets � shine warmly over each of the Rolling Stones packing cases beneath the stage. Some of these cases are open with their drawers slid out �others half open, guitar cords snarled inside � others closed, but with a visitor sitting on top, fidgeting, looking about, and trying to stay out of the way. You'd find your reporters on top of these cases � those few who, after cooling their heels for as long as a week in Sturbridge, were finally allowed in.
Back to "Hang Fire." The harmony "doo-doops" sound terrible; and everyone in the band knows it. They stop playing, and Mick, Ronnie, and Keith try to figure out who's going to sing what. It's easier in the studio, where you can overdub voices, taking them one at a time if you want. Live, it's much more difficult. The three of them reach a consensus. Now they sound better, but not really great. "Always a bit rough around the edges � the Rolling Stones," to repeat what Keith Richards said later that night to Kurt Loder � the writer from New York City. "Always a bit rough around the edges. You expect them to be." The band forges on, and starts "Hang Fire" all over again from the top.
"Here, Gil. Do you want some of this?"
It's Patti Hansen who has materialized at my side, out of the shadows and the thunder, and she's extending a large cigarette to me which is quite lit, and giving off lots of smoke. She's holding her breath, about to exhale.
"Don't mind if I do, Patti," I said, taking the joint from her. I see Gary the roadie only a few feet away, dusting specks of tobacco off the top of the packing case. He winks at me, and gives me the "thumbs up" signal. He had created this cigarette only moments ago, and he was proud of it. We'd get to smoke it for a minute or two � to "warm it up," as it were. Then, upon a signal from the stage, Gary would snatch it away, run with it up the stairs, and feed it to Keith, on whose lower lip the thing would dangle, through several re-lightings, until it was all gone except for the cardboard mouthpiece. This cigarette was not ours forever. So I took another toke.
"You ready to give all this up for the movies, Patti?" I asked. Patti was going to be in a movie soon, and there was some question as to how much time she could be on the road, with the band.
"I don't think about it," Patti said. "It is great, though. I know what you mean. I've never seen them play this way before. Never. They actually seem to be enjoying it."
"Here," I said. "Do some more of this."
Suddenly, Jane Rose appears out of the darkness with a screech.
"Hi, every-body. Well, don't the two of you look comfortable there. I was wondering where you ran off to, Patti. Here, Gil. Come here, please. I want you to meet someone."
I get to my feet, and am given to meet Lisa Robinson � noted rock 'n' roll gossip columnist. I say hi to Lisa, and we chat for a second as best we can with "Hang Fire" playing live, just twenty feet in front of us. Behind her, moving quietly along the wall, are two Japanese photographers. A satellite tracking lens has been adapted to fit a standard Nikon, and brought all the way from Tokyo by these gentlemen. It's set up behind us, shooting over our heads toward stage center. A third, small Japanese gentleman is fussing with it, tinkering, and staring into the viewfinder. Pictures of Mick Jagger for an All Nippon Rock Extra. Printed on glossy paper and sold in millions of copies in Japan. Kurt Loder from Rolling Stone magazine is down by the fireplace, banging loudly in time to the music on our antique oak table. Nancy Griffin from Life is sitting on a packing case, legs crossed at the ankles, wondering how to package what she's seeing for Middle America.
A new gaggle of visitors appears in the doorway of Studio B. They nod respectfully toward the stage, and disseminate themselves in ones and twos along the walls � timid, silent, and awed by the dimensions of the room, the loudness of the sound and the spectacle before their eyes � the Rolling Stones, live.
Suddenly the lights come on, the music stops abruptly, and at least two dozen reporters, photographers, fashion designers, free-lance writers and other assorted Stones watchers freeze in their tracks � checking nervously over their shoulders in the direction of the stage. As well they should. Mick is not pleased; that much is clear. His eyes run over the faces in attendance � the writers, the reporters, the gentlemen from Japan � and his scowl deepens. He puts down his wireless microphone, and walks in careful measured steps down the beamed staircase, around the oversized packing case at the foot of the stairs, through the door to Studio B, and out into the night.
It's break time.
Visitors
"Gil, you're wanted downstairs immediately. They've got a real problem with some guy trying to get in. Says he's a friend of yours. Right downstairs... "
A half an hour later the band was playing again. This time, "You Can't Always Get What You Want," a ten year old Stones classic originally produced and recorded in London by my old friend, Jimmy Miller, whom I've found fit to mention from time to time. Jimmy Miller is arguably the most creative producer ever to interact with the Rolling Stones, and was largely responsible for the slickness, polish, and pop appeal which the band took on in the early seventies. But Jimmy got tired, and was left by the wayside � a classic case of Rolling Stones "burnout." Keith wanted me to get Jimmy on the phone one night, and there was talk of having Jimmy come by Long View for an evening of reminiscences, but it never happened. I got Jimmy's wife, Jerri, on the phone instead; Jimmy was out of the country, and the idea never took shape again. Jimmy Miller played an inspirational role in the creation of Long View, which also occurred in the early seventies, although I've never told him that until now.
In any case, "You Can't Always Get What You Want" is sounding great onstage, and the rehearsal now has a distinctly more relaxed feeling about it. Mick is much looser now, and is enjoying it more. He darts and turns in businesslike little swirls. Crisp, accurate, tight little movements. Jabs. No roundhouse punches. Either Mick thinks he doesn't need to rehearse them � those more expansive leapings-about, or he feels he can't rehearse them in the absence of an audience of a hundred thousand. The proper Yin to his Yang.
As for tonight's audience � the dozen or so invited guests and hangers-on � they have all re-distributed themselves along the walls, in the shadows, and on the packing cases, and their cautious, subdued chatter once again becomes a feature of the environment. I'm moving slowly around the room, being polite, and trying to save in my brain the little bits and pieces I'm hearing.
"Went for their lungs that year for a Boeing 707. Had a fireplace in it. Yes, a fireplace... Buffalo, then Chicago, or is it Chicago, then Buffalo? Have to ask Bill Graham... yes, the majesty of it all. History. Yes, history, too; I agree. But the majesty of that man, look... eight hundred millimeters. Ah, so. Eight hundred... expect a copy deadline of 15 October; no, you cannot edit the contact sheets... Jane would never allow that... why, London, of course. No, Louise now lives in Paris, with Steve, naturally... thirty-five million dollars, at least, and that's a pretty conservative estimate. Yes, thirty-five million... Afghanistan, I think, from the smell of it. Afghanistan, for sure... tight, little movements he's making... no, always Keith. Oh, I can assure you... Keith... ah, yes... ah, so... "
"Gil, you're wanted downstairs immediately. They've got a real problem with some guy trying to get in. Says he's a friend of yours. Right downstairs... "
It was Reed Desplaines, Night Manager at Long View, and a great devotee of law and order. Reed carried a loaded pistol under the front seat of his car until I found out about it, and asked him not to. His job was to sit in his car, down at the end of the driveway, headlights pointed down the road and over the valley. Reed would scan the fences for intruders, and would occasionally switch on his headlights, just to keep people behind the fences, and on their toes. If things got a bit weird, Reed would liaise with either Jim Callahan or Bob Bender, Stones security men, with me, and with the North Brookfield police cruiser, which would often station itself at the foot of the driveway, too, just to play safe.
"Who is it, Reed?" I asked, moving quickly toward the back of the rehearsal hall, and toward the staircase.
"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Reed shouts back. "Says he knows you, that's all I can say. Short. Little guy in a black jacket."
"That rules out Jack Cutrumbes," I said to myself. Cutrumbes is our next-door neighbor who said he'd been invited by Mick Jagger to attend a rehearsal. We flew down the stairs and out onto the gravel drive, where Bob Bender had someone by the upper forearm. This someone was wriggling about, and telling Bob Bender to lay off. But Bob was hanging on, and was relieved to see me.
"Gil. Do something. This creep says he's a friend of yours, and that you invited him to the rehearsal tonight. I don't know, man. It's nuts enough up there as it is. Mick walked off the stage an hour ago, in case that wasn't explained to you."
"Bennie," I said. "What in God's name are you doing here.
Bennie's eyes were blazing mad. He was embarrassed and scared.
"Listen," I assured Bob Bender. "I can handle this. He won't go upstairs. Let him go, I'll take care of it. Bennie'll be here just a few minutes, with me, and then he'll go. Won't you, Bennie?"
Bennie had been lowered back to the ground by Bob Bender, and was busy dusting himself off, and regaining his composure. Bender shrugged, waved to Reed Desplaines, and the two of them stalked off back toward the car at the bottom of the driveway.
"Anything you say, Gil," Bennie spat. "That's the way it always is. Why should it be any different tonight?"
"That's a hell of a thing to say," I said. I was now the one who was mad.
"All right," Bennie said. "I really just came here to pick up my master tapes. Gimme my tape and a bourbon-to-go and I'll get out of your life."
"You came here at 2 AM to pick up your tape, Bennie? You're not making things any easier for me, Bennie, I can tell you that. What tape, anyway?"
"The stuff we did in 1975, when John Glascock was still alive. They're upstairs in the tape library. I saw them the last time I was here. Right next to "Max Roach", for some reason. I'll get them, I know right where they are."
"No, Bennie," I said. "You wait here, and I'll go get them. Better still, make yourself the bourbon, and I'll be right back."
So I go running across the pink gravel driveway in my bare feet and my cut-off shorts, which are really Nancy's, just as the Stones lurch into the night's first version of "Miss You." I get up to the tape library the back way, through the Flat and up the stairs that guests never see. I knew where the tapes were, too. Right next to "Max Roach." Four tunes Bennie put together just after the band Carmen left. Carmen was the first band ever to use Long View, in 1975. They broke up shortly thereafter, under tragic circumstances. But they left bassist John Glascock behind, who loved it at the Farm, and who didn't want to leave. John worked in the garden with Nancy and Kathleen, and helped clear out that part of the barn which is now Studio B, shot rats with a bow and arrow, and played on Bennie's session. John left toward the end of that summer to join the Jethro Tull band, and died a couple of years later. It had something to do with drugs. One great bass player, though, I can tell you that.
I found the tapes � two boxes of them � and ran downstairs and across the driveway. Bennie had the Jack Daniels in a go-cup, took the magnetic tape, and headed down the driveway toward the car. He had to leave his car on the street because of the chain across the driveway entrance.
"Will you see Nancy?" I shouted after him.
"Might," said Bennie. He stopped and turned around. "Just might. Don't worry, I'll tell her you're working around the clock and can't think of anything else, and that the gig's going great. That's what I should say, right?"
"You could start with that, yes, Bennie."
Bennie turned again, walked to the Squareback, made it backfire once, and drove away down Stoddard Road with his tape boxes on the seat beside him, and the go-cup between his legs.
I stood there watching him disappear down Stoddard Road, and wondering why this particular price - this new and very unwelcome tension between me and my old friends - was being exacted of me in order that I might work for the Rolling Stones for two months. They didn't understand, these people. They obviously didn't understand at all.
"Friend of yours, Gil?"
It was Alan Dunn at my side, who's sarcasm I had by now grown to cherish.
"Yeah," I said. "An old friend."
Alan was smiling broadly, and we laughed for a moment, the two of us, before going back upstairs again. Alan Dunn is a very bright man.
Rob Barnett
Rob heard another phone pick up out at Long View. "Go ahead, Rob, we're listening."
Rob Barnett says he dragged himself into his Worcester apartment at 5:30 AM. It was already light out, and Rob had been up all night, outside in the damp and the cold, and he was very tired. He fell quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep, which lasted only until 5:45 AM, when his phone rang.
"Rob, is that Rob Barnett? It's Stu, Rob, and I'm here with Mick Jagger. It's important that we speak with you. Wake up."
Rob woke up, quickly.
Rob Barnett was the Music Director at WAAF, the radio station in Worcester, and had closely followed the movements of the Rolling Stones, and of Mick Jagger in particular, for over six weeks. Together with his colleague, Dave Bernstein, Barnett had been quickly sworn to secrecy, by me, and they saw to it that no mention of the Stones' exact location � Long View Farm � made it onto the air until long after the fact had become common knowledge. It was Rob who had staked out the Worcester Airport the day Mick flew to Philadelphia in the Twin, tape recorder at the ready, hoping for an interview.
"Rob," I said, once Mick had taken off, "I can't help you with this. I can't prevent you from going up to the man, and asking him, but I'm simply not permitted to set up things like this on his behalf."
So Rob did just that � waited until Mick got back from his press conference in Philadelphia � walked up to him, and asked him for an interview.
"O.K.," Mick said. "I suppose so. But not before this gentleman shows me to the little boys' room."
"This way, Mick," I said, laughing to myself that I should be so regularly called upon to serve in this capacity. "This way." Mick emerged promptly from the Men's Room, and then, much to Rob Barnett's delight, started talking into the tape machine.
During the course of the interview, which WAAF aired scarcely 15 minutes later, Mick got to tell his version of the tennis court incident; namely, that he most emphatically did not distribute any drugs to children on the streets of North Brookfield, and that it never would have occurred to him to do so.
Rob was very pleased with his interview, distributed it widely among sister FM stations across the nation, and developed the temerity over the days which followed to broach a further plan whereby WAAF would help distribute the tickets to any eventual surprise club showing of the Stones in the area; say at Sir Morgan's Cove.
Ian Stewart was intrigued by Barnett's suggestions, and met frequently with him and Barnett's colleagues at the Paxton Inn midway between Worcester and North Brookfield � hammering out details. First of all they rejected the plan which called for the handing out of tickets at Sir Morgan's Cove itself � say at midnight on the Saturday night preceding the Monday night surprise performance � to all customers who happened to be present. It was Stones fans they wanted to get to, not to the fans of whichever band happened to be playing at the Cove that particular Saturday night.
Also rejected was the record store handout proposal, according to which each purchaser of the album "Tattoo You" would also get a ticket, or tickets, to the surprise show. They'd be fans all right, but there'd be virtually no control over what happened once the tickets got split up among the record stores in the area or when the record stores ran out of albums. Also, disturbances might occur in the shopping malls among those fans who didn't understand the rules, or who disapproved of them.
Barnett's idea, which was brazen in its aggressive posturing of his radio station, WAAF, was to give out the tickets late Monday, just a few hours before the show, to people either wearing a WAAF tee-shirt, or showing off a WAAF bumper sticker on their car. Stu was taken by this proposal, and thought it would work.
"I'm awake," Rob said. "You say that Mick's there with you?"
"Most certainly is. Just got through practicing up in the barn, you know, and nobody's quite ready to go to sleep yet. We want to discuss the radio announcements scheduled for today and tomorrow."
Rob most assuredly did know that the Stones had just finished practicing up in the barn. He knew from personal experience that they had just finished, having spent the night down in Stanley's cow pasture, rubbing his hands to keep warm, and avoiding the cow patties as best he could, which was not very well. He heard, "Hang Fire," "You Can't Always Get What You Want," "Miss You," "Tops," and "Waiting on You" from a quarter of a mile away, and was thrilled. So were scores of other Stones watchers who had picked this Saturday night to infest Stanley's property � some keeping a respectful distance from Long View; others attempting to penetrate the perimeter established by Long View and Stones security staff, in order to get as close as they possibly could. The studio log shows that two Stones watchers were delivered to Police Chief Harvey Thomasian that night, apprehended in the live acoustic chamber under the barn, a stolen microphone in each hand. Two others were pulled off the side of the barn, attempting to scale it as human flies, but these were apologetic and allowed to return to the pasture below.
"Mick has two remarks, Rob, and then we think you'll be all set to go, per our meeting earlier today. "
"What are they?" Rob asked, scrambling for a pencil.
"First of all, Mick feels that you should take out the 'on behalf of the Rolling Stones.' A little dicey, that one is. Also... wait a minute, Rob. What, Mick... ?"
Mumble, mumble.
"Also, Rob, and this is most important, Mick wants the announcement to be read in a low-key and normal tone of voice. Got that? Low key. Normal. We don't want people getting upset, or anything like that. You still there, Rob?"
"Yes, sir!" Rob snapped. "Got it all. Steve will have to re-cut the two announcements, since we did them today � I mean yesterday � like you said to, but he'll just have to do it, that's all there is to it. So why don't I read the Monday announcement back to you now, with all the changes? This is the one which tells them how to get the tickets."
"Go ahead, Rob."
Rob heard another phone pick up out at Long View.
"Go ahead, Rob, we're listening."
"O.K., it goes like this: For some time now, WAAF has been telling you that the Rolling Stones would be adding dates to their 1981 tour of the United States. Now we can tell you that tonight the Rolling Stones will be playing in a low-key informal gig somewhere in New England, and WAAF will be distributing all of the tickets to tonight's show. Here's how you can get yours: WAAF will be on the streets in and around Worcester, giving away the tickets to tonight's Rolling Stones gig. We'll approach only those people who are over 20 and are wearing a WAAF T-shirt or who have a WAAF bumper sticker visible on their car or their body. Our staff will be in unmarked cars and plain clothes. If we approach you, we'll ask for a photo I.D. because tickets are not transferable to prevent scalping. Once again, here's how you can get tickets to tonight's Rolling Stones gig: WAAF and representatives of the Stones will be on the streets in and around Worcester giving away the tickets. We'll approach only those people who are over 20 and wearing a WAAF T-shirt or who have a bumper sticker visible on their car or their body. We'll be in unmarked cars and plain clothes. We'll be on the streets this afternoon giving away tickets up until seven o'clock tonight. Do not call or come to WAAF... the tickets are already on their way to you.
"So how's that?" Rob asked.
There was a long silence at the other end of the phone, out in North Brookfield, broken finally by Ian Stewart. "Rob, we think that will do very nicely. Very nicely, indeed. Just don't forget what I said about the normal tone of voice, and everything will be just fine."
The announcement was first read at 6:20 AM, Monday morning, 14 September, by Dave Bernstein on WAAF. And that was the day the city of Worcester took off work.
One Sunday Afternoon
There's no doubt about it. People want to reach out and touch this phenomenon called the Rolling Stones � to touch the hem of the robe, as it were � and the craving is so strong that it overwhelms and distorts patterns of normal behavior.
That incident with Bennie was typical. I mean, friends and old lovers and acquaintances and people I didn't even know, coming at me in order to get at the band. It wasn't me; let's face it. It was the Rolling Stones.
And that's a fairly difficult thing for a guy like me to wrestle with, since I'd be very happy if it was me that they wanted to see. Very happy indeed; that's why I counted them friends of mine. And so it hurt a bit to think that so many of them only counted me as a friend, too, when the Rolling Stones happened to be staying at my home in North Brookfield.
Please. No tears on my behalf. My feelings weren't that hurt, if you want to know the truth. A lot of those bastards had it coming to them � dopes from the past, who used to bully me around a bit in the old days, now that I come to think about it. Screw them.
Also, I'm quick to recognize that some of my bona fide friends � people who would not, for the world, have knowingly made things difficult for me � simply got carried away. Infected by what Kathleen and I dubbed "Stones Fever." There's no doubt about it. People want to reach out and touch this phenomenon called the Rolling Stones � to touch the hem of the robe, as it were � and the craving is so strong that it overwhelms and distorts patterns of normal behavior.
You don't get a temperature with Stones Fever; but you act weird. Less cool, less composed. You suspend other priorities in your life, which may or may not involve other human beings, and become Stones-focused instead. You lose track of your manners and sense of decorum. You forget yourself outright, during intervals. You feel distracted, compulsive � as though driven by some elemental force.
"Stones Fever." That's what it's like. The only possible immunization process involves intense will power, usually surfacing in the form of a rabid professionalism. That can keep you from getting Stones Fever, if you want not to get it. Some people want to get it, of course.
It was filled with churchly reflections such as these that I left Long View Farm early Sunday morning for the Cape, by airplane. Bennie had meant me no harm the night before, he just got carried away. Another cipher in the "Stones Fever" column. I was going to forget about it all anyway, and try to have some fun down at the beach with Nancy and the kids. I figured, quite mistakenly, that I might be able to stay a couple of days or so.
"Monday night?" I shouted over the beach phone to Kathleen. "That's tomorrow night! I just got here. It's at the Cove, you say?"
"They're trying very hard not to say it's so, Gil, but it's got to be Sir Morgan's. Stu's been in touch with them ever since we made the visit that night. It's got to involve WAAF, too. Rob Barnett keeps on calling, and Stu's been buying him meals at the Paxton Inn."
"So should I come back, Kathleen?"
"Oh, no, Gil. Oh, no, I'm doing fine, I mean really fine. I think. Hold on, I've got to put you on 'hold.'"
As soon as Kathy put me on "hold", I put her on "hold", and called pilot Bob Adams requesting a near immediate pickup at the Provincetown Airport. "You just got there," Bob said, "and I just got the airplane put away."
"Well I still need you to come down again. Can you?"
"You got it, Gil."
"See you then, Bob," I said, punching back the blinking button which was Kathleen on "hold", but Kathleen wasn't there; only the click-clicks were. I was the one still on "hold". A full minute passes.
"O.K., Gil," I hear, "where were we?"
"I was saying how I was coming back this afternoon, and how I needed a pickup at Worcester at, say, four o'clock."
"No problem, Gil. Bennie just called you. He said to say 'Thanks for the hospitality.' Don't know what he means by that, but that's what the message was."
"I know what that's about, Kathy."
"Oh," Kathleen said. "Also, call Bob Connolly, 791-3242. That's his home telephone number."
"Who's he?"
"Didn't say. I thought you knew who he was. That's the way he talked, in any case. He says it's important, so do what you want."
"I'll call him from the airplane, Kathleen, which I'm not going to meet on time unless we cut this short. See you later."
"See you later, Gil."
And I did call this fellow Bob Connolly, just as soon as we were airborne, and only seconds before the Twin disappeared into the thick cloud cover which had already brought rain to the states of Ohio and Pennsylvania, and which would make tomorrow, Monday, a very rainy day in Worcester County.
"Bob Connolly?"
"Speaking."
"This is Gil Markle, Bob. Returning your phone call."
"That's good of you, Gil. I'm a reporter for the Worcester Telegram, and I'd like your confirmation of the Stones' plan to play a surprise concert at Sir Morgan's Cove tomorrow night, Monday."
"I can't do that, Bob," I said. "For one thing, I don't speak for the band on such matters. And for another thing, I don't know. I simply don't know whether or not they're playing anywhere, or when. I really don't."
"You're saying it's the Cove, but you can't be quoted as saying that?"
"No, Bob, I really don't know whether or not it's the Cove. But I can tell you this. It's Sunday now, and you're looking for a gig at the Cove, or in one of three or four other places, tomorrow night. You shouldn't have too much trouble figuring this out. I'd go down there if I were you � to Green Street � and see what you can see. If the Rolling Stones are playing there tomorrow night, I'd bet you'd be seeing some signs of activity, even now. And you could judge for yourself."
"I hear you, Gil. I was hoping you'd say something like that. Thanks."
"Call me back when you find out, Bob," I shouted back over the air-to-ground telephone, bumping along in the clouds toward Worcester. "I'd really like to know myself."
"I'll let you know, Gil." Bob Connolly said, and we signed off.
"Air-to-ground Operator. Do you wish to make another call, sir?"
"I do, Operator. Same QM number. Number calling, Area Code 617; number: 867-7050." This was the number most likely to be free at Long View. Miracle of miracles; it rang. Jesse Henderson answered. "Hello, Long View," Henderson began.
"Jesse. It's Gil. Listen, I'm in the airplane. Just broke out of the clouds. Let's see, what's down there... where are we... "
"Should be just about over the Farm, Gil," Pilot Bob Adams shouted back through the partition.
"Jesse," I shouted. "We're just over the reservoir, headed directly at you over Stanley's farm. Low. About five hundred feet. See us?"
"No, Gil. But if you're over Stanley's, check out the sound reinforcement system, the platform, and the young rock 'n' roll band playing down there. Stanley rented them the space for the afternoon, I guess."
Adams threw the Twin into a tight bank, my wing down. Beneath me I saw a rock 'n' roll band playing on a platform using what seemed to be a very large sound system. "See them, Jesse," I spoke through the phone.
"Friends of Stephen Jo Bladd's son. Steven was here, to see Charlie Watts. He was embarrassed by it all. Couldn't believe it. I think Steve's gone now."
"And how are the distinguished guests taking it? I mean, the band playing down there and making a lot of noise. They're still playing. I can see them."
"You bet they are. I can hear them. Can hear you now, too, Gil. That last pass brought you nearly overhead. No one seems to mind, to answer your question about the band. They're playing Stones tunes. Keith's out on the deck now, laughing over it. Mick's outside the Farmhouse on the porch, and he's laughing, too. So I wouldn't worry about it."
"We'll do one more pass, and then back to Worcester, Jesse. This time we'll come right overhead." Bob Adams heard me, and took the plane out of its circle over Stanley's farmhouse and headed straight toward Long View. Once again, he stood the airplane on its wing, just over the porch, and there on the porch was Mick and Prince Rupert, and they were both laughing. Mick pointed up at the 75 X-Ray, as we roared overhead.
"That's it, Jesse," I continued into the telephone. "See you in an hour or so."
"See you, Gil. We're breaking down the gear tonight after rehearsal. The whole lot of it. The whole setup. Everything into the truck for the gig tomorrow night."
"At the Cove, Jesse?"
"Yeah, Gil. Sir Morgan's. It's at Sir Morgan's."
Bob pointed the airplane back toward Worcester, and I hung up the sky-phone. The gig was at Sir Morgan's Cove. Bob Connolly was right.
WBCN-Boston
Stu didn't answer, or comment on my instinctive apologies for a friend. He just looked straight at the radio, and he wasn't blinking.
"A little Cincinnati in Worcester tonight!" warned Mark Parenteau, the legendary Boston disc jockey who would have been very pleased to see his radio station, WBCN, do the deal with the Stones rather than the rival upstart station to the west, WAAF. Mark was mad, and was saying some very strange things on the radio. Like, about Cincinnati. Eleven rock 'n' roll fans had been killed � trampled to death by their fellow fans � six months earlier in that city at a Who concert, and even the mention of the place had an inflammatory feeling about it. Rock 'n' roll wanted to forget about Cincinnati.
Parenteau called me about noon on that fateful Sir Morgan's Monday, just before going on the air. Radical D.J. Oedipus was also on the line, madder than hell at me as well.
"How could you let this happen?" they shouted to me almost in unison. "We've helped you and that damned studio of yours for almost ten years, and now you let this happen. Why WAAF? Why not WBCN?"
"Gentlemen, please," I said. "This was not my doing. I couldn't even go with Kathleen and Stu when they went out and scouted the clubs. They told me nothing of what was going on, and for that I have been eternally grateful. I would not have wanted to make the decision of what radio station to use. I'd win one friend and twenty enemies. Look fellas, WAAF just got lucky, and they're sounding like kids about it on the air, calling themselves the 'Rolling Stones Radio Station.' So don't be too upset."
"It's still a real drag that this occurred. A real drag. Does the band realize how much the Rolling Stones get played by WBCN? We've been doing it for years. Someone should clue them in."
That someone was supposed to be me, too, I felt, without much further explanation from them. I actually had mentioned to Alan Dunn that there were radio friends of ours in Boston who would be willing to do anything, absolutely anything, to be involved with the Stones. They'd actually promised that to me in advance, once they knew what was about to happen at Long View. "These guys are friends," I had said. I should have told Stu, too, but he was spending a lot of time shopping for antiques, and 40's jazz records, and found it sufficient for his purposes to relate to the farm through Kathleen mainly, and that was all fine with me. It was Stu who had been approached some ten days earlier by WAAF.
"Mark," I continued on the telephone, "it's not going to help things either if you keep on announcing the identity and location of Sir Morgan's Cove, like what's-her-name did on the air a half-hour ago, on the news. There are crowds milling about in the streets here in your home town. I just had a guy come up from downtown and he said things wer
positively weird there � people moving in large groups and wondering where the Stones might first show up, where the gig is going to be, and the like. Shouting in the streets. If they all go over to Green Street, then there may be trouble. Green Street isn't big enough for them, and they're driving up from places like Providence, 'cause they think the chance of getting a ticket is better here.
It's strange in Worcester today, and you've got to be careful. The cops only just found out about this. Full moon last night, Mark. Maybe it would be
better to tell people to stay away, and it would be said that you acted in the public interest.
Parenteau and I have had a good relationship over the years, and I think he's still a bit
impressed because I was a university professor once, and so he generally listens to what I say. I appreciate that, and always try to amuse him, at least.
"He's right," I heard Mark say on the other end of the phone. "We'll tell them to stay away. In the 'public interest.'" Oedipus agreed.
Only it didn't come off quite that way on the radio that afternoon. Mark said some things about the Stones behaving immaturely, and made repeated and excessively somber references to Cincinnati, which horrified everyone, including Ian Stewart, who was sitting in my offices on Airport Hill, in Worcester, listening to the radio with me and a few of the guys from WAAF. Mark's voice sounded nervous and high-pitched.
"Who does he think he is?" Stu asked. "Who is this guy?"
"He was on a panel of radio commentators who interviewed Mick once," I offered. "King Biscuit Flower Hour. He just wants to help, and he's a nice guy. He's maybe the best disc jockey around." I forgot the guys from WAAF were in the room, and looked around to see them squirming in their chairs. But Mark is really good, and I didn't feel bad for long.
Stu didn't answer, or comment on my instinctive apologies for a friend. He just looked straight at the radio, and he wasn't blinking.
They left my office a moment later � Ian Stewart, the guys from WAAF, and Kathleen Holden, who had driven in from Long View to help give out the tickets in downtown Worcester. "Blue Monday" the tickets said. "The Cockroaches." The tickets were laser-etched, to prevent transfer between individuals, and there were only three hundred of them. It was now about 4 PM, and the city of Worcester was in a state of upheaval which old-timers have since compared to the frenzy which erupted that day some thirty-five years ago, when it was announced on the radio that the Second World War was over.
Bennie Strange
... I start hearing this stuff on 'BCN about how I shouldn't be going to Worcester at all tonight, since the Stones had "made a mistake," and were going to be at Sir Morgan's Cove -- which was supposedly too small to contain them and the thousands of people who were going to show up.
The one mistake you could make is to think I like Worcester, or that I come anywhere near the place for my health. I don't. Personally, I think Worcester stinks.
It was raining on the Cape though, and as much as I enjoy being with Nancy, I just had to get back to the mainland. Something about islands and peninsulas gives me the creeps. So I got Gil's Squareback started, which is no easy feat in a Truro rainstorm, checked out with Nancy what she needed at the health food store in Worcester, and split. Nancy gave me the fifty-dollar bill that Gil always makes her keep in the glove compartment. It was a Monday, I think, and it was raining harder on the mainland than it was in Truro. Coming down in sheets.
All the way up on Route 3, I keep on thinking about Gil, and the way he throws an old friend off his property just because he doesn't want to get his clients mad, who happen to be the Rolling Stones. Big deal. Here one day, gone tomorrow. What's six weeks of the Rolling Stones compared to the distance between the nearest two stars? Sometimes I wonder if Gil has ever looked up in the sky, on a dark night, and asked himself just what he's doing in the universe. Hey. I wasn't really gonna cause any trouble up there in the barn. I didn't actually want to see Mick Jagger. I couldn't have cared less. I just said that, to give Gil a choice. Me or Mick Jagger. And he doesn't even know Mick Jagger, which makes it all the more amazing.
Anyway, I'm just outside of Worcester on the Mass. Pike when I start hearing this stuff on 'BCN about how I shouldn't be going to Worcester at all tonight, since the Stones had "made a mistake," and were going to be at Sir Morgan's Cove -- which was supposedly too small to contain them and the thousands of people who were going to show up. "Don't go into Worcester, tonight," the DJ kept on saying. And here I am on my way to Worcester. Mark Parenteau was the DJ. I never met Mark. Gil's been hanging out with him though, somebody told me.
So I'm curious, in spite of myself, and in spite of what I'd agreed upon with Nancy only a couple of hours earlier, and I figured I'd get a little closer, and take a look-see. Had to go to the health food store for her anyway. Maybe I'd run into one of those radio guys giving out the free tickets. Who knows? I wouldn't get one from Gil. Not after the reception I got at the Farm the other night.
I wasn't anywhere near the health food store before I realized that something very strange was going on in Worcester. I mean, very strange. There were people everywhere -- some are alone, some are moving about in twos and threes, and then there are these groups which get bigger and bigger as I get closer to the center of the city. So, you might say, what's so unusual about that? Worcester's a big city. It's got lots of people in it. Well, it was raining. It was raining hard, and these people weren't on their way to anyplace. They weren't trying to get in out of the rain. They were just standing around, getting wet, and having a good old time for themselves. I thought I was on another planet.
Then in a flash I realized that these people were Stones fans, hoping to be stopped in the street by somebody from WAAF, the radio station, and get their free ticket to go see the band tonight. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. This was total insanity. Half of them had on WAAF tee-shirts, others had painted WAAF on their foreheads, or were carrying signs. I saw vans parked on the side of the road, with the logo "WAAF --- ROLLING STONES" in day-glo spray right across their new paint jobs. Brand new paint jobs. Jesus, these people were nuts. Then I passed underneath a kid who had shinnied up a flagpole. He'd been up there for a while. He was wearing his WAAF tee-shirt, and he wasn't coming down until someone from the radio station told him to.
People were hanging out of windows, getting wet, and shouting to each other. Kids were jumping in the puddles, laughing, splashing, and yelling things about the Rolling Stones. I saw old people on the corners, getting wet, too, and checking out reports with each other. The whole town was unhinged, and everyone was getting wet. It was about 4 PM, if the clock in the Squareback was right, and it usually is.
I had trouble getting into Living Earth, the health food store. There must've been twenty Stones fans mobbed in the entrance, for no particular reason, it turns out, all of 'em comparing rumors. No one had gotten a ticket yet, and it was starting to look mean. Somebody said they should go down to the WAAF offices, and see what was up. Someone else shouted that Green Street would be a better bet. After all, that's where they were supposed to be playing, at Sir Morgan's Cove. "Ralph's" somebody else shouted. "They just want us to think they're going to play the Cove. They're really setting up at Ralph's Chadwick Square Diner." I ducked through the mob, didn't say anything, and made my way into the store. At least I'd get the things I promised for Nancy.
About half an hour later, after I'd picked up the tofu and the tamari, I saw Ian Stewart fly by in a car. Completely by accident. Rob Barnett from WAAF and some other guy were in the same car with him, so I knew that I had got lucky and that I was in the right place at the right time. They pulled into the large parking lot just across from Alan Bilzerian's clothing store on Highland Street, and were immediately surrounded by what looked to be about forty kids, and some not-so-kid looking thugs. There were a lot of portable transistor radios in the crowd, and everyone was bitching and moaning about not getting any tickets to the Stones gig. You could tell that even from across the street, where I was standing.
Stu was the first out of the car. He raised his arms, like some religious leader, and shouted "Be quiet!" Then everybody got quiet, which amazed me. If it wasn't for his accent, he probably would have been mobbed. But he wasn't.
"All right," he says. "You, you, and you." Three people stepped forward, out of the crowd. A big guy, who looked a bit drunk, if you ask me, his girlfriend who had no front teeth, and a kid who must've been about eighteen. They huddled with him and that guy Barnett, showed what looked like their driver's licenses and signed something. Then they were given something -- their tickets I guess, because they quickly put whatever it was into their pockets, and ducked back into the crowd.
Then there were more people singled out, and they went through the same motions.
"What the hell," I figured, "kicked out of a Stones rehearsal, on the outs with the boss -- I've got nothing to lose." So I eased across the street, mingled with the crowd, and inched my way towards Ian Stewart and the guys from the radio station. I guess maybe I got too close, 'cause the tall one -- who I later find out is some promotions guy named Steve -- started shouting, and pushing me around.
"Get the hell away from my car," he yelled, in a voice I felt was a little louder than necessary.
So I faded back into the crowd, which was shaken up a bit by all that shouting. "His car? I heard some girl say. "I thought it was the Stones' car." Then we started inching in on them again, closer and closer. They got the jitters and jumped back into their car, the three of them, and Barnett started shouting out the window.
"There're more tickets over at Mechanics Hall, thirty minutes from now," he yelled. "Go over there if you're smart." Then they drove off, fast.
Didn't bother me any that I didn't get a ticket down there on Highland Street. I knew I'd get into the Cove that night, if I wanted to. I knew the guy who owned the place.
The Show Must Go On
"He'll be in the front seat of the van, you can be sure of that... Either he'll like what he sees, or he won't. If he likes it, we'll play. If he doesn't, we won't."
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, there wasn't much happening, and no particular indication from the band members that they were aware of the pandemonium raging in the outside world on their behalf; or, if they were aware of these disturbances, that they cared much. After all, the Rolling Stones had changed governments around. So what's a small club in Worcester, Massachusetts? No, there was sleepy obliviousness instead.
Keith and Woody, for a start, were actually asleep and had been since noon, when Woody crashed in the Game Room and Keith collapsed in a gangling disarray of limbs on the couch by the fireplace, in the Farmhouse. Half on the couch, half off it � an empty bottle of Jack Daniels clutched tightly in one hand. Snoring. Keith and Woody had been up all night, needless to say, and knew very little about the circumstances surrounding tonight's possible surprise performance in Worcester. Only that something might happen somewhere, since all the gear had been taken up off the stage and packed into a yellow rental truck during the wee hours, just before dawn. That had to be a sign of something.
Charlie Watts had slept some, which was unusual for him, but the reason was that his pleasant wife � whose name is Shirley, and who doesn't look like rock 'n' roll at all � was arriving at Boston's Logan Airport that afternoon, from England. So Charlie had dragged himself out of his third-floor bedroom about midday, shaved, put on a clean shirt, and presented himself at the rendezvous point downstairs, which was the coffeepot, for the drive into the city. Charlie was going to meet Shirley personally at the airport, much to his credit, and Long View staffer Kent Huff � who's Kathleen's husband as you may remember � was going to do the driving. They took the long black station wagon, and left the Farm just after noon, in a light rain. So, Charlie Watts wasn't even there, at the Farm, but on the road instead.
Bill Wyman wasn't heard from all day, and things were quiet in his and Astrid's "cottage," adjacent to the barn. He was awake though, tinkering with his new Apple computer. He surfaced only at the very end of the afternoon, and then only to ask if there would be a cassette deck brought down in time for his press interview the next day. He was expecting Lisa Robinson, the rock gossip columnist, and was thinking more about that than he was about Sir Morgan's Cove. Stu was taking care of the warm-up gig; there was no need to bother himself on that score. And, as for the chaos and mayhem which he saw reported each time he switched on his new Sony TV set; well, they've always made a fuss over the Rolling Stones, why not this time?
As for Mick Jagger, there we had quite another story. Mick was not oblivious � not by a long shot. He was wide-awake and alert, prowling around the Farmhouse like a caged animal, distracted, short-tempered, and obviously concerned over what, if anything, was going to happen that night. He made and received frequent telephone calls, some on the topic of the rainfall, and his hope that it would continue throughout the remainder of the day. He was picking at the salad bowl in the kitchen, which John Farrell was decorating with bits and pieces of olives, and onions, and scallions. John had just put a "Supremes" disco-45 on the kitchen hi-fi, was dancing about in little steps behind the counter, and doing his best to make small talk.
"Charlie left about one, with Kent driving. Just called back from Logan. Wife's plane's delayed. Don't know how long yet. He knows he's got to play tonight, doesn't he?"
Mick popped an olive into his mouth, spun on his heel, and snapped. "Of course he does! Charlie knows. You don't mind if I turn that off, do you?"
John said no, of course he didn't, and Mick killed the music with one quick and nervous movement. Mick was always turning off the hi-fi sets.
"Of course Charlie knows," he repeated. He grabbed two olives this time, turned away from the counter with no further remarks for John Farrell, and marched brusquely out of the room, stepping over Keith Richards on the way.
Mick had good reason to be preoccupied. He needed this performance at Sir Morgan's Cove. Philadelphia and nearly 200,000 seats � all sold out � were now only ten days away. Philadelphia was ready for the Rolling Stones, but the Stones weren't ready for Philadelphia � not ready at all. The rehearsals had just started to come together upstairs in the barn, but the band was playing only a few songs at a time, starting and stopping as they went. Not twenty songs in a row, tightly paced, as they'd soon be called upon to do. Further, there was no audience to speak of, at Long View. No people for Mick to rehearse his act in front of. No people for the band to perform for. It had been three years since the band had last played in front of a live audience, and that's a long time. You forget how to do things over a period of three years.
Finally, and most importantly, the group needed a shared victory � a morale boost � a shot in the arm. They needed to be adored as a unit once again � welded by a worshipping and friendly crowd back into a band � back into the fighting, proud, rock 'n' roll group which most people felt was the best in the world. They needed to see that the old magic was still there, intact, and working. They needed the people to tell them so.
There were people enough in Worcester ready to do just that. Too many people, in fact, and that's why Mick was pacing nervously around the Farmhouse, snapping at his friends, and praying for rain. Too many people, too much craziness on the streets, too great a likelihood that tonight's event would be marred by incidents � by violence � perhaps even injury to common citizens. And that was an eventuality that Mick could not sustain � that had to be avoided at all costs. There was a financially lucrative tour at stake, and it would be seriously compromised in advance � even ruined � by any adverse riot publicity, or the publicity which would occur if, say, a kid got killed in Worcester that night. A little Cincinnati in Worcester tonight would bring Mick's plans down around his ears, and fast, too. Mick knew that very well. So did Ian Stewart, who had just heard it predicted, by a major Boston radio station, that such a disaster might in fact occur that evening. The thought was terrifying. Predictions like that sometimes come true of their own force and momentum � self-fulfilling prophesies. People expect a riot � are told there is going to be a riot. That attracts rioters, and creates a rioting frame of mind. "Blamed for it already, might as well do it." So there is a riot. Riot is not something you talk about in advance � particularly on the radio � unless you like riot, and want to see it occur.
Mick didn't want a riot tonight. No, sir. Altamont Speedway, at which a murder occurred during a Rolling Stones concert, practically ruined the band, and put a poison in the air which bummed people out for years. It's one thing to have a bit of Lucifer happening in the myth division; it's quite another to cause the death of fans. Didn't need anybody killed tonight in Worcester, Mick didn't. Not tonight � the first night the Rolling Stones had performed in three years. That would be, as they say, a most inauspicious beginning. It could ruin everything.
An alternative, of course, would be to cancel the gig � even at the very last minute, upon the band's arrival on Green Street, if Green Street looked too weird, or the crowd too crazy. Mick always had that as an option, and it was commonly accepted that the decision would be at that point his to make, and his alone. A last ditch safety-hatch.
"He'll be in the front seat of the van, you can be sure of that," Stu had assured me earlier that day. "Either he'll like what he sees, or he won't. If he likes it, we'll play. If he doesn't, we won't."
But cancellation would be a disaster of another sort. It would be an extremely unpopular move. The media were mad at us, remember. Angry that we wouldn't tell them anything, that we wouldn't let them in to see the band rehearse, that we kept on stringing them along with vague promises of a Wasserman-sponsored extravaganza that would somehow put things right. To cancel would be to jack them around one last time � one time too many. The Stones would have made fools out of them, the media, and the entire state of Massachusetts, for that matter. After all, the Stones sponsored that craziness in downtown Worcester � citizens body-plastered with bumper stickers; automobiles permanently defaced; large companies shut down for the day because their employees wouldn't work. The Stones caused all that to happen. And then they don't show up. Or, worse still, show up, tease the world with a quick hike of the skirt, then split � without playing a note � for their plush countryside estate, where God only knows what goes on.
Cancellation would be a disaster, too. Somehow; this show had to happen. The Cockroaches had to play in Worcester tonight.
Performance!
The mob was now undulating � pressing forward, getting pushed backwards, pressing forward again � shouting, getting very wet. Waiting for the Rolling Stones.
"All right then, Kathleen, I won't go either."
It was 7 PM on the night of the performance at Sir Morgan's Cove, and Kathleen was being self-effacing again. Stu had given her twenty tickets to give out to Long View staff and friends, and she'd already given out nineteen.
"Danny Avila wants this one last ticket for a friend of his, and I suppose I did say to him yesterday that he could have it. I just don't know what to do, except just not go myself. We could use the coverage here at the Farm, anyhow."
"Well, I'm not going then, either. You're a fool, Kathleen. Here you are � for a month one of the most important figures in the lives of the members of the greatest rock 'n' roll band in the world � like they said on TV last night � and you're not going to go to the concert so that a friend of Danny Avila's can?"
Danny Avila goes to high school in North Brookfield, and does odd jobs around Long View Farm.
"I think you're crazy," I concluded. "And I won't go either, then."
"Stu," I said, "did you hear the latest? Kathleen's not going to the show tonight. She brought you to Sir Morgan's Cove two weeks ago, and now she says she's not going to the show. Not enough tickets."
Ian Stewart had been standing in the doorway to the office, and he apparently found our little debate amusing.
"She's daft all right, but I think we can solve the problem another way."
"How so?" I asked.
"You'll drive, Gil. You'll drive the Escort. That'll solve a problem for me, since I don't want to do any driving tonight, and you can both come in with me. It'll be you driving, me, Kathleen, and Happy, who's doing his first night tonight as Security. How's that?"
Kathleen and I looked at each other. "Well," I said, "I will if you will, Kathleen."
"All right," she said. "I'll go."
We left Long View for Worcester about an hour thereafter � the four of us. Happy at ramrod alert in the backseat, Kathleen almost immediately asleep, and snoring, and Stu in the front seat. It was raining, and raining hard sometimes. The windshield wipers were going on "fast".
"So what d'ya think, Stu?" I asked. "Is this gig going to happen or not?"
"I certainly hope it does happen," Stu said. "Oh, I expect it will. Mick wants to have the last word, of course, but he wants to play tonight, too. We're really quite lucky that it's raining, you know. Also lucky that that bloke at the radio station went off the air at 6 PM. All that talk about Cincinnati was ruining my sense of humor towards the end. Had to expect it, though. Something like that always happens, just when you think you've got everything so well worked out."
"I think you did a great job, Stu," I said. "A really great job. You should be proud of yourself."
"Well," Stu said, "still not good enough to captivate Miss Holden's attention, there in the back seat. Look at her. No, watch the road instead. I can tell you she's sleeping, though. Right, Happy?"
"Yes, sir!" Happy shot back. This was Happy's first 'trying out' for an empty slot on the Stones' traveling security team � the team that would go on the tour, and Happy was thinking in military terms.
We took a back street way of getting to Sir Morgan's Cove, and slid into a parking place only a block or so from the club, just across the street from the Stardust Lounge � the local strip joint. Lady Dee, a down-to-earth sort, whom you'd say is the main act at the Stardust Lounge, was standing in the doorway as we passed, talking to a knot of reporters who were all taking notes. The liquor stores on the street were obviously doing a landrush business. People were buying beer by the case, and taking out liquor in flask-sized bottles. There were residents hanging out of their windows overhead, in the rain, taking it all in, and shouting to their neighbors.
"Down this way," I shouted to Stu, Kathleen, and Happy, and we pitched into the thickening crowd, and toward the orange-slickered Police Line now only a few feet away. Somehow, we had to get through that.
I moved ahead of Stu, and became group battering ram.
"Hey, Gil," someone in the crowd shouted. "Take us in with you. Hey, Gil! Really! Hey, Gilly!"
I tucked my head down, and forged on toward the Police Line, saluting the first helmet I came to.
The police were all wearing helmets that night, and carried nightsticks. Not down at their sides, either. These guys were carrying their nightsticks at shoulder level, horizontal, and a half an arm's length in front of them. To salute the cop you had to deal with the nightstick.
"Officer. Just let us by here, will you? I'm Gil Markle, from Long View, and I've got a member of the band here."
"Back behind the line, buster. I'm not interested."
"Listen, I mean, this is a member of the band. Look right here. Here he is. His name's Ian Stewart, and he's a member of the Rolling Stones."
I demonstrated Ian Stewart with a wave of my hand. Stu had just caught up behind me. His face was dripping rainwater, and he was squinting, trying to see through it. Stu, as famous as he is, does not exactly look like a member of the Rolling Stones. Never did. Stu looks older, as though he's a man in his middle years, with a good bit of history behind him.
"Who, him? the cop growled.
"Ian Stewart, officer, a member of the Rolling Stones. A band member. Now if you'll just let us be, we'll not... "
"O'Leary, get your ass over here," the cop shouted. "We've got a problem case on our hands."
With that remark the helmet and the nightstick started toward my face, fast. This irregular in the service of the City of Worcester thought I was pulling his leg � I mean, about Ian Stewart being a member of the band � and had obviously taken personal offense. The police were bewildered and afraid that night on Green Street. They had no idea what they were dealing with. It's a well-known fact that the Irish of Worcester are not at their best when they're bewildered and afraid. This guy wanted to hurt me.
Thank God for Officer O'Leary � that's all I can say. O'Leary was on the scene in a second, and brought his hand down heavily on O'Rourke's shoulder, and I heard O'Leary saying, "They're O.K., I guess. That guy over there seems to know something about what's going on here, and he says they're O.K." O'Leary gestured over in the direction of a figure who turned out to be Bill Graham. Bill Graham was standing on the sidewalk just in front of Sir Morgan's Cove, and was frantically waving us over to his side.
"Now!" Graham shouted. "Do it, fast!"
Kathleen, Stu, Happy the bodyguard, and I ducked under the nightstick, which was still raised and capable of inflicting damage, and scampered into the alleyway with Bill Graham leading the way.
"Would never happen in England," Stu volunteered. "We haven't seen anything like this over there in years."
"Well, let's just hope we get through it with no busted skulls," Bill Graham said. "There's a lot at stake here."
The crowd roared. There was a Stones fan atop a flagpole, defying police orders to come down, and threatening to play "bombs away" with his beer bottle, which had made the ascent with him. Thirty-five Stones fans sitting atop the rented Hertz equipment van across the street were furiously banging their heels like drumsticks into the yellow sideboards of the vehicle � shouting and waving at the guy on the flagpole. A bottle from somewhere else smashed onto the pavement, splintering glass shrapnel in all directions. Now a police whistle, two of them, and a quick convergence of orange-slickered, cudgel-wielding law enforcement officers on a point in the crowd � some person in a black jacket � now on the ground on his stomach, now dragged to his feet and propelled by several fists and sticks into the waiting police wagon. Doors slammed shut behind him. Crowd now booing, stomping, and shouting a selection of slogans and harsh epithets in the direction of the restraining line of police officers. The mob was now undulating � pressing forward, getting pushed backwards, pressing forward again � shouting, getting very wet. Waiting for the Rolling Stones.
They didn't have much longer to wait. The long Winnebago appeared on Green Street at about 11:45, filled with Rolling Stones, their girlfriends, and Alan Dunn. The crowd couldn't tell that's who was inside, of course, since there were curtains across all the windows of the vehicle. They knew, however. There was no doubt about it. Inside that Winnebago were the Rolling Stones. Out of sight, of course. The Rolling Stones almost always stay out of sight. But it was them. Myth made palpable presence. The crowd roared, exhilarated beyond expectation. The police line held.
The large van squeezed into the alleyway beside the club, effectively stoppering up the passageway against the crowd outside. The side door slid open, and the members of the band dashed out, through the rain, under the waiting awning, and up the rickety back stairs to a spare and empty room which had been put aside for them. They were there only a few minutes, until Mick led them downstairs again.
"Easy does it, Keith," Mick said. "Watch your step."
It was Mick first, picking his way down the wooden stairs one at a time; then a rambunctious and well-oiled Keith Richards, who was not watching his step at all, if the truth be known. Then Charlie Watts; then Bill Wyman; then Woody; then Ian McClagham. Stu was already onstage, fiddling with the electric pickup on the piano. They filed out onto the hot stage � one by one � without notice, announcement, or warning of any kind. They just walked on out there, one by one. Mick first. When this occurred, there were several hundred fans who'd been waiting three and four hours in heat well over 110 degrees Fahrenheit, and who were now becoming impatient and unruly. But they all stopped whatever they were doing, or saying, and became deadly quiet � mouths agape. Perfectly mute and paralyzed within their astonishment. They simply could not believe what they were seeing. For this split second, inside Sir Morgan's Cove, all you could hear were the floor fans blowing hot air uselessly around the room, the humming and hissing of guitar amps, and the patter of rain on the awning outside the rear stage entrance. Signaled somehow by the sudden silence inside the club, the crowd outside stopped its roaring as well, and became quiet, full of anticipation. And so there was a brief moment when all the people inside the club, and all the people outside the club, were perfectly quiet. An eerie silence � too haunted by human energy to last more than an instant. It was broken by a shrill scream of unadulterated, hundred-percent recognition from a girl inside, close by the stage. She had recognized Mick, and Keith, and there was no doubt that it was the two of them, at least. She screamed, and an instant later the entire club erupted with a joyous roar which spread out the doors and windows, out the back along the alleyway, and into the streets. There the roar became twice itself in loudness, and covered an area now substantially the size of a city block. It was at that moment, to the best of my recollection, that the Rolling Stones started playing. I looked overhead, up and through the rain onto the shaky porch of an old Worcester three-decker apartment building. There stood two elderly women, in each other's embrace, shouting up at something higher still, which was not a porch full of neighbors on a taller building, or a passing aircraft, but the sky.
Here were two old women, shouting at the sky, the night the Rolling Stones played Sir Morgan's Cove. Two at least, I mean. Two I saw myself.
Bill Graham
" ...the use, and the abuse of power! That's what rock 'n' roll is. The use and the abuse of power."
They did it. They pulled it off. A lightning strike operation with surprise as its main strength. Quick in; quick out. Too fast to get nailed. The Stones played Sir Morgan's Cove without incident, despite the newspaper articles published in New York City the next day.
"They told me to write a riot story, so I wrote a riot story." Quote, unquote, from a well-paid reporter working for a major New York City daily newspaper.
But there was no riot. None at all. The Stones had surprised, played, and escaped. Seen only by a few. Only as many as required to testify to their existence, in the flesh, as real creatures.
Real fans, these witnesses. No press, no TV, no radio, no freelancers. No nothing, only fans. "Press aside, please. Yes, all press aside. Please, gentlemen. Gentlemen, this is a Police Line. Isn't it, Sergeant O'Leary? Notice Sergeant O'Leary's nodding his head. That means 'Yes.' This is a Police Line. You're press. You have to stay over there. Me here, you there.
"Who am I? I'll tell you who the hell I am. I'm Bill Graham. Now you get your asses behind that line, or this man with the nightstick is going to put you there."
"Bill," I said to him the next day, "let me tell you, you had me scared last night. Never seen that side to your personality before."
"Gil," Bill Graham said, "you're a bright man. You've been to school and all, so I can take some things for granted, right?"
"Try me, Bill," I said laughing.
"All right, Gil. Rock 'n' roll. Rock 'n' roll is the science of the use, and the abuse, of power." Bill Graham slammed his right fist into his left hand � BAM! � and fastened his eyes upon me, staring as though through a wall.
" ...the use, and the abuse of power! That's what rock 'n' roll is. The use and the abuse of power."
BAM! Bill pounded his fist into his hand again, almost as a challenge to me as adversary.
"Bill, I think I know what you mean. The use and the abuse of power."
"That's it," Bill Graham said, eyes still blazing.
"Follow me for a second, Gil. Me. I've had my successes, but lately, maybe not so much happening, if you know what I mean. They'd walk by me in the streets. Even people I knew. 'Oh, yeah, that's Bill Graham. Ho-hum. What's he done lately? Ho-hum.' Get it, Gil?"
"Do I ever, Bill. I know what you mean."
"And then, once the word of this gig is out � that I own the Stones' tour for the U.S., all of a sudden it's 'Hey, Bill, ba-by!! Knew you still had it, Bill. Hey, my man, you're a winner. A winner, Bill. That's what you are, Bill. You're a winner!'
"Rock 'n' roll. It's the science of the use and the abuse of that power. What d'ya think about that?"
"Bill, you're right. You're absolutely correct."
"Like, this mess in Boston. Whether or not the band is going to play one night, or two nights, and where is the band going to play? Nobody knows anything, right?"
"Right, Bill."
"So, follow me now. I'm in the Mayor's office, see, and I'm looking for two nights back-to-back at the Orpheum Theater, Saturday and Sunday at the end of this week. The fact of the matter is, Gil, I never did like that back-to-back idea. Personally, I never liked it at all. So the Mayor, he'll yank either the permit for Saturday, or Sunday, or maybe even both, and propose that we do it on the steps of his office instead, outdoors. Power, Gil. The abuse of power. So? BAM! That's when we walk. What do we do? We hit 'em with another surprise club date Saturday night. Not a concert, Gil. Get it? Never liked that back-to-back thing anyhow. Always gave me the creeps. A club date, instead."
BAM! Bill's fist slammed into his left hand, once again, and his eyes were blazing at me as never before.
"BAM!"
"You've got a phone call, Bill. Here. Take it here. Sit right here."
"Yeah. Okay, Gil. Thanks."
Bill Graham began speaking into the telephone.
"Listen," he said. "No, shut up! Shut up. I'm talking. I thought we had that straight. If that decision's going to be made, I'm the one that's going to make it. Is that understood?
"Well, it damned well better be.
"No, I don't give a damn. If that question comes up again, you call me.
"Well, keep on trying. The phones here have been busy.
"I thought I said we weren't going to discuss that. That's my decision. You tell 'em that.
"All right. This has gone on for long enough. Area code 617. Number 867-7662. Call me when there's something for me to decide. Me.
"All right. Yeah. Guh-bye."
BAM!
Little Girls
"Two seventh graders from the North Brookfield junior high school. One's twelve, the other thirteen. Both girls. All Mick's idea."
"It's astonishing, Gil. We were just talking about this with Mick last night, just before rehearsal, and he agrees that it's different this time � that we've tapped into a whole new market almost � in addition to the old one."
Alan and I were "working the chain" down at the bottom of the drive. It was a warm and pleasant summer's afternoon, and there were cars coming by on Stoddard Road. That means it was a weekday; because on the weekends we had the road blocked off at the bottom and the top by sawhorses and police cars.
"How so, Alan?"
"The young ones mostly. Three years ago, in 1978, when we were using your illustrious competitor studio in Woodstock to rehearse in, it wasn't anything like this. Wasn't anything like this at all. Mainly in respect of the younger demographics � we're getting the bubble gum set now. The preteens. That never happened before, even in the best of times. Thirteen year olds, Gil. Can you imagine!
"Some of it I can understand," Alan continued. "Young people in their twenties � they've got to acknowledge that the Stones exist, and to buy their records. They're obliged to, almost, because it's the last genuine rock 'n' roll band on the face of the earth � quite apart from their opinions about the music. So it doesn't surprise me that we have this group. We always have.
"Next group up � those in their thirties and forties. I can understand them, too. They were young, most of them, when the Stones first hit � all your dyed-in-wool Stones fans, Chubby Checker fans, Buddy Holly fans, and so forth � they're all in this group. So, fair enough, I can see that we would continue to draw them, too. These people remember the beginnings. There are considerations of nostalgia operating here.
"Even those older still � late-middle age sorts. That makes some sense, too. These were the people who went out and bought and paid for the television sets which their kids used to see the Stones on the Ed Sullivan Show in '64, and so they're still there as a friendly presence, even if not as a market � although it's difficult to say just where one ends and the other begins.
"But what I can't understand, Gil, and what Mick can't understand either, is the teenage demographics � all ten years of it. These kids don't owe us anything. You'd expect them to be against the band as they're generally against a lot of things, just out of the joy of being 'con,' if you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean, Alan," I assured him.
"Well, we've got them again. Not again, no. We've got them for the first time. The Beatles had them, but we never really did. We do now. These kids are buying the album like crazy, we understand. An important element in advance ticket sales to date, also. Just the fact that they know about us is amazing. Can't figure it out. Mick can't either.
"Critical mass, I think," Alan continued. "Makes a critical mass. Add on those extra millions on the top end � Stones fans aren't exactly dying yet by and large � and add on those unexplained millions in the bubble gum set, and you've got a phenomenon that's horizontal across all major age brackets. Bigger than the sum of the parts. 'Pressure Cooker Theory,' Wasserman calls it. And that's what you're seeing here, Gil � the cars, the low-flying helicopters, the Stones watchers sneaking in across the mud at night, just trying to get close. We're at the critical mass � you add one more Stones watcher, and it's as though you added ten."
"Think of what it means for tee-shirts, Alan," I laughed.
"I can assure you we have, Gil. That's what that meeting was all about yesterday, upstairs in Studio B. Only one part of that meeting, I should add. We're discussing other ancillary products as well."
Later that week I learned from Kathleen that Mick had agreed to do an exclusive interview, and would receive the two reporters in the library of the Farmhouse, at teatime, although it was expected that the interview might go longer.
"That's incredible, Kathleen. Hadn't heard anything about this from Wasserman. Let me guess, though. I'm spending half my life talking with these guys on the phone now, it seems. It's Steve Morse, from the Boston Globe."
"Nope," Kathleen said.
"It's the People magazine duo. Wasserman caved in and gave it to People."
"Way off," Kathleen said.
"All right, who then?"
"Two seventh graders from the North Brookfield junior high school. One's twelve, the other thirteen. Both girls. All Mick's idea." (see Appendix C: INTERVIEWING A LEGEND: THRILL OF A LIFETIME.)
Steve Morse
"Listen. Just tell me this. Are they or aren't they going to play somewhere else? Don't tell me where. Just are they or aren't they?"
The week after the Stones played Sir Morgan's Cove, which was their next-to-last week in residence at Long View Farm, the most interesting news story did not concern the Stones directly. The Stones themselves did not do much of interest during that week, except to decide to play no further gigs, large or small, before JFK Stadium in Philadelphia, on the 27th of the month. Of extreme interest, however, was the media frenzy and general public uproar which made itself felt for seven days running � immobilizing individuals, projects, and relationships, with sometimes devastating results for the people involved.
"Will the Stones play again, or not? If so, where? For God's sake, tell us."
The telephones at Long View lit up like Christmas trees on that Tuesday morning � the day after the surprise strike at Sir Morgan's. All sorts of individuals were calling � from all walks of life. Among them, of course, were the reporters, photojournalists, and radio and TV people, who had been lashed out of bed earlier that same morning by their angry, hungry editors. Jobs were put on the line that Tuesday.
"Find out what's going on with that band. Do anything you have to. I don't care if you have to tunnel into that damned farm."
"The pressure on us is unbelievable," said Globe columnist Steve Morse. "Not just the entertainment division any longer. It's the City Desk now, and those guys play rough.
"So, anything, Gil. Anything at all. Something 'off the record' if it's got to be that way. Just don't leave me high and dry on this one."
"A little local color, maybe?"
"Anything, Gil. Anything at all."
"Well, you might call Harvey Thomasian, Chief of the North Brookfield Police Department, and ask him about the arrests last weekend. Handful of kids in a beatup old wreck tried to run the police barrier. A chase ensued, which passed by Long View Farm. The kids were apprehended at the other end of Stoddard Road by a quick-thinking patrolman � Pete Fullam. At gunpoint, I think.
"Also, call our neighbor, Stanley Stellemokus, and ask him how his cows like the music. He'll tell you they're giving more milk now, not less, ever since the Stones came. How's that, Steve?"
"Great, Gil. But I need something about the band. Listen. Just tell me this. Are they or aren't they going to play somewhere else? Don't tell me where. Just are they or aren't they?"
"Steve, I swear to you, I don't know. I'm getting the UPI and AP releases, too. I see the same things you're seeing. Boston, yes or no. Kevin White the Mayor. Providence, Lowell, New Bedford even. It's nuts. Bill Graham knows, maybe. But I sure as hell don't."
"The pressure on us is incredible. Couple of guys cracked under it. Off on the Cape somewhere, taking some time off. One guy looking for a new job. Fired."
"That's your story, Steve."
"You mean the pressure on us?"
"That's part of it. I see other parts of it, too, from where I sit. People are desperate to touch, to be touched in return � as though this would make them whole. All sorts of people � not just reporters, disc jockeys, and hopeful club owners. There are crowds gathered now at the foot of Stoddard Road. Low-flying airplanes, Steve. Helicopters with camera crews hanging out of them. Our phones don't work. They're blockaded by a massive number of incoming calls. From fans, from heads of families offering up their homes and daughters, from politicians, other rock stars, prison inmates, heads of state, little girls calling from other countries mind you.
"I had a major Boston TV station call me an hour ago, and they offered to open up their channel, live, and for as long as it took."
"Took for what, Gil?"
"For me to coax one of the Stones to step outside. They were going to helicopter a crew to the hilltop across the way, and transmit a long shot of the Farm, live, until a Stone agreed to step out-of-doors. Figured they'd have the TV sets on inside the Farmhouse, and that they'd want to play. Weirdness like that.
"There are serious disturbances of normal behavior patterns out there, Steve," I continued. "Ordinary citizens � not all of them Stones fans � have been affected. Some in a more devastating manner than others. People in our business � media people involved in spreading
information and entertaining others � these are the ones who've been hit the worst. It's like a hurricane just swept through. No professional liaison is the same after as it was before. Real flux in relationships between people, in personal allegiances, in pecking orders. There's a lot of so the Stones are more important than me, going on. Careers have been enhanced, some of them. Others of them ruined. It's the chaos out of which a new order emerges. It's the chaos you're seeing this week, and that's what you ought to write your story about."
"I'm really more interested in whether or not the Stones are going to play again in the area."
"I know you are, Steve. But I still think this other stuff is more interesting. It has the feeling of the ages about it. You have a mini-social upheaval on your hands. A case study. There's a myth that's come to town, and the townsfolk are acting mighty strange. They at least give interviews."
"That's all you've got for me then, right?"
"That's all, Steve."
Steve Morse wrote the story about the social upheaval, and it was the best thing published that week in connection with the ongoing stay of the Rolling Stones at Long View Farm. It's included here, as an appendix. ( see appendix part Morse, Steve, Week of 19 Nervous Breakdowns The Boston Globe, 22 September, 1981. )
The Raging Rose Saloon
"See?" Goldie said. "See? . . . Don't need anybody sayin' the Stones are comin' here. . . . Don't need any of this. Things tough enough as it is. Let me be, Gil, until you're free 'a all this nonsense."
There was a pleasure still dear to me, even during those days of Stones mania in Central Massachusetts, and that was leaving Worcester a half an hour or so earlier than anybody at the Farm thought, and detouring to Bridgehampton on my way home. Bridgehampton is a very down-to-earth town. Divorcees come to live there after the breakup of their marriages. A lot of mainline truckdrivers live there. A lot of mainline drug users live there. I'm told that guys sometimes hide out in Bridgehampton if they're running from the law. Crap-shooters, drifters, busted-up confidence men, and teenage thugs all pass each other silently on the streets of this town, ignoring each other, going about their business, and saving all gossip, palaver, and currying of favor for the late afternoon and early evening hours, and for one of two local pubs � either the New Goldener Spa, or the Raging Rose Saloon. It was the latter for me, this fine afternoon � the Raging Rose Saloon. I pulled up in a cloud of dust, top down in my blue XK-E. Sat there for a minute, hi-fi blaring at me through the six speakers recently installed in my twelve year old sports car. I was listening to the tape I'd made of Keith Richards.
A face appeared in the window, gaped querulously at me for a minute, and I shut off the tape deck. It was Goldie, formerly of The Pub in North Brookfield. Before that I don't know. Goldie generally wore an apron, and ran this place in Bridgehampton all by herself � junkies, crooks-on-the-lam, divorcees, and all. Goldie had a lot of miles on her, and it showed in her face, which was creased with pain. Yes, pain you'd have to say. Goldie looked old, but she really was quite young. Twenty-something.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Goldie drawled at me, now standing in the doorway to the Raging Rose Saloon, and smoothing her apron.
"Whadd'ya tryin' to do, upset the clientele?"
"Goldie," I joked. "You ought to be happy to have me. Other club owners are. Tends to stimulate business, they tell me."
"Got no need 'a that. Got no need 'a reporters nosing around here. You know the kinda' folks we have hangin' out from time to time. They don't need the publicity. Board 'a Health people comin' in the next day and tellin' me the dog can't stay, and that the back of the bar needs sweepin' out. Don't need any 'a that.
"Look," she said with particular emphasis, pointing to a large American car which had just pulled into the dirt parking lot. "Don't need this, either. Underage most likely, crazed with all this talk about that stupid band 'a yours. Don't need any 'a that."
Goldie was right. Some kid looking about seventeen years of age had just slid into the Raging Rose parking lot, splashing the left front tire of his father's car into one remaining deep puddle. He had three girls with him, and two other guys. The girls acted as though they had just achieved the satisfaction of a consensus concerning me, and concerning my automobile.
"That's him," the one girl said. "He's got to come first. To check things out. Him and that car of his. Gotta be the right place."
Another car pulled in. Only three young people inside this time, but every bit as much full of themselves.
"Hey, hey," someone from the first car shouted to the second car. "Stones."
Everybody in both cars jumped out, slamming the wide car doors shut behind them, and began to work their way past Goldie and into the bar. Goldie didn't bother to check I.D.'s. She was fuming.
"See?" Goldie said. "See? You go on home to that farm 'a yours, and let me be. Don't need anybody sayin' the Stones are comin' here. Don't want the Stones comin' here, and you better tell those guys from the Telegram and Gazette that it's hurting business havin' them here each night, takin' up a booth all night long, nursing one drink apiece, watchin' the door like they always do, and playin' those damned Stones records on the jukebox. Don't need any of this. Things tough enough as it is. Let me be, Gil, until you're free 'a all this nonsense."
A third car pulled into the parking lot, indistinguishable in regard to its appearance and the motives of its occupants from the first two. Kids, looking for the Rolling Stones. And then another big car pulled in. Driver giving the "thumbs up" sign to the kids who had arrived only a few minutes earlier, and who had apparently pumped some dimes into the phone as a favor once they thought something might be going on � that the Rolling Stones might be coming.
I could see I wasn't going to get any sunset drink reverie here at the Raging Rose Saloon, so I smiled at Goldie, took the six or seven steps back toward my blue convertible, sat down into it, and left the parking lot with a roar and a splash through the same silly puddle. I waved goodbye to Goldie with two fingers, through the rear-view mirror. She was still standing in the doorway to the Saloon, arms akimbo. She was making sure I left.
The Publicist'sHandbook
"Do you think Mick Jagger is a living god?"
The aim of every good publicist is to build public interest in his client until that interest becomes self-sustaining, irrespective of any further professional efforts on the client's behalf. This is a point of spontaneous combustion, of critical mass, of ascendancy into the realm of myth. Yes, myth. The client becomes at this exciting juncture a mythological creature; created in all his glamorous particulars by the fertile imaginations of the citizens at large � the fans � and in a manner which is ongoing, dependable, and sure.
The publicist's job is now to steer acquired momentum �- not create any more of it. Only, all the control mechanisms now work backwards. You don't present your client for public inspection; you shield him from it. You refuse interviews, and never solicit them. You say "No comment." "I really can't say anything about that," and "no, there's no way that could occur." You make a secret about where your clients are, what they're doing, and what they're thinking. Basically, you take your client out of the public eye, in order that the public eye might turn inwards, on itself, where it's free to hallucinate, and in a manner which, as publicist, it's your duty to control, condition, and manipulate.
Excessive exposure of the client can also endanger the myth, to the extent that the client compares unfavorably to it. Let's not forget that it's the fans who gratuitously create the objects of myth using their imaginations. When the real objects become scarce � inaccessible to the public � then it's mainly out of what the public has been told concerning the real objects, that the mythological objects are created. That's what it means to be a creature of the media.
Needless to say, it's under these circumstances that we see an inevitable disparity between real and mythological objects. People's 'projections' cease to agree, property for property, with the real objects, the real individuals. They are inevitably more glamorous, more an answer to the felt needs of the public. They are your popular heroes � your folk heroes. Cut loose from the constraints of mundane, worldly existence as real objects � objects which people can agree on, using their eyes and ears � the objects of myth can soar into whatever heady realms people can agree upon as being imaginable. And that allows for heroes of great luster, and appeal.
Popular heroes of this sort � mythological creatures � are what we call demi-gods. Demi-gods belong to the people � to the fans. They bear no necessary resemblance to any real person or persons from whose properties they are, or were once, derived, and for that reason it's very important that the real persons never be compared to the demi-gods � to the objects of myth.
The results of that comparison would be disastrous to the extent that the people used their imaginations well. It would be extremely demoralizing. It could kill the myth, such a comparison could. So, whenever the publicist has a client who has successfully spawned a public myth, it becomes very important to keep that client out of sight. The myth is self-sustaining; the people are sufficient unto themselves, and the publicist does not need to fan the flames of fame any longer. The job is done. The balloon has been lofted, flying now in accordance with the wishes of the masses. And the publicist's job now is to be sure only that it doesn't get punctured. Keep your man out of sight. You've got a roll going. Silence is golden; less is more, and don't forget that all the controls work backwards.
As soon as the Rolling Stones left Long View Farm, and I was free to talk to writers and reporters once again, I was asked by almost all of them if I thought that the Rolling Stones were gods. The question was put to me in different ways, according to the circumstances, and my answers were never wholly satisfactory � at least for me they weren't.
"So you're saying that the Rolling Stones aren't gods, but that they're religious figures instead?" This was a serious reporter from the Boston Globe I was talking to, and he had me up against the wall in Studio C, the Sound Stage, right beside the brass plate which says "Stage built for and according to the specifications of the Rolling Stones, 1981."
"No, Dan, I didn't say that, either. I said that religious figures are almost always made into mythological objects, too, just like the Rolling Stones are. I said that the Stones call forth from the people the same set of responses normally reserved for religious heroes."
". . . like Jesus Christ . . .?"
"Yes, I said that."
"Hmmm . . . still doesn't square with some other remarks of yours we have on the record, Gil. Don't make me write a piece which makes you look like a schizophrenic, or someone who can't make up his mind."
"What do you mean by that, Dan?"
"Well, we have you saying several years ago, in 1977, that there are living god in India, and that you went there with George Harrison of the Beatles, to track some down."
"That's nonsense, Dan. I just happened to meet George Harrison on a plane coming from the Seychelles. Never knew him before that. It was pure coincidence. The Beatles had long since broken up, anyway."
"What about the living gods? We have it that you moved about with Harrison and his girlfriend, looking for them."
"Well, Dan," I said, "there's always been talk about living gods in India, only more recently here, in the West. They can make packs of cigarettes appear and disappear stay alive for hundreds of years drinking only water � things like that. It was the year of the Kumbla Mela, so it was hard to stay off the topic.
"Kumbla what?"
"Kumbla Mela. Every twenty years it happens at Benares, a religious center like Lourdes, only in central India, not France. They say that's where you can see it all happening. People levitating all along the side of the road, saints coming out of caves to give interviews. All sorts of amazing things." I was laughing now, and didn't mean what I'd said.
"Do you think George Harrison is a living god?" Dan asked.
"No," I said, "although he does draw out of people the same sort of responses, as though he were one. The people have made a demi-god out of George Harrison."
"Do you think Mick Jagger is a living god?"
"No," I said, "although he's treated like one, too. People allow him to play that role for them, just like Harrison. Mick's a demi-god, too."
"Are these quotes � that neither man is a living god?"
"No, Dan, they aren't quotes. No need for us to offend these fellows unnecessarily, is there?"
"That's up to you, Gil. I'm just interested in this 'living gods'
angle. Anything else you can think of to help?"
"Well, yes," I said. "I think there are such things as living gods."
"The Rolling Stones, right?"
"No, Dan, not exactly, no."
"What about the Beatles? George Harrison. What was he like in '77? What did he think about the breakup of the band, about the other members of the band, Lennon, McCartney . . . anything along those lines you can remember? Anything George told you that stands out in your mind?"
"'Take this book,' he said, 'and read it.' It was Yogananda's book Autobiography of a Yogi. My mother had given it to me twenty years earlier, claiming sorority with the forces that saw it published on Earth. So I took it, of course. That made an even dozen for me."
"A dozen saints?"
"No, Dan. A dozen copies of Yogananda's book."
"Hmmm . . . doesn't tell me much more about your theory of living gods, and the Rolling Stones, but I'll stick with what I've got."
Dan Silverman flipped his notepad shut, stuck his ball-point pen back into his jacket pocket, and started looking around for the way out.
"How do you get out of here?" Dan asked.
"Through Studio B. This door, follow me," I said. Dan kept talking as we made our way through the recording studio.
"Does throw some light on the question of public turmoil, the uproar, the suspension of normal patterns of work and recreation � your theory does. It was the same sort of thing they saw in Jerusalem, two thousand years ago. People reaching out to touch. I have to admit you're right about that. And Tibet."
"Los Angeles, too," I said, laughing.
"Los Angeles, too. Yeah. Did'cha see the quote from the Boston Police Commissioner, or whoever said, 'next to this � the problem with the Stones � the visit of the Pope was child's play' or something to that effect? Same sort of disturbance."
"People being taken out of themselves," I offered. "Reaching out to touch."
"That's it, Gil."
We were now standing beside Dan's car, and he opened the door.
"Maybe we'd better not use any of that stuff about the Stones being gods, you know?"
"I agree with that, Dan," I said. "Less said about that, the better."
Author's note: Dan Silverman's last name was really "Golden," and the article he was writing was printed shortly thereafter in the Boston Globe.
Charlie Watts
Charlie Watts turned, looked me straight in the eye, and lifted his glass of Tequila. "Think if I ever grew up I'd get out of rock 'n' roll, too," he said.
"Charlie Watts," I said. "What are you doing up this early in the morning?"
It was 7 AM, and I was getting no sleep at all in the water bed in the Flat. I had been dreaming my nightmare, which had been recurrent for me now ever since the Rolling Stones arrived. Was always the same. Nancy, my sweetheart, making love to some other guy, yet smiling at me with her tender, enigmatic Mona Lisa smile � checks becoming ever more flushed � until I would end the dream and wake up terrified in the heaving, sloshing water bed, aware once again that it was the Rolling Stones playing upstairs on our new and gleaming sound stage, and that I had gotten my wish. I mean, that the Rolling Stones had come to Long View Farm.
Charlie Watts was alone in the kitchen in the Farmhouse, looking out over the valley toward the east, and toward a sky which was now gray, streaked with orange, just a few moments after sunrise.
"How'd the practice go last night, Charlie?"
"Gil," he said, "let me look at you."
Charlie was swaying slowly back and forth, seated on the wooden bench overlooking the front porch and the deep valley below. There were patches of mist in the low spots in the valley.
"Let me look at you," Charlie continued. "I want you to tell me this one thing, Gil."
"What, Charlie?"
"What . . . and I want you to tell me the truth . . . what are you going to do, Gil, when . . . when . . . "
"When what , Charlie?"
"When you grow up, Gil. What are you going to do when you grow up?"
Charlie said each word by itself. Distinctly, and without any consideration of count, or cadence.
"Jesus, Charlie," I said. "I'm already forty-one."
"Know that. Know that, Gil. Know that very well. But the question still remains, what, Gil, are you going to do, when you grow up ?"
"Think about getting out of rock 'n' roll, for a start. I can now." I was amazed that I had said that.
"Ha, ha! Watts spoke. Ha, ha. That's already a beginning my good man. A beginning for us to con-tem-plate, the two of us. Out of rock 'n' roll. Which way, Gil? Which way is out of rock 'n' roll? That way? Down past the riding ring? Ha! You really forty-one?"
"I don't know, Charlie. Sometimes I lose track. That's what it says in the papers � in the articles. I guess that's how old I am."
"Treated you easy so far, rock 'n' roll did. Unless you have an aging portrait upstairs in the attic. Ha! Knew someone like you once. Looked great, he did. Didn't show it all as much as me. And I've been showing it a bit. But was that bastard ever miserable! You miserable, Gil?"
"Charlie," I said, "what kind of a thing is that to ask?"
"Aw, fuck," Charlie said. "Wasn't asking. Trying to say something. Trying to say something to you, Gil, who's just forty-one. Played drums all night, trying to say something in the morning. In Massachusetts. I don't know why they make such a fuss over us. Never did understand it. Still don't."
"You're the Rolling Stones, Charlie. That's why."
Charlie Watts turned, looked me straight in the eye, and lifted his glass of Tequila. "Think if I ever grew up I'd get out of rock 'n' roll, too," he said.
He then rose unsteadily to his feet, acquired some stumbling momentum in the direction of the fireplace, the staircase, and his bedroom two flights above us, just across the hall from Mick's room.
"G'night, Charlie," I shouted after him.
"Nite, Gil," he said softly. "Nite, Gil."
Mick and Freedom
Mick's eyebrows arched. He's still holding his empty plate in one hand. I could see that this was going to have to be quick. Just time enough for the abridged version of my prepared speech.
It was time for the Rolling Stones to leave Long View Farm. Their first really big show � the first of two back-to-back performances, and in front of 80,000 persons, was scheduled for Friday, in Philadelphia. So they would leave Long View on Thursday. It was now Monday, or Tuesday if I'm wrong. Dr. Rose, who's Jane Rose's father, and a semi-retired physician, had stopped by with his wife and had given vitamin B-12 shots to all the members of the band. That's a no-nonsense measure designed to eliminate the possibility of any sore throats, fevers, or other infectious diseases. It's almost impossible to get sick once you've had a shot of vitamin B-12.
Billy Maykel, the local Svengali and chiropractor, had stopped by and had cracked all available backs. Mick requested the treatment, but once Billy was on the premises, his popularity spread like wildfire. Keith, once "cracked" and relieved of a bothersome shoulder pain, instructed Woody to "get cracked, too." Bill and Astrid came next. Patti Hansen officiated at the assembly-line back-crackings, which occurred downstairs in the barn, just outside the sauna. She "got cracked" herself, and immediately joined the ranks of the proselytizers and converted. The Rolling Stones thought Dr. Billy Maykel was a genius, and he's still prescribing adjustments and diet changes for them by mail. I "got cracked," too, over in the Flat, and was briefed by Maykel on the state of the spines of the members of the band.
" Mick's the worst," Dr. Billy said, gravely. "Don't see how he can carry on, in the state he's in. Internal organs? I don't want to talk about it. He's better now, though. Three consecutive sets of adjustments I've put him through, and he's obviously improved. Now, Gil, breathe out. That's it. All the way out."
"CRACK!"
"Hmmm. Not doing too well yourself, if you want to know."
"How so, Billy?"
"Liver, Gil. I've been telling you this now for years. Liver."
"Whaddaya mean, 'liver'?" I asked Dr. Billy Maykel.
"You know, Gil. Without my telling you. You're also not doing the pressurepoint exercises either, like you've been told. There, get up. That should loosen you up for a while. Your fourth lumbar was way out. Not as far as Mick's though. His was practically out of joint. Keith, he had another problem altogether..."
"Please, Billy, don't tell me things like that. They're all better now, though, you say?"
"No problem. They'll perform in Philly, if that's what you're asking."
That was good for me to hear. Didn't want it said that we'd sent the Rolling Stones out into the world in anything less than fighting shape. I thanked Billy, and made my way across the driveway to the Farmhouse, feeling particularly light on my feet. The cracking had been a good one. It was now suppertime, or just a bit later than that.
Cracking of the back loosens up the mind, that's why I'm a fan of chiropractics. I was thinking particulary well, all of a sudden. Hallucinating for a start; then tying the rush down to earth, in the form of a determination � of an intention. Always works, that. If you start with an hallucination, and then focus, you're home-free-all. The thing will then happen. Some shrinks will charge you $250 per hour, and still not tell you that.
Tonight, I intended to say goodbye to Mick Jagger.
Mick and I had been circling around one another for almost two months now � keeping our distances, playing our roles, each very well. We had only good things to say about each other, but had never done so directly, to the other, one-on-one. That would have been superfluous, and possibly dangerous to boot. Mick Jagger wasn't a person for me; and I wasn't a person for Mick Jagger. We were instead two intelligent men caught up in rock 'n' roll, with clearly defined objectives. Mick figured temporarily on the horizon of my objectives; I figured temporarily on his. And that was fine with the two of us.
All this aside, I still wanted to say goodbye to the man, and had been rehearsing my goodbye speech for at least a month now � tinkering with it, scrutinizing it for any remaining traces of ego, bombast, and bravado, and waiting for my moment. It was now very shortly to arrive.
People were just getting up from the table, after an evening meal which must have been fish, since there was a profusion of empty wine bottles in evidence. White wines, from Bordeaux. I know. I selected most of the titles. A fire � large for the month of September � was raging in the fireplace. Keith would occasionally throw on a log. So would Woody, and Charlie Watts. One of them, at least, had done so. I rounded the corner by the fireplace, toward the table, just as Mick was rounding the fireplace, empty plate in hand, heading toward the dishwasher. It's a sign that guests are fully at home at Long View, and aware of what has to be done to keep the place running, when they take their empty plates back to the dishwasher. Mick was doing just that, which impressed me. Now was the time. He knew this, too, and we stopped, facing each other some six feet in front of the blazing fire.
"So," I said, jauntily, "looks like you're on your way. Seems like you just got here."
"Right, Gil," Mick said. "Very pleasant stay, I'd like you to know. Very pleasant."
"Something I wanted you to know, Mick, on your way out. Something I've been meaning to say to you, for some time." Mick's eyebrows arched. He's still holding his empty plate in one hand. I could see that this was going to have to be quick. Just time enough for the abridged version of my prepared speech.
"Thought you'd like to know that you've made me a free man.
"People often say the opposite to you � I know that. Complain that the Rolling Stones captured them, dragged them along, imprisoned them in a series of events they couldn't control � burned them out. I've heard it all." Mick was now listening intently.
"But you did the opposite for me, I want you to know. Finally, after years, I don't have to worry any longer about bringing a bigger and better band to Long View Farm. That cross is off my shoulders, once and for all. And that's a very liberating feeling, and I wanted you to take the credit for it. There's one man, at least, whom you've made free."
"Very nice, Gil," Mick said. "A very nice thing to say."
I believe Mick would have said more, had he known that this little ceremony was going to occur. We smiled at each other, we shook hands, and he continued on his way to the dishwasher. He was thinking about what I had just said as he slid his plate onto the counter. I could tell.
Press Conference
Everybody came � even the wire services � whom Wasserman had vowed passionately to exclude. No one recognized anybody until it was all over, with Jagger having "walked" just as Wasserman said he would."
"He'll walk, Gil. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you? If there's one reporter there too many, or one too many camera lenses in front of him, he'll just walk straight through all those people and out the door. He'll walk, I'm telling you."
"But, Paul," I said, "we owe favors to people. There's Chris Hamel in Springfield who knew before anybody else, and who didn't say a word. There's the kid from Spencer, and the three TV stations in Boston."
"Leave the TV stations to me, Gil," Paul said.
"What about Channel 27 in Worcester? What about the Phoenix? What about my skin once you're all in Philadelphia in your bright, new Long View satin jackets?"
"I haven't been sized for a jacket yet."
"You're a men's large, Paul," I said. "Keith got his in lavender. How about a men's large in black?"
It was now 11:30 AM on Thursday, the day of the Stones' departure for Philadelphia. Paul Wasserman had done his stint on the phone the night before, and at my urging had accepted frantic phone calls from at least a couple of dozen hysterical news reporters. He had gone back to the Copper Lantern Motel during the wee hours, and said he'd hand down all decisions on the farewell party press invites at eleven o'clock the next morning. (The event was to occur only two hours later, at 1 PM.) I started ringing his room at 7:30, and sent a car over for him at 9:30, and had already fielded some twenty-five morning phone calls from area media sorts before he arrived at the Farm for breakfast. I had given at least one good radio interview to a station in Turners Falls, Massachusetts, saying things about the tumult at Long View, our feelings of responsibility toward the media and our clients alike, and not knowing sometimes exactly what to do.
Wasserman gave a sign to Solveig, and Solveig set about frying up his usual order of eggs & sausage, and fussed about looking for the morning edition of the Worcester Telegram, which Wasserman always took with his eggs.
"He'll walk, Gil. I promise you that. I don't care what I said last night. We've got to cut it down to under twenty."
"Twenty, Paul?"
"Maybe not. Who's the girl at Channel 27?"
"Katie Cowdery, Paul. She knew early, shut up when we told her to, and could use the story. Her plus one, her cameraperson, Maxine. It's 16 millimeter."
"Only if Channel 4 plays cutesy, or sends that guy, what's-his-name... Why are they still using 16 millimeter?"
I called Katie myself a few minutes later and told her to come, with Maxine. It was now nearly noon, and she'd have just enough time to get there. As it turned out, no one was ever on top of who actually came, and who didn't. Everybody came � even the wire services � whom Wasserman had vowed passionately to exclude. No one recognized anybody until it was all over, with Jagger having "walked" just as Wasserman said he would.
"Look, Gil," I heard over the din, and over the click-rewinds of the motor-driven Nikons, and over the waiting whine of the Fokker F28 on the tarmac just outside. It was Wasserman.
"Look at him eyeing the door. He's going to walk. I told you." Mick was in fact looking nervously toward the door, then back toward a reporter who was literally shouting a question in his face. Mick shook his head, and gave Ronnie Wood, who was standing just next to him, a sharp jab in the ribs.
"Let's go, Ronnie, we're leavin'."
Ronnie was in the midst of a confession to the effect that he liked all other rock 'n' roll bands equally, but he broke it off in mid-sentence, without apology, and followed Mick out the door, jaw set firmly. Ronnie was ready.
"That's it," Wasserman repeated. "He's making his move. You did all right, Gil. It would have been my throat instead. You did great."
Wasserman looked around frantically for his large overstuffed briefcase, saw it, and grabbed it up.
"Thanks, Paul," I said, "too bad we couldn't have . . ."
"See you later, little partner," Wasserman interrupted, lunging at the door, briefcase first, propelled by his right knee. "Men's large?"
"Black," I shouted to him, through cupped hands, thoroughly startling Bill Wyman, who happened now to be close to me, on my left, in the company of a large AM radio disc jockey whose face was red from asking the same uninteresting question too many times, with no answers to show for his time.
"Gil," he said. "Thank you, Gil."
"What for, Bill?" I taunted, knowing that we had done more to make him and Astrid comfortable than we had done for the rest of the band put together. A new Sony TV set, wired for cable, Preview, then for satellite maybe, if we could arrange it. A new bedroom set for Astrid, picked out by her and Geoff Myers at the local antiquaire in North Brookfield. The bedroom painted per Astrid's specifications (twice), blackout curtains on all windows, and across all cracks. A private press conference for Bill at the home of Mrs. Langevin, who collects china and antiques, and who lives in town, away from the Farm. Personal telephone answering and call forwarding. Parts for Bill's Apple computer, blank VHS video cassettes to record movies off the TV, and mainly, our silent assurances that we saw that he was different � a cut above your average brawling Stone. A man with a career of his own, a recent book about Marc Chagall, and a hit record of his own in three European markets, Si Si, Je suis un rock star. A gentleman.
"What for, Bill?" I laughed.
And then Bill Wyman laughed, right at me, and we chuckled for a moment together, as the crush of Stones photographers and hangers-on proceeded from left to right, jostling us not a little, on their way to the waiting jet. Mick was already on board, and there was thus the distinct possibility that someone might now get left behind.
"Get on the plane, Bill," I said. And he did, still laughing as I had not seen him laugh at any time during his six weeks at Long View Farm.
The Strange Afterglow
It seemed to vibrate, and glow as though from within. It had visible undulations and mescal-weavings about it. Its colors seemed hyper-saturated. It seemed to exude a human presence.
I felt a great surge of relief the moment the large door swung up and closed on the Rolling Stones' F28 Fokker jet. They had come up with this airplane at the last moment, having first considered the charter of an old rickety Martin from Provincetown-Boston Airways at roughly one-tenth the price. The F28 was a beautiful, sleek airplane, and hired for this one trip to Philadelphia only.
There's no question about it, I actually felt the air seal when that front door shut, and I knew that I now had two months of arduous work, sleepless nights, and very fast pitches definitively behind me. I must have exuded this feeling, since I had people tell me how I looked later, and actually saw how I looked on the TV that night, and read about my apparent exuberance in the newspapers that next day. It was over. The Stones were gone, and I had been very lucky. A thousand things could have gone wrong, and not one had.
All this put me in a somewhat historical and melancholic frame of mind, and I beat a fast retreat to my offices in the Worcester Airport building, ordered myself a double gin & tonic, and started throwing things into my briefcase for the trip back to the Farm. This was the ending of a chapter for me, and I wanted to be alone.
And alone I was. Long View was empty when I arrived in the Jag, some twenty minutes later. No one was there. Everyone was either burnt, away on assignment, or in some other authorized but wasted state. The telephones were silent; no lights lit up on the keysets, no limos were waiting on the gravel esplanade, and there was no thundering din from whatever room Keith Richards happened to be passing through. But there were nevertheless mysterious and lingering signs � like the burning cigarette in the ashtray which in Humphrey Bogart movies signals the recent departure, or lurking presence, of human beings. All the lights were on in all the rooms for a start. The beds had not yet been stripped, much less remade, and there were silly and inconsequential personal items lying about uncollected on the floors, on thc toilet seat covers, and on practically every other horizontal surface available. The place was empty, but it obviously had not been empty for long, and had obviously been very, very full only a short time earlier. I marveled at the silence, and thought Long View Farm looked all of a sudden very large again.
I found myself climbing the often photographed Escher stairs to the third floor in the Farmhouse � to "my" room. Or was it still Mick's room, and should I even be going up there? Of course I should. I owned the place, the Stones were gone, and it was my room again, right? I couldn't quite convince myself, however, and even considered knocking. Only, the door was open. As elsewhere, the lights were on, all of them. My airy hatch was sealed up with blackout curtains and brass tacks, per Mick's repeated instructions, and there was a bunch of obviously personal items left behind, which out of deference I didn't want to see. Instead, I later instructed Kent to preserve them all in a box somewhere, and not to tell me where the box was stored. In any case, the room felt eerie, dead silent, but very distinctly alive with itself. It seemed to vibrate, and glow as though from within. It had visible undulations and mescal-weavings about it. Its colors seemed hyper-saturated. It seemed to exude a human presence. I was still an intruder in my own bedroom � there was no question about that. I wheeled about, shaken, and stumbled down the two flights of stairs and out onto the gravel driveway. Maybe I would run into Kathleen, or there would be some visitor to shoo away down at the bottom of the drive, or some paparazzi photographer down at the pond to console with the prospect of an eventual picture of Mick Jagger, even if not today. But the driveway was empty � perfectly empty except for my Jag, which was still cooling and dripping its little spots of oil onto the gravel, one by one. The photographers had all gone. There were no reporters in sight. There were no kids hiding face down in the mud, or in the branches of our trees, or behind Stanley's cows.
Long View was empty. The Rolling Stones had gone.
Postscript
It's been several months since I wrote the essays which make up this book, and I now realize that I have left several things unsaid � most of them personal in nature � and that I should provide you with some additional information, however painful it may be for me to do so, in order that the story be complete. I also have a few routine author's confessions to make. For example, that some of the characters in this book aren't real, but a product of my imagination instead. First things, first, however.
Nancy and Bennie are sweethearts. They eat good food, get lots of fresh air, and don't talk much about rock 'n' roll at all. They live with my children in a teepee in Truro, Massachusetts. I'm told that Abby and David can each tell you whenever a record by the Rolling Stones comes on the radio, which is pretty often, these days. You can imagine that this is a source of great joy for me.
There. With that revelation out of the way, let me confess further, as I must. that Bennie is a real person, and not just a "literary fiction," as I've claimed from time to time.
Bennie's real.
Obviously, I can't first claim that I thought Bennie up, and now complain that he just ran off with my best girl.
He's real all right. Ever since he heard I was writing a book, he's been all over me like flypaper. "Do you really mean to say this, Gil? Are you sure this is the best way to remember things, Gil? Are you really positive Mick said that, Gil?" Stuff like that all day long. Adding insult to injury, and confusing me so at times that I can't remember what did happen, and what didn't. It's those eyes of his. When Bennie looks at you, straight in the eye, he's right. Like Charles Manson, if you know what I mean. I worry about my kids. About Nancy, too, for that matter.
I suppose I should go back and re-write the Introduction, where I say that Bennie's not real, and set things straight for the reader, from the start. I know I won't though. There have been times during the last few months when I wished strongly that Bennie weren't real. And, as an author, I have come to positively enjoy depicting him as fictitious. So, I'll indulge myself, and not change anything � either in the Introduction or anywhere else, for that matter. Bennie's as real as you want him to be.
O.K. That's enough soap opera for one book. Let's now pass on to several additional confessions, some of these less stunning, perhaps, but still of interest to those of you who like to keep straight on what's fact, and what's fiction.
Here they come.
Not all of the characters in this book are real people. I'm not talking just about Bennie, either. Some of the other characters aren't real. So let me try to tell you which are which. This is for all you archivists out there, notably Bill Wyman. First of all, and most importantly, all the members of the band are real people. You're real, Bill; don't worry. So are the members of their entourage, their girlfriends, their business acquaintances, and so forth.
I am a real person, and so are all the other staff members at Long View Farm.
After that, it gets a bit fuzzy. For a start, I figured it would simply be a lot easier on us all if I changed a few names, which I've done in many places. Wait, and I'll tell you where.
Also, I've compressed several people into one a few times � slapping phony names on the resulting amalgams. I call these imaginary characters "angels." My angels are not real people � please understand that � although they're made out of the same stuff real people are made of � easily identifiable personality traits, I mean. I suppose that's why I don't feel at all guilty about passing off my angels as real people. They carry information to you, the reader, in an efficient and entertaining manner. Just as the angels in the Bible do. So, here's who they are � the people with changed names, and my angels. The only thing I won't always do is tell you which are which. Let me rephrase that. What I really mean to say is that I can't always tell you which are which. It's been a while that I've been writing this book, and some of my "angels" now seem more "real" to me than the people whose names I've changed. Also, Bennie's got me all mixed up.
Let's start with him. Bennie Strange. He's my alter-ego � an amalgam of those of my friends who have had the courage and the good sense to be critical of me. No one's perfect. As such, Bennie is an "angel." Incidentally, he was the "person in the black jacket" the police descended on that night, outside of Sir Morgan's Cove.
Next, (and now you're going to have to decide for yourselves whether it's a real person with a changed name or an "angel,") you have Rory McPherson, my fair-weather friend in New York City; Mike's cousin Marty, who leaked the news to the politicos in Boston; Stan Freeberg, who had all the "free" recording equipment for me; Carolyn, the groupie from Area Code 313: my friend Mark, the reporter who suddenly wanted to do a "profile" of me for the weekend edition of the paper, and his somewhat skeptical editor, Larry O'Neil; most of the people behind the Rock Wall, but not the fat kid, who was depressingly real; my long-lost fraternity brother, Todd Richards, and his compromising, cuckolding wife, Rachele; Tony Rio, the Mafia club owner, and his quisling sidekick, Ron; Rick Present, the ambitious young club owner from Bangor, and Laurie, my old girlfriend; Abe Brenner and Mark, Keith's two friends; O'Rourke and O'Leary, the Worcester cops; Goldie, the one club owner who had no use for the Rolling Stones; and finally, Dan Silverman, the persistent reporter from the Boston Globe who thought that the Rolling Stones were gods. Everybody else is real, appearing under their real names.
"And what about the events and occurrences described in this book?" you might ask. Are they real, or are we dealing with "amalgam" events, too, in addition to amalgam people, or angels? Good question, and the answer to it is "Yes, the latter." I have from time to time taken mild liberties with the sequence of events, with the question of who was where, when, and so forth. None of these "editorial changes" is consequential, however, and you may safely forget I ever told you about them.
Also, my "angels" all animate events and occurrences which are quintessentially plausible in the light of what I saw, and was given to know about things, but which are not real events and occurrences, since my "angels" are fictitious.
Don't worry. I did a good job. If an event described in this book didn't actually happen, something very much like it did happen, or could have happened.
I've always found that particular distinction � between plausible events and real events � to be a bore anyway.
And so I generally show it no great respect..
*********************************************************************
APPENDIX PART
1. Appendix A. > STONES BEGIN TOUR BEFORE ITS START
2. Appendix B.> WEEK OF 19 NERVOUS BREAKDOWNS
3. Appendix C.> INTERVIEWING A LEGEND: THRILL OF A LIFETIME
4. Appendix D.>WIRE COPY NEW
5. Appendix E. >A DREAM COME TRUE
6. Appendix F.> MEMORANDUM Ref: The Tennis Court Fiasco, August, 1981
7. Appendix G.> Musician's November 1981 Gil Markle
8. Apendix H.> HE PLAYED HOST TO THE STONES
9. Appendix I.>IT'S FRENZIED,IT'S CHAOTIC,IT'S AMAZING,IT'S INTENSE
10. Appendix J.> THEY ROCK 'N' ROLL AT ALL AGES UP HERE
11. Appendix K.> IT'S ONLY ROCK AND ROLL BUT HE LIKES IT
12. Appendix L.> TIME OUT IT IS REALLY SOMETHING ELSE
13. Appendix M.> ROLLING WITH THE STONES
14. Appendix N.> THEY'RE HIS FAVORITE, NEXT TO THE BEATLES
1.Appendix A STONES BEGIN TOUR BEFORE ITS START
Mark Fineman, The Philadelphia Inquirer, 16 September, 1981 (reprinted with permission)
Worcester, Mass. � A lightning bolt split the midnight sky above the Stardust strip-tease lounge, and the sky unleashed a blanket of rain on this seamy block of Green Street as the 30-foot motor home finally pulled in alongside Sir Morgan's Cove.
Finally, at midnight, Blue Monday had begun. The Cockroaches had finally arrived. But the drenched and drunken throng of more than 4,000 filling the sidewalks and street knew better.
"Stones! Stones! Stones!" they chanted in deafening unison. From the rooftops and car tops and even the tops of the streetlights, they whistled. They whooped. They screamed. They even launched flares. And, as 75 Worcester policemen held their yard-long riot batons ready and snapped down the shields on their riot helmets, the crowd craned for a glimpse of a legend.
The curtains were drawn on the motor home's windows, but somehow even that didn't matter. Somehow, the crowd that had spent half a night out in the rain was too wet and too loose and having too much of its own party to care. Somehow it was enough that they were only a few feet from what may be the most famous rock band in the world.
They said the Rolling Stones' first public tour in three years was going to begin Sept. 25 in Philadelphia.
It won't. The concert in JFK Stadium is still on, but the tour started here Monday, shortly before midnight, in a small tavern in the heart of this blue-collar city of 170,000 about an hour west of Boston.
The Rolling Stones' "private" jam session at Sir Morgan's Cove was supposed to be just that � private � and also secret, with the Stones attempting to pass incognito as the Cockroaches. But as the nature of the business would have it, there was a leak. It occurred early in the day Monday after weeks of rumors. And before the day was over, the local media would claim that "history has been made in Worcester."
Before the Stones finished their free two-hour concert early yesterday morning for 300 "randomly selected" fans, local police would arrest and charge six people with offenses ranging from drinking in public to illegally "launching missiles" (beer cans, mostly). The Worcester police department's already depleted overtime budget would be $5,000 more in the red. And the city's sanitation workers would be faced with a block-long layer of beer cans, bottles and trash.
But for all that, the corporate brass of the local FM radio station that helped organize, promote and execute the event at Sir Morgan's would be more than pleased. In the intensely competitive hard-rock market surrounding Boston, WAAF-FM had scored a major coup.
Still, nobody would be more pleased by the end of the night than the owners of the eight liquor licenses on the same block of Green Street as Sir Morgan's.
For Samuel M. Perotto, 22, Monday night was "a dream come true."
"I've sold about 100 cases of beer already," Perotto, owner of Sam's tavern, said as he sweated his way through two more beer orders at his packed bar just after the Rolling Stones had begun their set a few doors down.
"Usually I have three or four customers on a Monday night, but this � this is how I've always wanted my bar to look. I'm just upset I didn't have more warning. We've already made a few beer runs ourselves."
Up the street at Jimmy's Pub, a gregarious, round Englishman named Jimmy Conrad said that business at his bar was up 400 percent.
"This street has never looked like this before," he said, "and it'll never look like this again."
Never mind that the owners of Jimmy's and Sam's care little for the Rolling Stones or their music. Not a single Stones' song appears on either of their jukeboxes, and Jimmy Conrad admitted candidly that the most popular tunes in his bar are two 1950s relics, "Chantilly Lace" and "Blue Moon."
"Me, I don't really follow the Rolling Stones or their music," Conrad said, "and I certainly wouldn't wait hours in the rain to see them."
"Miss Strip USA of 1980" heartily agreed. Better known as Lady Dee to patrons of the Stardust Lounge, the young woman was standing in full costume outside the nude-dancing parlor across from Sir Morgan's.
"Naw, I don't really like the Stones," said Lady Dee, adding that she had won her "Miss Strip" title against serious competition in Las Vegas with the help of her "famous fire show."
"I know my show is a bit, well, on the sadistic side � I light my arms on fire and swallow fire � but that doesn't mean I like the Stones' music. No, I lean more toward Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand."
Lady Dee looked down the block and shook her head as a member of the street crowd began shinnying up a streetlight.
"You know, one of my customers, an old-timer who has lived on this block all his life, said he hasn't seen Green Street like this since the day World War II ended. Man, these people are just plain crazy."
And all this because of a rumor that Mick Jagger gave a marijuana cigarette to a teenager a month ago 20 miles away in the rural town of North Brookfield.
The Rolling Stones have been staying in North Brookfield for about a month now. Since mid-August, the group has been spending what reliable sources estimated at $2,000 a day to rent a 140-acre farm. There, the group's promotion people said, the Stones have been rehearsing and preparing stage sets for their Philadelphia debut.
The place is called Long View Farm, and it came complete with two ultra-modern recording studios, saunas, whirlpools, a billiard room and even a stage the owner built especially for the Rolling Stones and to their specifications before their arrival.
Long View's owner is Gilbert Markle, a 40-ish "college professor-turned-entrepreneur" who in the past has played host to such celebrities as Stevie Wonder and the J. Geils Band.
Markle's main job has been security and secrecy. He refuses to even discuss whether the Stones are at Long View on the basis of a "gentlemen's agreement" he said he had made with Jagger.
And he has done his job well, with only a few exceptions. The most notable exception came a few weeks ago when a local newspaper printed a story implying that Mick Jagger had handed a lit joint to a teenage boy while Jagger and Stones' lead guitarist Keith Richard [sic!] were playing tennis at North Brookfield High School.
"Mick was just furious about that story � the only truth to it was that he was playing tennis that day," said Rob Barnett, morning disc jockey at WAAF.
"I think it was that more than anything that got him to talk to me," Barnett said.
About a week later, Barnett camped at Worcester Airport for five hours one afternoon waiting for Jagger. It was Aug. 26, the day Jagger flew to Philadelphia for a press conference to announce the group's tour. When Jagger stepped off his private jet after his return flight to Worcester, Barnett pounced and asked for an interview. Jagger agreed.
Barnett said his five-minute interview was aired as an exclusive on radio stations worldwide, and "we started a relationship that never ended."
Steve Stockman, 23, WAAF's promotions director, said he kept in constant contact with members of the band, but "it wasn't until last Friday that everything started to gel. Ian Stewart, the group's keyboard player, told me the group wanted to make some small, private night-club appearances. They hadn't appeared before an audience in three years, and they needed to warm up to crowds before Philadelphia."
Stockman said Stewart had selected Sir Morgan's on his own. He said Stewart had anonymously visited "every bar in Worcester" in search of a place that seated no more than 400, had a low ceiling and a high stage.
"All he needed was a mechanism to get tickets out to loyal fans in the area without revealing the location of the event," Stockman said. Together, WAAF and the Stones decided that the station would start announcing on Monday morning that the Stones were giving such a performance, but that no tickets could be purchased.
Instead, the station announced, representatives of WAAF and the group would be driving the streets of Worcester throughout the day looking for people wearing WAAF T-shirts or with WAAF bumper stickers either on themselves or their cars.
They, and they alone, would get the mere 300 nontransferable, laser-etched, computer-coded tickets marked, "Blue Monday" and "The Cockroaches."
The scene in downtown Worcester on Monday was a zoo. "It was a carnival," said Dave Goldberg, a city resident who works for a small noncommercial radio station in town. "Traffic was at a standstill. Everyone was running around looking for the WAAF vans. It was like a holiday in the city."
Women plastered the bumper stickers to their chests. One man covered his entire body with them � including one wrapped around his neck brace. Another fan decorated every inch of his custom van in Early Bumper Sticker.
"What can I say? Ya gotta love a promotion like this," Stockman said yesterday. "It's just a shame something went wrong."
A Boston rock station, an arch-competitor of WAAF, was leaked the information by either Worcester police or a member of the band that played before the Stones were to perform at Sir Morgan's. And the Boston station immediately began broadcasting not only where the Stones would appear, but also that people should stay away.
"They said there'd be a riot there or something," Stockman said. "It was awful, and the Stones were almost as furious with that station as we were. But to tell you honestly, we did get lucky. It easily could have turned into mayhem. All I can say is thank God for the rain."
Daniel Egan, Worcester's deputy police chief, was thanking God yesterday, too. Egan, who was filling in this week for the city's vacationing police chief, sat back in his leather chair, rubbed his large red face and sighed.
"No question that Monday night was a disaster waiting to happen." said Egan, making little effort to conceal his anger.
"Of course I'm upset. We didn't find out for sure on this thing until noon Monday. Looking back, I should have smelled something in the wind on Saturday when one of my lieutenants was told that Sir Morgan's wanted 17 off-duty police officers for inside security on Monday night.
"But it just didn't register. Who would have thought the Rolling Stones would come to Worcester?
"We could have planned for this better if we'd had something more than rumor."
By yesterday, a new crop of rumors had started again.
Both Stockman and the Stones' chief publicist, Paul Wasserman, refused to say whether there would be more "secret night club shows" before the group comes to Philadelphia. But Wasserman said the group "definitely wanted to play several times" before their concert debut.
The hottest rumor in Worcester yesterday was that the Stones were going to play at a Boston night club one night this week.
The rumor made it all the way to North Brookfield, but it didn't matter too much to the folks in the 169-year-old town, a town of 4,100 where the only industry manufactures rubber soles.
Between the rock stars and reporters, residents of North Brookfield are accustomed to the excitement by now.
Many of the residents even got the treasured tickets to Blue Monday. Among them was Robert Lemieux, owner of the North Brookfield News Co., known locally as "the news room."
"My daughter has gotten friendly with the Stones' bodyguard, and he gave her a couple of tickets Monday morning out of the blue," Lemieux said yesterday afternoon. "I was going to go with her, but my other daughter kept after me until 5 p.m. I finally gave in.
"It's just as well. There'll be more up here as time goes on � more celebrities, more attention, more excitement. In the meantime, I guess everyone around here is just kind of sitting back and wondering. After Monday night, what can the world possibly do for an encore?"
2.Appendix B.>WEEK OF 19 NERVOUS BREAKDOWNS Steve Morse, The Boston Globe, 22 September, 1981 (reprinted with permission)
The whole Rolling Stones mess has left psychic scars that will be hard to forget. By the end, it had deteriorated into a nasty, pitched battle between clubowners, fans, politicians, promoters, and the media, each desperately wanting a piece of the action.
It feels like a week-long purgatory has ended. Or maybe a jail sentence. Or maybe just a bad dream.
There were no winners in all of this. The band didn't get to play their sneak concerts. The fans didn't get to see them. The media behaved recklessly. And the toll, financially and psychologically, was overwhelming.
Friendships were severed. Relationships were left reeling. And reporters were left glued to the phone, tracking down non-leads, swirling through off-the-record statements, getting unfathomable I Ching quotes from Stones tour producer Bill Graham and being humbled to the point of complete frustration.
All because the band, as Graham said, wanted to play a few "throwaway gigs." But there are no throwaway gigs with the Rolling Stones. Now that Led Zeppelin is gone, the Who has changed, and John Lennon is dead, only the Stones remain to carry the banner of rock's '60s heyday.
It was no wonder the local demand to see them was so great, because there are thousands of fans here who have never seen them and who won't rest until they do. Those fans have put up with myriad Stones clone groups touring the area, but this was the real thing.
And so the hysteria kept building, causing the band to cancel last night's planned sneak concert at the Opera House. Despite the grandstanding of Mayor Kevin White � who had also offered them a free City Hall Plaza show while naively assuming there'd be only 40,000 people there (try 400,000) � the band chose to put a lid on the madness, rather than fuel it even more.
"The Rolling Stones have changed governments, and they're not going to be that concerned about a mayor," Stones publicist Paul Wasserman had said earlier. Putting the issue into perspective, he added: "With all the attention the Stones received, you'd think there was no other story. Hey, isn't Boston having trouble getting its schools opened?"
The reason, of course, the media went whole hog was that the band so arrogantly left them out of last week's lone sneak concert at Sir Morgan's Cove in Worcester. The battle lines were drawn.
Although that night's mood was quite peaceful � the waiting crowd of 1500 was demoralized by the rain � irresponsible reporters highlighted a couple of bottle-throwing incidents, thus causing the band to become personae non grata in Boston until Mayor White tried to intervene.
"One minute we were lepers. The next minute we were tulips," as Graham said.
Behind the scenes, promoters also lashed at each other. Boston's Don Law and Providence's Frank Russo were again claw to claw. Russo missed out on the coup of a lifetime when the Stones slipped through his fingers for a Providence show Saturday, chiefly due to illness within the band. "We owe you one" the group's entourage later told him.
The week's events were an intolerable merry-go-round. The band itself behaved badly, having not scheduled Boston in the first place and then announcing last-minute cancellations which left fans stuck out in the rain and cold, waiting for tickets.
Although Graham said the band will return to "the scene of the crime" to later play Boston, thank God that for now the treasure hunt is over.
As one exhausted source said, "My wife's about ready to walk out the door. And so is my dog."
3. Appendix C.>INTERVIEWING A LEGEND: THRILL OF A LIFETIME S. Ferguson & E. Cavanaugh, The Evening Gazette, 1 October, 1981
I knew that it was possible that I would have an opportunity to interview Mick Jagger, but I never really believed it until that rainy Monday evening.
I answered the phone in my casual way, and before handing the phone to my father I asked who was calling. "Cathy," she replied. The name rang a bell. Many thoughts raced through my mind. If this was the call telling us that we would be meeting Mick Jagger, what would I wear? What would I say? How would I act?
Sudden Butterflies. When my thoughts became reality, my first thought was I would have to prepare a day-old face and get clothes to wear. (What do you wear to meet a legend?) I had to get rid of the butterflies that had suddenly taken up residence in my stomach. I just knew that something would go wrong.
My companion was Eve Cavanaugh, my aunt and a sophomore at my school, Marianhill in Southbridge. She was so nervous, and afraid that she would sneeze during the interview, but it was really great to see someone so happy to know that we would be meeting a legend.
The ride up to Long View was full of many thoughts. There just was not enough time to prepare myself for what was about to happen. We were ushered into the living room by one of Mr. Jagger's bodyguards, Jim Callahan.
We settled on the couch. Evening Magazine was on T.V. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man. He was thin with dark brown hair, not short but not long. I knew when he put his lips together and slyly glanced our way that it was Mick Jagger. He was wearing jeans and a low-cut V-neck sweater with a blue shirt under it. He was wearing sneakers with green socks.
I knew then that the interview would be even better than I had ever expected. Pointing over towards a man who had a camera, Mick explained that he was going to videotape the entire interview and mail us a copy. He said, "He's going to use us as guinea pigs tonight. We're his first experiment." When we asked Mick how he liked North Brookfield and the people here, he replied. "It's great. Very much like the town I grew up in. I think the people are very hospitable and very friendly."
He mentioned, "I like Barre and New Braintree especially, out of the towns I saw while I was jogging." He said he jogged several times in New Braintree, by the Adams Farm. It has a red barn in back, he said, and was a beautiful farm.
Next we asked him his impression of Long View. "It was wonderful, peaceful, and the staff treated us great," he said.
I said I had to know if he really jogged. "Yes, I jog every other day for five miles." Of course, after he jogs he lifts weights, he said. (What a hero.) He even eats health foods.
At one point he turned to Eve and asked her what she wanted to do when she graduated from high school. Eve replied that she would like to attend law school if her grades were good enough. He answered, "I was taking law courses. They were so boring you could have fallen asleep during them. A lawyer's life must be very dull."
Mick asked if we would like some tea, and that brought smiles to our faces. Eve and I had Cokes instead and he and my father had a Heineken. (We saved the bottle.) When a lady brought a beer and Coke out, she placed the Coke in front of Eve and looked at Mick and then at my father, not knowing where to put the beer. Mick said, "The beers are for the girls, we ordered Cokes." The beer ended up with my dad and Mick's beer and my Coke came later.
Singer in a Choir. Eve asked Mick how he got to be a singer. "I was in a choir and at 12 I had a band. While I was in law school I cut my first record that made the charts and then I decided to go into what I am doing now."
We asked him if there is a difference between American and British people. After a pause he answered, "Well, over here you all think that we are snobs, but over there we think you are the snobs. It is not true. There isn't much difference."
I asked how long his tour would last and he answered, "I hope to be home for Christmas. By then I will probably be flat on my back," he said as he looked out the picture window we were in front of. Lightning was coloring the sky and you could hear thunder in the distance. He recalled to us that once, while he was recording in Vermont during a thunder storm he witnessed lightning hit a tree and the tree split in two.
He continued. "There is always a week in between tours, but somehow a concert or an interview is thrown in and the week is gone. But if I get a chance, I would like to come back to Long View to visit again." This was in reply to a question we asked regarding a rumor we had heard that they would be coming back before they left for London.
My last question to him was, what is it like to be Mick Jagger? "It's no big deal. I'm just like you or someone else," was his reply with not much concentration. "I've been to the Fair (a local department store in Spencer) to buy a warm-up suit. I've been to the I.G.A. in North Brookfield several times. Nobody stopped me or even gave me a second glance." (Where was I?)
Although Mick Jagger did not think it was a big thrill, Eve and I felt it was the thrill of a lifetime.
'Ordinary Person'. Eve summed up her thoughts and feelings this way. "I did not know what I was going to say to him but I could not just smile. When I met him, talking came easy. He was so nice, just like an ordinary person, except he wasn't. I loved the way he talked. It wasn't like the way he sings. It was with so much more authority. I do not think he could have left a better impression if he were a bigger star. To me he is the greatest."
Monday, Sept. 21, will always stick in my mind. I did not know what to expect, but I left with a very good impression of him. He was an ordinary person. He seemed interested in us as we were in him. I thanked him for giving us the interview. It was an experience that I may not get to do again in my lifetime.
Now I can say that if I do decide to be a reporter, my first interview was with a legend, Mick Jagger.
4.Appendix D.>Wire-copy news ASSOCIATED PRESS WIRE-COPY NEWS Week of Monday, 14 September, 1981
(WORCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS) � WHEN IT COMES TO THE ROLLING STONES, THE SHOW MUST GO ON. THAT'S THE WORD FROM WORCESTER RADIO STATION WAAF, WHICH HAS OFFERED TO PAY THE NINE THOUSAND DOLLAR BILL FOR EXTRA SECURITY AT TWO PROPOSED ROLLlNG STONES SHOWS IN BOSTON THIS WEEKEND. THE RADIO STATION SPONSORED A STONES CONCERT IN WORCESTER MONDAY NlGHT THAT TURNED OUT TO BE ONE OF THE WORST KEPT SECRETS OF THE YEAR. THE CONCERT CLUB ONLY HELD 300 FANS � AND FOUR THOUSAND PEOPLE SHOWED UP OUTSIDE. BOSTON POLICE CHIEF JOSEPH JORDAN SAID YESTERDAY HE WOULDN'T EVEN CONSIDER THE PROPOSED STONES CONCERTS AT BOSTON'S ORPHEUM THEATER THIS FRIDAY AND SATURDAY WITHOUT AN EXTRA 100 BOSTON POLICEMEN. WAAF GENERAL MANAGER STEVE MARX QUICKLY OFFERED TO PICK UP THE TAB FOR THE EXTRA SECURITY, MARX SAID WAAF ALSO PAID FIVE-THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR EXTRA POLICE PROTECTION AT THE MONDAY NIGHT WORCESTER CONCERT. BOSTON OFFICIALS WERE EXPECTED TO ANNOUNCE THIS MORNING WHETHER THEY WOULD GIVE A LICENSE TO PROMOTER DON LAW FOR THE ORPHEUM SHOWS. THE CITY TURNED DOWN A BID FOR A STONES CONCERT AT THE ORPHEUM IN 1978, AND THE VETERAN BRITISH ROCK 'N ROLL BAND HASN'T PLAYED THE CITY SINCE THE MID-1970's. ONE REASON MAY BE THEIR REPORTED DISLIKE FOR THE CITY'S MAJOR HALL, THE BOSTON GARDEN. A SPOKESMAN FOR THE STONES' RECORD COMPANY SAID TODAY THERE ARE STILL NO CONFIRMED NEW ENGLAND DATES ON THE BAND'S NATIONAL TOUR, WHICH KICKS OFF SEPTEMBER 25TH IN PHILADELPHIA. 9/16
(BOSTON) � BOSTON MAYOR KEVIN WHITE CONFERRED WITH BILL GRAHAM � THE TOUR PROMOTER FOR THE ROLLING STONES � FOR ABOUT A HALF HOUR THIS AFTERNOON. JOANNE PREVOST � WHO HANDLES LICENSING FOR WHITE � SAYS THE MAYOR TOLD GRAHAM THAT THE ORPHEUM THEATER WOULD NOT BE SUITABLE FOR STONES CONCERTS, AND THAT THE CITY WAS MAKING A SINCERE OFFER FOR USE OF CITY HALL PLAZA FOR A FREE OUTDOOR SHOW. MS. PREVOST SAYS GRAHAM MADE NO IMMEDIATE COMMENT ON WHETHER HE FELT THE STONES WERE LIKELY TO ACCEPT THE OFFER. MS. PREVOST SAID THE CONVERSATION WITH GRAHAM � WHO RAN THE FILLMORE EAST AND WEST ROCK HALLS IN THE LATE 1960'S � CAME AFTER WHITE ANNOUNCED HIS OFFER OF CITY HALL PLAZA AT A NEWS CONFERENCE. THE PLAZA COULD HOLD UP TO 40THOUSAND MUSIC FANS. TWO MASSACHUSETTS RADIO STATIONS HAVE OFFERED TO PICK UP THE SECURITY COSTS FOR THE SHOW. EARLIER TODAY, THE CITY REFUSED TO ISSUE A PERMIT TO THE BAND TO PLAY CONCERTS AT THE DOWNTOWN ORPHEUM THEATER THIS FRIDAY AND SATURDAY. CITY OFFICIALS SAID THEY WORRIED ABOUT SECURITY OUTSIDE THE 28-HUNDRED SEAT THEATER DUE TO CROWD PROBLEMS AT THE STONES' CONCERT IN WORCESTER MONDAY.
(BOSTON) � BOSTON OFFICIALS SAY THEY HAVEN'T OFFICIALLY HEARD YET WHETHER THE ROLLING STONES WILL PLAY A FREE CONCERT IN GOVERNMENT CENTER ON SUNDAY. BUT RADIO STATION W-B-C-N SAYS IT HAS, AND THE WORD ISN'T GOOD. W-B-C-N SAYS IT'S TALKED WITH TWO PEOPLE CLOSELY LINKED TO THE STONES. PUBLICIST PAUL WASSERMAN SAID "THERE WILL BE NO STONES CONCERT IN THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE." AND BILL GRAHAM, WHO'S RUNNING THE STONES' UPCOMING NATIONAL TOUR, CITED WORRIES OVER THE OUTDOOR LOCATION.
THE IDEA OF A FREE OUTDOOR CONCERT BEFORE SOME 40THOUSAND PEOPLE WAS PROPOSED TODAY BY BOSTON MAYOR KEVIN WHITE. THAT'S AFTER WHITE REJECTED THE ORIGINAL IDEA OF THE STONES PERFORMING FRIDAY AND SATURDAY NIGHTS AT THE ORPHEUM THEATER. 9/17
(BOSTON) � YOU CAN FORGET ABOUT A ROLLING STONES CONCERT IN BOSTON IN THE NEAR FUTURE. THAT'S THE FINAL WORD TODAY FROM JOANNE PREVOST � HEAD OF LICENSING FOR THE MAYOR'S OFFICE IN BOSTON. SHE TOLD A NEWS CONFERENCE THIS AFTERNOON THAT A FINAL ATTEMPT TO HAVE THE BRITISH ROCK AND ROLLERS PLAY A CONCERT MONDAY NIGHT AT THE FOUR THOUSAND SEAT METROPOLITAN CENTER IN BOSTON'S THEATER DISTRICT HAD BEEN REJECTED BY THE BAND. MS. PREVOST SAID A LATER CONCERT AT THE BOSTON GARDEN WAS STILL A POSSIBILITY DURING THE STONES' NATIONAL TOUR. BUT SHE ADDED "AS FAR AS I'M CONCERNED, FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE, THIS IS IT."
(BOSTON) � NOW THAT THE ROLLING STONES HAVE TURNED THEIR BACKS ON THE IDEA OF A CONCERT IN BOSTON, THEY'VE AT LEAST BEEN LOOKING ELSEWHERE. LOWELL CITY MANAGER JOSEPH TULLY SAYS A REPRESENTATIVE OF STONES' PROMOTER BILL GRAHAM TOOK A LOOK AT THE MEMORIAL AUDITORIUM YESTERDAY ABOUT A POSSIBLE CONCERT SUNDAY. BUT LOWELL ASSISTANT CITY MANAGER JAMES CAMPBELL SAYS DON'T HOLD YOUR BREATH. HE SAYS A CONCERT IS UNLIKELY BECAUSE OF PUBLICITY ABOUT IT TODAY IN THE "LOWELL SUN." CAMPBELL TOLD W-E-E-I RADIO "ONE OF THE AGREEMENTS WAS THAT NOTICE OF THE EVENT WAS NOT TO BE LET OUT UNTIL ONE OR TWO O'CLOCK THIS AFTERNOON. BOTH PARTIES AGREED TO THIS." BUT HE DIDN'T SAY WHEN A FINAL DECISION WOULD BE MADE. 9/17
(LOWELL, MASSACHUSETTS) � AFTER BEING REJECTED BY BOSTON OFFICIALS, THE ROLLING STONES HAVE PROPOSED PLAYING A CONCERT SUNDAY AT THE FOUR-THOUSAND SEAT LOWELL MEMORIAL AUDITORIUM. LOWELL CITY MANAGER JOSEPH TULLY CONFIRMED THAT A REPRESENTATIVE FROM THE OFFICE OF THE STONES NATIONAL PROMOTER BILL GRAHAM TOURED THE AUDITORIUM YESTERDAY, DISCUSSED TICKET DISTRIBUTION AND POLICE PROTECTION. HOWEVER, ACTING LOWELL POLICE CHIEF JOHN SHEEHAN HAS SENT OUT A LETTER OPPOSING THE CONCERT DUE TO POTENTIAL SECURITY PROBLEMS. LOWELL OFFICIALS SAID A FINAL DECISION ON THE CONCERT WAS EXPECTED LATER TODAY. 9/18
(LOWELL) � THERE'LL BE NO ROLLING STONES CONCERT IN LOWELL THIS WEEKEND, THAT'S THE WORD FROM JACK REILLY, CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD OF TRUSTEES OF THE LOWELL MEMORIAL AUDITORIUM COMMISSION. THERE HAD BEEN SOME TALK ABOUT A STONES CONCERT AT THE FOUR-THOUSAND SEAT AUDITORIUM. AND THAT'S THE PROBLEM . . . THEY TALK ABOUT IT. THE CONCERT ORIGINALLY WAS GOING TO BE A LOW-KEY UNANNOUNCED EVENT. BUT WORD LEAKED OUT TO THE MEDIA YESTERDAY AND THAT IN TURN LED TO QUESTIONS BEING RAISED ABOUT CROWDS AND SAFETY. THE CONCERT HAD BEEN OPPOSED BY LOWELL'S ACTING POLICE CHIEF, JOHN SHEEHAN, WHO WAS CONCERNED ABOUT POTENTIAL SECURITY PROBLEMS. 9/19
(PROVIDENCE) � A CONCERT BY THE ROLLING STONES PLANNED FOR TONIGHT IN PROVIDENCE REPORTEDLY HAS BEEN CANCELLED BECAUSE OF ADVANCE TELEVISION PUBLICITY. THE PROVIDENCE JOURNAL-BULLETIN QUOTES AN UNIDENTIFIED SOURCE CLOSE TO GEMINI CONCERTS INC. AS SAYING THE SHOW IS "DEFINITELY OFF." GEMINI HEAD FRANK RUSSO SAID, "THERE NEVER WAS AN ANNOUNCEMENT, THEREFORE THERE WAS NO SHOW." TWO PROVIDENCE TELEVISION STATIONS REPORTED LAST NIGHT THAT THE ROCK BAND WOULD GIVE A CONCERT TONIGHT AT THE 35-HUNDRED SEAT OCEAN STATE PERFORMING ARTS CENTER. A MAN WHO IDENTIFIED HIMSELF AS A MEMBER OF THE BAND'S ADVANCE CREW TOLD THE JOURNAL-BULLETIN THE GROUP FEARED ADVANCE PUBLICITY WOULD DRAW A LARGE CROWD THAT MIGHT CAUSE SECURITY AND SAFETY PROBLEMS. 9/19
(PROVIDENCE) � THE ROLLING STONES, UNABLE TO ARRANGE CONCERTS IN BOSTON OR LOWELL, APPARENTLY TURNED TO PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND AND APPARENTLY MET A SIMILAR FATE. A STONES CONCERT PLANNED FOR TONIGHT AT THE 35-HUNDRED SEAT OCEAN STATE PERFORMING ARTS CENTER REPORTEDLY WAS CANCELLED LATE LAST NIGHT BECAUSE OF ADVANCE TELEVISION PUBLICITY. THE PROVIDENCE JOURNAL-BULLETIN QUOTED A SOURCE AS SAYING THE SHOW WAS "DEFINITELY OFF". TWO PROVIDENCE TELEVISION STATIONS REPORTED LAST NIGHT THAT THE BRITISH ROCK BAND WOULD GIVE A CONCERT. A MAN WHO SAID HE WAS A MEMBER OF THE BAND'S ADVANCE CREW TOLD THE PROVIDENCE PAPER THE GROUP FEARED ADVANCE PUBLICITY WOULD DRAW A LARGE CROWD THAT MIGHT CAUSE SECURITY AND SAFETY PROBLEMS. THE STONES AND BOSTON COULD NOT AGREE ON A SITE FOR A CONCERT. AND PREMATURE PUBLICITY APPARENTLY KILLED PLANS FOR A CONCERT IN LOWELL, MASSACHUSETTS. 9/21
(BOSTON) � THE ROLLING STONES MADE IT OFFICIAL TODAY. NATIONAL TOUR DIRECTOR BILL GRAHAM SAID THERE ABSOLUTELY WILL NOT BE ANY STONES CONCERT BEFORE THIS FRIDAY WHEN THE STONES KICK OFF THEIR NATIONAL TOUR IN PHILADELPHIA.
GRAHAM SAID NEGOTIATIONS WITH BOSTON OFFICIALS CONTINUED UNTIL LAST NIGHT, WHEN BOTH SIDES AGREED NO SUITABLE LOCATION COULD BE FOUND FOR THE BAND TO PLAY A SNEAK CONCERT BEFORE THE START OF THE TOUR. THE PROMOTER ALSO SAID ONE MEMBER OF THE BAND � WHOM HE REFUSED TO IDENTIFY � IS BEING TREATED BY A DOCTOR FOR A BAD BACK. AND THIS ALSO COMPLICATED ANY SUDDEN CONCERTS. GRAHAM SAID THE BAND HOPED TO PLAY THE BOSTON GARDEN AT THE END OF OCTOBER.
(BOSTON) � THEY WON'T PLAY NOW, BUT THEY MIGHT PLAY LATER. THAT'S THE FINAL OUTCOME OF THE MYSTERY SURROUNDING A POSSIBLE ROLLING STONES CONCERT IN BOSTON BEFORE THE GROUP LAUNCHES A NATIONWIDE TOUR THIS FRIDAY IN PHILADELPHIA. TOUR MANAGER BILL GRAHAM CAME TO BOSTON TODAY TO SAY THERE WON'T BE A GIG THIS WEEK. BUT HE ADDED THAT BOSTON HAS BEEN ADDED TO THE TOUR SCHEDULE. AND IF DETAILS CAN BE WORKED OUT, THERE WILL PROBABLY BE A CONCERT GIVEN AT BOSTON GARDEN. AT VARIOUS TIMES, THE STONES ATTEMPTED TO HOLD CONCERTS AT THE ORPHEUM THEATER IN BOSTON AND THE MUNICIPAL AUDITORIUM IN LOWELL. EACH PLAN WAS SNUBBED. AND GRAHAM SAID THE GROUP FINALLY GAVE UP BECAUSE OF THE LACK OF A SUITABLE SITE, ALONG WITH A BACK INJURY SUFFERED BY LEAD GUITAR PLAYER KEITH RICHARDS.
(NEW BEDFORD) � THE ROLLING STONES MYSTERIOUSLY CANCELLED WHAT IS PROBABLY THE LAST EFFORT FOR AN UNPUBLICIZED CONCERT IN MASSACHUSETTS BEFORE STARTING THEIR NATIONAL TOUR. THAT WORD FROM TOM SHIRE, WHO OPERATES THE STATE THEATER IN NEW BEDFORD. SHIRE SAYS THE CONCERT HAD BEEN IN THE PLANNING FOR THREE DAYS. SHIRE SAYS THE CONCERT WAS TO HAVE COME OFF TONIGHT AT HIS 800-SEAT FACILITY. BUT HE SAYS A GROUP REPRESENTATIVE CALLED HIM ABOUT EIGHT HOURS BEFORE SHOW TIME TO CANCEL OUT. NO REASON HAD BEEN GIVEN. THE STONES ARE TO BEGIN A NATIONAL TOUR IN PHILADELPHIA THIS FRIDAY.
THEY'VE BEEN REHEARSING AT LONG VIEW FARM IN NORTH BROOKFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS, BUT ATTEMPTS TO CONTACT THE GROUP THIS EVENING WERE UNSUCCESSFUL.
(WORCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS) � LEAD SINGER MICK JAGGER OF THE ROLLING STONES PREDICTED TODAY THAT THE ROCK-AND -ROLL GROUP'S FIRST U-S TOUR IN THREE YEARS WILL BE PEACEFUL. JAGGER MADE THE COMMENT AT A BRIEF NEWS CONFERENCE IN WORCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS, BEFORE DEPARTING FOR CONCERTS IN PHILADELPHIA TOMORROW AND SATURDAY. THE ROLLING STONES HAVE BEEN REHEARSING AT LONG VIEW FARM IN NORTH BROOKFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS. THE GROUP GAVE A WARM-UP CONCERT IN WORCESTER TWO WEEKS AGO, BUT SINCE HAVE BEEN DENIED PERFORMANCE PERMITS IN BOSTON, AND HAVE BACKED AWAY FROM RUMORED DATES IN OTHER NEW ENGLAND CITIES. 9/23
(NORTH BROOKFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS) � A SPOKESMAN FOR THE ROLLING STONES HAS DENIED A REPORT THE GROUP HAD PLANNED TO STAGE A CONCERT TONIGHT IN NEW BEDFORD, MASSACHUSETTS. TOM SHIRE, THE OPERATOR OF THE 800-SEAT STATE THEATER, SAYS THE STONES HAD CONTACTED HIM ABOUT PLAYING, BUT HE SAYS A GROUP REPRESENTATIVE CONTACTED HIM EIGHT HOURS BEFORE THE CURTAIN WAS TO HAVE GONE UP TO CANCEL THE EVENT. BUT A STONES SPOKESMAN, WISHING NOT TO BE IDENTIFIED, SAID FROM LONG VIEW FARM IN NORTH BROOKFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS THAT NO CONCERT HAD BEEN PLANNED.
5.Appendix E.> Stones Cinderella Story:A DREAM COME TRUE
A Long View Farm press release, 27 October, 1981
North Brookfield, Mass. A local college girl and Stones fan was selected among thousands and invited to visit with the Rolling Stones at their secluded rehearsal site in rural Massachusetts.
Carole Wegloski, 21, native of Fall River and a student at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, has related the details of her vain attempts to gain access to Long View Farm, and her unexpected selection by studio officials as the first and sole visitor to the premises of the studio during the stay in residence of the Rolling Stones.
"First of all, I offered in town to help deliver the liquor order, but the lady in the store named Helen said that wasn't allowed. So we went back (to the Farm) and got to know the security guards and a nice English guy named Alan."
"I don't know why they chose me," Carole continued. "All I know is that I got a phone call, that I had to go to a secret meeting, and that they'd send an airplane for me the next day that had a bar and a bartender in it. I was told I had to come alone, and that I couldn't tell anybody. It was great, just like James Bond."
Gil Markle, owner of the studio, confirmed that Carole had been selected with the help of security man Jim Callahan and general manager for the band, Alan Dunn. "She went in as the representative of several thousand hopeful fans who've come by the Farm since mid-August. She got a full tour, met most of the band, and got to hear some rehearsals on the new sound stage. She saw it all."
"The Stones are real people," Carole insists. "But it's so crazy up there, at the Farm. The phones are ringing off the hook, fan mail is stacked everywhere in piles, and people are trying every trick in the book to get in and see the band. I must have talked to Keith (Richards) for at least five minutes while he was making a Hot Toddy. Patti, his girlfriend, is really thin, just like Ron Wood's girlfriend, Jo. It's all the hype and the rumors and the myth which makes them seem not real. But that's not so. I saw them, and they're regular people."
Carole, who goes by the nickname "Wig," could throw little light on the Stones' penchant for surprise pre-tour performances in the area. "I didn't hear them talking about it, and I wouldn't say anything even if I did," she said. "All I can say is that they have a big map of the United States up on the wall in the kitchen, and that Massachusetts is bristling with colored pins. I think that must mean something."
Kathleen Holden, studio manager, ruled out the possibility of future surprise visits by fans. "This was Gil's idea, and it can't happen again. If Wig comes back herself, it will be to help out with the phones."
6.Appendix FMEMORANDUM.>(From Gil Markle to Alan Dunn) Ref: The Tennis Court Fiasco, August, 1981
Jim Dempsey, who is a staff reporter for the Evening Gazette (the P.M. version of the Telegram) has called to say that he too was outraged by the "Tennis Court" article, and is willing to cooperate with us, if we wish. (Dempsey was one of those who helped us last week by not writing a story.)
Presumably, the following points would be made by Jagger, and reported by Dempsey in the Gazette in an open and sympathetic manner:
(1) Keith Richards was not in North Brookfield on the Friday afternoon in question, and his name is spelled with an "S" at the end.
(2) the young lady whistled at on the bicycle was Solveig Fernlund, a staff member at the studio and a friend of the band.
(3) the cigarette of "questionable legality" was not his, Jagger's, but belonged to the autograph seeker instead. And it was a legal cigarette.
(4) Jagger wants to know whose question it was, concerning the "questionable legality." The observer in the car, Van Dyke? The newspaper's? In either case, additional corroborating sources should have been sought before publishing a statement strongly suggestive that Jagger committed an illegal act that Friday.
(5) The Rolling Stones are happy to be in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and are not at all eager to corrupt the local youth, contrary to the insinuations published by the Telegram.
We can also deliver friendly DJ's at WAAF-Worcester, and WBCN-Boston, in the event you wanted to do simultaneous radio.
7. APENDIX G.> Gil Markle An Interview by Henry Bergstrom Musician's November 1981
Thrust into national prominence when The Rolling Stones selected Long View Farm as the rehearsal site for their current tour, Gil Markle is no stranger to musicians in New England. As the owner of one of the top recording studios in the area, Gil Markle is a most successful businessman with keen observations of the music industry, both on a local and national level. In speaking with Gil it is easy to see that one reason he has become so successful is that he has the ability to put people at ease almost instantly. Visitors to his office or studio are greeted warmly and treated like his personal guests, regardless of how busy he might be. On the day we talked with Gil, the Stones were within a few days of leaving Long View for the tour and already a small crowd had begun to gather at the Worcester airport in anticipation of seeing the band.
GIL MARKLE: As far as the factors are concerned which created Long View Farm before the recording complex, they are personal in nature, financial in nature, and a bit having to do with luck and good fortune. But the personal components had to do with my upbringing which was at the hands of a man who was the chief engineer for NBC radio in New York City, my dad, Gil Markle, Sr. He was a fellow who used to bring me into New York when I was 2 and 3 and 4 years old and let me hang around with him in Master Control, where he had recently brought NBC nationwide as far as network radio was concerned. This obviously had a great and informative influence on me. My mother also was a well-known entertainer. She worked for Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey as a singer. Connie Gates was her name. And that's how my father met her and they married and I was their son. So it was no genetic accident that I found myself 40 years later doing what I'm doing today. I was around it all my life when I was a kid.
MUSICIAN'S: Were you interested in recording when you were young?
GIL MARKLE: No. More predictably still I went through a period of rejection where I felt that what my dad was doing and what my mother had done was the very sort of thing I wanted not to do. So, it took me a long time. I went to RPI as a physics major and I thought for a while I was going to be a pure scientist. I rejected that model fairly quickly at the time I got my Fulbright grant which took me overseas. And I went into a sort of humanistic phase where I wrote short stories and novels. This was in the early 60's. I became a Jack Kerouac type, a forerunner of the hippie, basically, a humanistic hipster you might say. And I rejected at that point anything I had taken temporary solace in at Rensselaer and thought of myself as a poet or writer instead. I was at the University of Paris then on a Fulbright grant. I got a degree in philosophy then from The Sorbonne; the University of Paris is where I had Fulbright. And this degree was won on a basis of a dissertation�Philosophy of Science basically�and that was my first postgraduate degree. It was either go into the Vietnam war at that time, which I didn't want to do, or to prolong my graduate school education, and I decided to do the latter � to prolong it. On the basis of my Fulbright, I was fairly saleable commodity within the education system as it existed then, and I accepted a handsome grant in aid from Yale University and went there to pursue my studies, now in pure philosophy.
MUSICIAN'S: Did you have any interest in music at all at that time?
GIL MARKLE: Yes I did. My younger brother had less successfully rejected the mold of his upbringing at the hands of our two parents and he was quite active then as a Rock and Roller. He was a good friend of Gary Wright's, well-known to you. They had a musical group together. Although that had since dissolved, Gary was overseas during the years that I was overseas and I hung out a lot with him, Gary Wright. It was then that he formed his group Spooky Tooth that you may remember. And it was through Gary that I met and hung out with Jimmy Miller, noted producer, who was producing at the time a band called the Rolling Stones. And that was my first access to that group. The first time I met Mick Jagger and Keith Richards was at the Olympic Studios in London as a guest of Jimmy Miller and Gary Wright. So, no, I was sort of hanging out with these people all along, although I had adopted no purely professional interest in it. I wasn't doing it to make money or anything like that. After Yale, I went to Clark University as an assistant professor, and I taught there for 7 years. Towards the end of that period of time it was "Philosophy of Communications Media" which was, I found, the most exciting and there, I suppose, you could point out a very definite transitional period. Where as still a philosopher, I was now interested in the philosophy of non print media and magnetic tape in particular. I started collecting tape recorders, some of which I bought from Bill Riseman, then owner and proprietor of Aengus Studios in Fayville, Massachusetts, one of the great legends of the Boston musical community. It was Bill, I suppose, who ministered most closely over the actual transition phase between an amateur's interest in recording and in magnetic tape, and what has become a purely professional interest in that. I bought a lot of gear from Bill. He helped me a lot and inspired me in large measure, I'd be very quick to point out.
MUSICIAN'S: Did you make a conscious decision that you were going to have a professional recording studio, or did it evolve?
GIL MARKLE: No, it evolved. I made no conscious decision to leave my teaching and my preoccupation with my student travel business, the American Leadership Study Groups, which you may know something about. It was a decision that occurred one step at a time. ALSG had become a great success for me. It allowed me to quit my job teaching which I really, I think, wanted to do. I was a bright, young, but mainly dramatic bombastic professor, who put on a show rather than instructed by the book. And I'd been putting on the same show for 7 years. I won tenure in function of the entertainment value, I think, of that particular show. But the show was old and I wanted to do something else. So I took a sabbatical year from my teacher responsibilities at Clark to figure out what that would be. In any case, it was about that time that I bought Long View Farm, largely at the urging of Nancy Wilcox, a former student of mine, who was then my lover, and who wanted to live outside of Paxton in a more rural setting. She found the farm. I can remember assaying the location as a possible location for construction of a recording studio. Although it was not principally and uniquely with that in mind that I bought it, it was in the back of my mind. What was then in the back of my mind came gradually into the forefront of my mind as I started tearing out walls and ceilings. I borrowed fairly large sums of money. I gave a lot of that money to Bill Riseman, who gave me a 3M tape recorder that's still out there, and the Aengus board, which has seen now, well, I suppose ten years of service and hundreds and hundreds of recording gigs. That's in Studio B. All that gear, I bought from Bill is still working great, too. It has probably recorded more gigs than any other assembly of gear in the region.
MUSICIAN'S: How long ago was that?
GIL MARKLE: That was 1973 that I bought the farm. And by 1974 I was recording at the farm. When did it emerge with such clarity that I was building a recording studio which would offer a complete interpenetration of professional and recreational area? I don't know. We're still doing it, we're still tearing out walls and changing spaces around. I suppose it was in 1974 however, mainly when Jeff and John, John Farrell and Jeff Myers, came from Provincetown to help out. It became clear than that I was not taking any passive or amateur's interest in this project, but I was prepared to take it seriously. We had the place fairly well torn apart at that point. It was torn back to the walls, back to the beams. There was no wall that did not support weight at that point that we had not torn out.
MUSICIAN'S: Is that in the farmhouse?
GIL MARKLE: In the farmhouse. There had been some work done in what we call the cottage, where Bill Wyman is now staying, where we hoped to provide a little place for people to live who would be recording there. There was the germ on the concept of Long View Farm. It was 1974. A place where people could come and live in a gracious, perhaps even sumptuous environment and have access to state of the art recording gear.
MUSICIAN'S: Is there a personal philosophy that you have that could account for the success that you've had with Long View?
GIL MARKLE: It's hard to say. I mean, you're asking what is it, what slant on things, is responsible for our success. It would be difficult for me to say, since I'm probably not familiar enough with alternative modes to contrast them to the way we do things. We have a rule at Long View that the phone is to be answered in 2 rings. Sometimes it's not. The last month (while The Stones were in residence) it's rung on for considerably more than 2 rings. But I don't know. From what I hear about other operations, I suppose ours is a particularly crisp one, a particularly well disciplined one. We take it very seriously as though each phone call or each gig or each mix was the last phone call, gig, or mix that we would be making, you know. I suppose you would call that a species of professionalism. It's hard to take credit for that though, because I can't imagine doing it any other way. I can't imagine coming into a studio and not having the immediate attention of a studio owner or its proprietor or general manager or chief engineer, in order to show you around the place. I've been told that it's not always the case; that there's some facilities in which guests are not particularly warmly welcomed or treated as individuals or, in some instances, it's hard to get the chief engineer to take his boots off the console in order to show them around. I would say those are ways not to run a studio. I wouldn't say our escaping those pitfalls is exactly responsible for our success. Nor would I say our escaping those pitfalls guarantees success. There are certain obvious mistakes we've not made, let's put it that way. We've taken the gig very seriously.
MUSICIAN'S: If you were an artist or producer looking for some studio time, what would you look for, assuming you couldn't go to Long View?
GIL MARKLE: I suppose, to be very frank with you, I would want to know only that the people who ran the place were decent, attentive, and honest. And I would want to know the gear in the recording gear satisfied certain minimal technical specs � that the place was capable of making good tape. In that connection, I would want to be assured either that the engineer I was bringing in knew the room and had made good tape there before, or that the resident engineer was capable of doing so and would be sufficiently flexible and attentive to me in order to guarantee a professional product. I'd go there and see how I was treated. I'd ask to listen to tape and I would attempt to decide just how seriously I was being taken as an individual, on the assumption that on that occasion that I would be taken most seriously as a prospective client; even more seriously perhaps than the day that I was recording there. In other words, i.e., if I had trouble gaining any sort of satisfaction from studio personnel during my first visit, I would assume that things would have to be worse when I actually came back to do the gig. I'd want to feel at home, comfortable. I'd like the people to like me. I'd like to think that I like the people who ran the place, and I'd want to know that the studio was at least capable in principle of making good tape. I believe that almost any studio with any properly chosen tape machine and console is, and it's very difficult to make a mistake there, if it's a 2 inch tape machine and it's been properly maintained, that tape machine can make good tape. And if it's a multi-input recording console unless it's been extremely badly maintained and all the switches are noisy and the patch points dirty, that console can make a hit record.
I've never been terribly attracted to the super elitist view of gear, which maintains that the thing has to be 6 months old at the oldest and at the very cutting edge of the state of art in order to guarantee that I'm going to make a hit record. That's nonsense. The stuff has to be professional format and it's got to work, but that's about it. Any professional recording studio can make hit records. There's nothing magic about the brand of copper which distinguishes Long View Farm from, say, another recording studio around here; or any other two studios from each other. Copper's all the same. It's whether or not the atmosphere, the way the place is run, coaxes forth creative efforts on the part of artists and support staff who are working for the studio. If it does, then you have a shot at making apiece of tape that could become a hit record. If it doesn't, if that feeling of ambience and support and mutual creative effort is not there, then no matter how well you can play your guitar or how closely you can hit a note, doesn't matter. You're going to have an uphill fight. The place has got to feel right.
MUSICIAN'S: In your opinion, once an act finishes their tape, do you think they should look to get a deal with a major label, a smaller independent record company, or perhaps, put out their own record?
GIL MARKLE: There's nothing wrong with all of the above. You can do all three and just see what works. Needless to say, if a major label were to become so infatuated with an act as to cough up an advance of $50,000 and to put them into the Hit Factory in New York or another exciting studio, without tying them up contractually in such a manner as to ruin the remainder of their personal and professional lives, there's nothing wrong with a deal with a major. The fact of the matter is, that those deals are very few and far between. And this business about looking for that record deal, you know, like, "When I get a deal, will I get a deal"? This is rhetoric that doesn't have a place in the 80's. There are just not that many deals any longer, for better or for worse, although I'd be quick to say if someone were offered one, I would tell them to take it right away. But it's a question of realism whether or not there are such things out there, and there certainly aren't as many (record deals) now as there were 5 years ago or 10 years ago. To the contrary, the function of the A&R guy in a large record company now is precisely to keep the local bands on the sidewalks � to screen these people away from the label, not to gather them into it. They have no money to sign new acts. These guys are told don't sign anybody. And so it's not surprising to see the open reel tapes stacked up from floor to ceiling, the unlistened to cassettes lying around. They're not there to sign acts, they're there to maintain the public relations posture of the record company, which must, by its nature, be in contact with new and young aspiring acts without offending them. Stay in contact with them, but don't sign them. You can't sign them if there is no money. If there's no money, there's no one that is going to get signed. Well, right now there's no money, right?
Still, there's nothing wrong with major labels. They're in the record business too. As for independent labels, there are many people who are in the record business, like S. E. Music, our label at Long View Farm, who are not major labels, who are not even distributed by major labels, but who are nevertheless able to give voice, basically propagate a tape, in the form of a record, nationwide, or even among international record communities. The reason we started S. E. Music was that we were working with artists who did not have deals with major labels who nevertheless were making really good records that we could turn into money. So we just did it ourselves.. You can only cool your heels for so many years in these offices in New York City before you realize that the same amount of energy put directly into the dissemination of record product that you could make and even manufacture yourself, produced better and with quicker results. The same thing goes for putting the record out yourself. You don't even need the help of Long View Farm or S. E. Music, Inc. to put a record out yourself. It's very easy to do. You have to make a good tape. You have to make a good acetate out of it, and get a good test pressing from the manufacturer. And then, give them some money, and you get the records yourself. The point I'm trying to make is that doing these things with the records, once you get them, is the way that you would curry favor from an independent label that would bring you back into the studio, invest time and money in your act. Or, it's this way that you would attract the attention of a major label, if that's what you wanted to do. So the question is between major labels and independent labels, or just putting a record out yourself, and why you'd want to do that. The fact of the matter is, it doesn't make much sense any longer to take a demo that you've spent $1,000 or $2,000 making, and then spend another $400 making open reel tape copies of that demo and sending it out to RCA and to Atlantic and to other people like that, hoping that your phone is going to ring in the middle of the night, and a deal proposed to you. This is simply not going to occur. The deals aren't there, the money's not there. The tape is not even going to get listened to, particularly if it's sent out in open reel format. There's no way of bursting upon the music scene successfully on the basis of open reel tapes sent out in white boxes with labels on them. The effort has to be a deeper effort, directed more, in a more immediate sense, to the eventual market � the record buying public.
MUSICIAN'S: How do you promote your records that S. E. Music puts out? Do you have any particular formula that you use?
GIL MARKLE: Yes, mainly airplay. If you could get the record played by radio stations, then you can get distributors to accept records from you, and one stops to take shipments from you, and retailers to take shipments from you. And you can get your record and your music happening. Get it happening in the streets, directly. And that's the only way, right now, that a band is going to find itself with a national or international reputation. To tackle the markets directly, actually get the music into the streets. It turns out that it's not much more expensive, and in some instances it's even cheaper to do it that way.
Suppose you're spending $400 on copies and mailing of tapes that you'll never see again. Why not get 500 records that you can put in 150 jukeboxes and 300 radio stations for the cost of postage? That's one way of doing it. You can basically do all your AOR stations of any significance in the U.S. nationwide. There are 250 of them, right? You can add on 150 adult contemporary stations if you want, and you can test a song nationally; put it in the hands of every important disc jockey in the country for the same price you'd otherwise have to spend in order to get a stack of white boxes that you know are not even going to get listened to.
MUSICIAN'S: Shouldn't that be followed up?
GIL MARKLE: It's good even to follow up in advance, in the sense of sending out a little pre-mailing hype to the disc jockeys who are going to get it, telling them they're going to get it. This isn't cheap:: it costs, you know. 1st class mail is 20 cents a shot or something like that these days. And to send out the record, I think, costs $1.50 if you send it out properly, in a box. And it costs another $1.50 to phone. But, if you've spent several thousand dollars putting the act together, and several thousand dollars more recording it, it's silly to stop short of that point.
You can test a song nationally, touching all the important radio stations in the U.S. It's much easier than people think. People are needlessly mystified by promoting a record. The main and most important thing, is to have it in the form of a record. Records are played very easily. And it's the finished nature of a record, the fact that you can actually put it in a jukebox. You can actually have it sit around on a guy's desk. A finished record says this has been judged successful, that's what it says. A cassette or a tape tends to drag along with it the connotations of something that is still a demo, unproven, might be good, might not. Chances are it's not. If it's a record, chances are it's worth listening to.
MUSICIAN'S: What about distribution?
GIL MARKLE: There are countless distributors in the U.S. Some real big, some real small, some honest, some not so honest. There are a lot of young alternative distributors of new wave record product.
MUSICIAN'S: How do you find them?
GIL MARKLE: Well, if you've got an I.Q. somewhere over 100, and an afternoon to spend on the telephone, you could probably find out who they are. It's no secret about that either.
MUSICIAN'S: Is there any criteria you have to tell the honest ones from the dishonest ones? Is there any way you can tell whether or not a distributor is going to pay you for your records?
GIL MARKLE: There's no way of telling who's honest and who's not. If you have no expectations in that connection, if you simply don't expect to get paid for your records, but regard the records more as promotional instruments rather than as retail items, then there's no disappointment possible. I usually encourage people not to look to that manufacturer of their first, say, 1000 records for any financial return � any more than the same people would look for financial return from, say, printing up 36 open reel tapes. That's not the reason you're doing it. The reason you're doing it is to get your music directly out into the streets, on the radio, into the hands of the people who could eventually, were you to come up with something people found catchy, innovative, artful, creative, these are the people who would basically help you along in your career. It's a promotional effort, manufacturing a record in lots of 500 or 1,000, not a retail effort.
MUSICIAN'S: How about the Press? Would you advise musicians to send press releases out in addition to their records?
GIL MARKLE: Sure, it's easy, it's fun. It gives you a chance to practice your art in print, which still counts for something, or ought to. There are about 25 magazines, some large, some small, who will generally review a record and give you some outlet in print.
MUSICIAN'S: Is that what you do with S. E. Music?
GIL MARKLE: So many people were coming to us asking us to not just make a tape for them as a recording studio, but also manufacture their records for them, and promote and distribute these records among our friends, channels we have sort of carved over the years, that we set up a separate company to handle these requests. S. E. Music is a record manufacturing company, it's a publishing company, and, I suppose, you'd say record promotions company. We'll take a tape made at Long View, or anywhere else, for that matter, and we will see it manufactured in the form of either long playing records if it's an album, or a single if it's a 45 or a 12-inch EP. It doesn't matter. We do all of these things.
MUSICIAN'S: What to you think is the best format?
GIL MARKLE: The best sounding format is the 12-inch EP that plays at 45 rpm. That's the best sounding record, although it doesn't fit in a jukebox. The worst sounding is a 45, a regular 7-inch 45, although that still sounds really good. Better than the tape you made from, unless you made some mistakes manufacturing. And a LP sounds fine. In case, that's what S. E. Music does. It manufactures these records, using people we've come to respect, and as far as going the acetate is concerned, the cut, we generally use Bob Ludwig's firm, Masterdisc, in NYC. The cut is very important. That's a very critical stage � it's a stage that's often taken for granted. People say, "well, if it sounds as good as the tape, then that's good enough". If the record is mastered creatively, using the gear presently available, the record should sound better, not just as good as, but distinctly better. Once again, as in the case of studios, if the studio is outfitted professionally, it will make good tape -� if the cutting house has good gear, it will make good cuts. The difference is the help and the attention. The attentiveness of the people who work there. There are people who are using a lathe who will give you a good cut of your record. There are other people who, using the same lathe, will give you a spectacular cut of your record. The differences will be discernable on the radio.
MUSICIAN'S: How do you know who will do that?
GIL MARKLE: Well, it's easier once you have done it. You will have had good luck with certain people, and not such good luck with others. I would say, word of mouth is very good, the names you see on the back of record jackets that say "Cut By Bob Ludwig at Masterdisc", that's very important. Mainline industry clients are bringing in their tape to the guy for him to make records for them. The best thing is to go and not consign your tape to a mail order house in Texas or something, in return for 500 records 30 days later. They will do a cut for you, but their goal there is basically to eliminate spurious complaints from people who say "my record doesn't sound like my tape," so they make it sound exactly like the tape and never any better than the tape. You need to take it to a place yourself, where you can go in yourself, and have a relationship with the guy who is determined to make your record sound better than the tape. He will take a personal interest in making it sound better. Stay away from the people who want you to mail your tape in, they'll send you some records back and those are the people who don't care.
MUSICIAN'S: How about pressing?
GIL MARKLE: Pressing, we use a large Warner Brothers facility called Specialty Music in Olyphant, Pennsylvania, outside of Scranton. And then we'll take the records manufactured on behalf of our clients, and we will then give them to them for the trunk of their car, or we will keep them here for the purpose of promotional projects. And there's as many different promotional projects as there are clients. Some will be very happy if we just mail it to 75 radio stations here in the Commonwealth of importance, and mail to them only, and make some telephone calls on their behalf, period. Other people want us to test the record nationally for them, in which case we'll do that. Basically we provide these services for the convenience of clients who already have done business with Long View Farm. That is to say we don't mark it up too much; enough to cover our own telephone bill and the cost of such marginal administrative support as required, but it's not in that sense a get rich proposition.
MUSICIAN'S: Based on what you have seen in the industry, do you think this is a time to put out a record?
GIL MARKLE: I think when times are bleakest, the ball is passed most predictably to the hands of the grass roots ball players. This is a rotten time for the record business, viewed in corporate terms. I think it's a very good time for the independents, and a particularly good time for a person who believes enough in his or her music to put his or her money behind it.
8.Apendix H.> HE PLAYED HOST TO THE STONES Gilbert Markle risked much to build a rock emporium By Daniel Golden THE BOSTON GLOBE November 11, 1981
NORTH BROOKFIELD When Gilbert Scott Markle was literary editor of his high school yearbook in Tenafly, N.J., he adapted its theme from Thornton Wilder's drama about an archetypical New Hampshire village, "Our Town." Markle solicited a photograph from Wilder for it, and the playwright later wrote to him, praising that 1957 Tenafly High School "Tenakin" edition.
The episode evokes Markle's lifelong curiosity about celebrities, gratified in spectacular fashion this summer when the Rolling Stones band lived and rehearsed for six weeks at his resort recording studio in the western Massachusetts hills, Long View Farm. It seems fitting that Markle, who used to lecture on image and perception as a philosophy professor and later risked his savings to create the rock emporium called Long View Farm, should host the world's most glamorous band. The experience cemented his fascination with hype and myth and solidified his position as an impresario-entrepreneur in the opaque world of rock at the age of 41. He stands to gain in prestige and money, adding to a fortune he gained in the early 1970s by establishing one of the first agencies for student travel and schooling in Europe.
"The psycho-emotional disturbance which hit this area was astonishing," says Markle, who bought Long View in 1973 for $125,000 and remodeled it with friends into a musicians' hideaway complete with sauna, recreation room and 24-hour hotel service.
"The Stones' stay changed lives and friendships," Markle says. "Even three-year-olds and geriatrics knew something was afoot. The Stones screened out the world and projected an image. What existed behind these barriers were Godheads."
Insiders say that the Stones learned of Long View from Peter Wolf, the Boston-based lead singer of the J. Geils Band and ex-husband of Faye Dunaway. Markle says he hurried back from a jazz festival in France on hearing about the mere prospect of landing the group for his studio. Even on a tentative commitment, he built a sound stage for them and only charged them the expenses � which ran into five figures -- of their stay.
At Long View, the five Stones remained oblivious to the outside world: in a typical scene, lead singer Mick Jagger tried on clothes flown in with their designer from Los Angeles on Markle's twin-engine plane as other Stones played pool. It was the harried Markle who hired guards to control groupies milling around the farm's picket fence day and night, and stonewalled reporters asking if the Stones would snub the Hub. But Markle gained stature as the Stones' host, which he expects to translate into more Long View bookings and clout for himself in the same way that his lavish press party for the release of a Stevie Wonder double album in 1976 put the farm on the music map after several years of struggling and sweet-talking banks into loans. Markle says that he "exits vertically from each episode of his life. He has risen from controversial professor in the 1960s to millionaire owner of a student travel agency and a unique recording studio in the 1970s, and he says that the Stones' patronage closes another chapter with a "personal triumph." The son of an NBC electrical engineer and a band singer, and the eldest of three children, Markle grew up in a home cluttered with recording equipment. He was exposed early to wealth and celebrity: Tenafly was a well-off New York suburb, and his parents worked with Joan Crawford and Frank Sinatra.
After high school, Markle won a scholarship to Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. His roommate, Eberhard Fetz, now a University of Washington physiology professor, says Markle listened avidly to rock music, and was a partygoer who dressed to kill and found dates for other fraternity members. "Even then, he was always interested in the best, and he had an enormous ego," Fetz says. Markle's academic career at Clark University in Worcester spanned from 1967 to 1974. The holder of doctorate degrees from Yale and the Sorbonne, he preached Canadian professor Marshall McLuhan's dictum that "the medium is the message." (A horse at Long View is named McLuhan.) Long View originated when Markle, returning to Clark University after a sabbatical on Cape Cod in 1972-3, found himself reluctant to take up lecturing again. He envisioned Long View as an experimental educational facility. Limited funds forced him to forget his higher motives and build a professional studio that has been a feast or famine proposition ever since. Although he rarely published scholarly articles and chafed at faculty meetings, Markle was tenured at Clark because of his extremely popular teaching style. He quit, he says, when lecturing bored him and the university refused to build a multimedia laboratory. During those years at Clark, Markle also expanded American Leadership Study Groups (ALSG), a travel-and-study-in-Europe program for high school students which he conceived after working as a tour guide for two summers. ALSG was sending 10,000 students a year abroad by 1975. Markle still runs ALSG and draws half of his annual income from the agency, but his passion for eight years has been Long View, where he runs a staff of 10 and sometimes works as an engineer during recording sessions, mostly for rock bands who pay thousands of dollars in fees to use the facilities. It costs $250,000 to $300,000 annually to maintain Long View, which contains two recording studios � 24 and 16 track. Markle says that the studio has earned a profit in recent years. Among musicians who have recorded there are the J. Geils Band � although their albums are mixed in New York � Arlo Guthrie, Cat Stevens, Aerosmith and the Paul Winter Consort. Markle also produces songs on the Long View label. Bands can tape for 10 hours in the 16-track studio and receive 1000 records for $1750. This deal resembles a "vanity press" arrangement, but Markle says that little known groups would not obtain a hearing otherwise. Markle has expensive tastes. He drives a black Cadillac, drinks vintage wine. He owns a home in Truro � a place he calls his retreat � and a plane which he once made available to several Clark professors to fly to the inauguration of a former colleague as president of Queens College in New York City. Last year in New York, he impulsively took his high school English teacher to the Russian Tea Room for caviar. Perhaps influenced by his many trips to Europe, Markle values politeness and breeding. He condemns poor behavior in others as "a gross breach of taste" or "the kind I had only encountered in soap operas." Some friends with romantic temperaments view Markle as a Byronic hero, a charismatic sorcerer � the "man of wealth and taste" in the Stones' song, "Sympathy for the Devil." They emphasize his ego, ambition, industry and charm. He is also known for business acumen and skill at delegating authority. Critics say he is a hustler and manipulator of the press. "He'd send out press releases naming a celebrity who'd been to Long View," says one competitor. "When you looked behind the headlines, the guy stopped in for 35 minutes to see a friend." Reports complain that Markle, although friendly, is less than straightforward. For example, Springfield Daily News rock critic Chris Hamel wrote that he delayed breaking the story of the impending Stones' visit in July because Markle � afraid that publicity would scare them away � promised him an exclusive interview with Mick Jagger later. It never took place. Markle says he had no authority to guarantee an interview and, in fact, did not. Markle's lordly manners irritate observers who say that many big-city studios do more business than Long View, "Gil likes to think he's a big wheel, a Colonel Parker-type," says one music reporter airily, referring to the late Elvis Presley's manager. "But he's a pretty small peanut." Markle's marriage to a hometown sweetheart ended in divorce in 1970, in part, he says, because he met Nancy Wilcox, then his student at Clark. He and Wilcox, while not married, have two children, but he concedes that Long View Farm has strained their relationship. He visits them intermittently in Truro. Markle now faces the danger that the rock industry's slump will make luxury studios like Long View less attractive to bands. Thomas Crosthwaite, the former general manager of Intermedia, a top Boston studio, says, "Resort studios are obsolete. The days of idealists buying farmhouses and putting studios in have been superseded by economics."
But one Long View asset is Markle's lifelong familiarity with the music business. As a boy, "The conversation he heard was always about bands," says his father, Gilbert Markle, 78, who used to hold his son on his knee at the NBC control panel.
9. Appendix I.> 'IT'S FRENZIED, IT'S CHAOTIC, IT'S AMAZING, IT'S INTENSE:' LONG VIEW FARM, THE NEW LEADER September 24, 1981 N. BROOKFIELD By Michael Holtzman and Larry Lewis
North Brookfield � "It's frenzied, it's chaotic, it's amazing, it's intense," says Long View Farm manager, Kathy Holden, describing what it's like to have the Rolling Stones as house guests. "We worry that the garbage is going to be picked up, the grain delivered and here's these rock stars!" she says, still somewhat unable to reconcile the contrast after working at the farm the past eight years, during which time the biggest names in the industry have recorded there. And now the biggest. The Stones were set to leave the world-class recording studio in North Brookfield for their upcoming, much-publicized, American tour some time this morning. The still-to-be-finalized tour will commence Friday, Sept. 25 in Philadelphia. The only band to use Long View to rehearse, the Stones almost always began their nights of practice after midnight.
"We're used to backwards schedules of serving rock 'n' roll bands, sleeping all day and working all night. A rock 'n' roll band has its own special energy about it," says Holden. "when recording, there's a lot of pressure. You have to understand the tensions and pressures on them." Holden says she has sat in on a rehearsal only once, for a half-hour during a party situation. She adds, without the experience of having served some of the biggest names in the recording industry, Long View would never have been prepared for the intensified atmosphere and schedule demands presented during the six weeks the Stones have been there.
"This morning I went in at 7:30 and Ron (Wood) and his wife and Ian Maclagan (touring keyboard player) were up. This was for them the end of the night. After finishing their work they're ready for a party night. Keith (Richards) and Ron don't get up till 10 p.m. She says, "Mick's habits are very regular." He wakes up in the early afternoon, jogs, lifts weights. "He's into vitamins and good foods. A healthy sort," laughs Holden, picking up the British lingo.
"I come from the farm, (about 10 p.m. since the Stones arrived) and sit upstairs. When I hear them start up playing, then I can go to bed," says the 35-year-old Holden. "I kind of sleep to the music." Home for Holden, her husband Kent Huff and 3-year-old son Robert is a comfortable, country home in New Braintree, conveniently, a couple of miles from the farm.
Huff, a musician himself, was one of the original founders of Long View and still works there in various capacities. Holden was a history and Latin teacher at North Brookfield High School in 1972 and began taking care of the animals, her own horses, cooking and cleaning at the 145-acre farm shortly after that. Managing Long View has simply evolved, as much out of friendship as anything else.
Believe it or not, there was a time just a few years B.M. (Before Mick) when many people had no idea that a recording studio even existed in North Brookfield. But recently, a barrage of media coverage of the Stones' stay in town has made Long View a household
word. Most articles or television spots, however, have made only a passing reference to the farm before moving on to describe the latest rumor concerning the group.
Even before the arrival of the British rockers on Aug. 16, most people thought Long View was inaccessible to the general public. Owner Gil Markle wants to see that image changed. "Lots of people think we're unapproachable," says Markle, a one-time professor at Clark University in Worcester. "I want to eliminate the myth of studio inaccessibility." Markle, 41, hopes to see more local talent coming to Long View, either to record demos or for more elaborate projects. "We're perfectly happy to record local bands," he says, "We're looking just to cover expenses for tape and engineers." Entering either of the two studios on the property, one sees why the farm has become so well-known and respected. The studios (one on the main floor of the farmhouse, the other in the barn) are equipped with 16- and 24-track facilities, including the capacity for a computer-controlled M.C.I. mixing consoles, huge monitors and hundreds of switches, lights and meters. Jesse Henderson, a well-known musical engineer from Boston, is responsible for the technical studio operation. Each studio has two rooms separated by glass panes. One room houses the recording equipment; the other is filled with amps, guitars, mikes, etc., for the musicians.
"What you see here is a state-of-the-art," says Markle, who notes the necessity of having top-flight gear to attract name acts. Besides the Rolling Stones, the J. Geils Band (having recorded their Sanctuary, Love Stinks and a soon-to-be-released album here), John Belushi (Blue Brothers), Aerosmith, Arlo Guthrie, Pat Metheny and many others have brought their music to Long View. Closer to home, a number of Worcester-area groups and artists have done work at the studio, including Joanne Barnard, Dream Flight and the popular group Zonkaraz. One of the more unique features at Long View is its ability to house any recording entourage on site. An average of 8 to 10 persons stay at the 19th century farmhouse when recording and more can be accommodated if necessary.
The Stones had one major request after long-time "Sixth Stone" Ian Stewart and Alan Dunn, the group's executive administrator who has many roles in their production, visited Long View a couple of weeks before the group arrived. They wanted a rehearsal area larger than the 24 by 30 and 24 by 15 recording studios that are available.
With a three-week, around-the-clock work force of carpenters, masons, electricians and other crews, Long View fulfilled the request. In a huge three-tier hay loft, they constructed a professional 38 by 27 foot hardwood floor, exposed beam stage which is built up 5 feet from the ground level of the top floor and looks down two levels to a completely open lounge and brick fireplace.'
We were always planning on building a stage," says Holden.
When Keith Richards came a week after Stewart and Dunn visited, Markle told him, "Why don't we build it (the stage) for you." Although it was still uncertain whether the Stones were coming � "you never know a group is coming until you see them in the flesh" (Holden) � Markle says he thought the offer to build the stage, equipped with 32 mike lines, "tipped it."
The Long View owner said the engineering and design of the stage will enable bands to record in a "concert format." I don't know of any other place you can record in a concert format," he adds.
Markle and friends, including Huff, John Farrell and Geoff Myers, who are still working at Long View, spent two years gutting and renovating the farmhouse and barn after Markle purchased the original property for $125,000 in 1973.
"We didn't realize what we were getting into. Had we realized what we were getting into, a rational man wouldn't have done it," says Markle, not really answering whether he would have.
As an antidote, Holden recalls Markle asking Farrell and Myers, who have done yeomen's work in reconstructing Long View Farm, if they wanted to "turn my dining room into a little recording studio." That was more than eight years ago.
Pointing to a section of the kitchen, Markle says, "There's George Hanson's barn." Markle and the group had helped dismantle the former selectman's barn for its wood, adding a beautifully rustic effect. Indeed, the house contains a startling combination of styles. Several rooms were left in a rustic appearance, in contrast to the recording area, which reminds one, at first glance, of the bridge of Star Trek's "Enterprise."
Markle, the holder of Ph.D.'s from the Sorbonne in Paris and Yale, also operates a very profitable overseas student travel agency. Based at Worcester Airport, it is known as the American Leadership Study Group. After deciding to get more seriously into his recording hobby, he purchased the former Stoddard Farm north of town. It comprises 145 acres and has always been known for its idyllic setting.
"Sure, the remoteness of the place is a marketing hook," Markle admits. "It has a mystique to groups who come here from all over." His investment in the farm pays off in part because it allows a visiting act to virtually have the studio at its disposal 24 hours a day. Groups can set their own schedule, as has been the case with the Rolling Stones. Uncharacteristically, the entire farm, including both studios, were shut down to any other musicians during the Stones' rehearsals.
Speaking from her home, Holden said she didn't know exactly how the Stones learned about Long View, but she said it might have been through Peter Wolf of J. Geils or through Belushi. She recalls that Jane Rose, Mick Jagger's secretary called in July and requested rehearsal rates for the band "based in New York, getting itself together." Rose was told Long View generally leases its studios, equipment and residential facilities for approximately $1,000 a day for 8 to 10 persons. Additional guests are extra. Rose was also asked, "Do you think it's too much for you?" Holden said she remembers there was an "energy over the phone" that was unusual for that simple, procedural conversation. When Rose called back and identified her interest for the Rolling Stones, the people at Long View went about arranging an informational exchange, including for the visits by Stewart, Dunn and Richards. According to Paul Wasserman, press agent for the Stones and the only non-Britisher with the band, "They immediately knew this would be the place."
In most of their tours in the last six years, the Stones have chosen remote, picturesque settings for their rehearsals, said Wasserman: Montauk, N.Y. in 1975, Devin, England in 1976, Woodstock, N.Y. in 1978; an exception was the 1976 European tour when the group stayed in a swank, Frankfort hotel under an assumed name and rehearsed near an isolated airport to keep their music audibly invisible.
Their coming to Long View Farm in North Brookfield, which has sumptuous lounges and recreational area, a sauna and Jacuzzi, riding horses and complete privacy for group members, as explained in its advertising literature, was in keeping with the stones' style and needs. According to Holden, while other studios in the East and West have comparable and better studios, equipment-wise, she says there is no recording studio she knows of in the country offering as complete a recording lifestyle as Long View. There is another facet to the Long View operation. Besides creating a recorded product, the studio has set up arrangements to distribute its own label through a company located in Switzerland then into most of Europe.
"So we're in the record business as well as studio leasing on a daily rental basis," says Markle. "They go well together."
Another harmonious relationship exists between Long View and the town of North Brookfield. Markle feels that the studio has a high profile within at least the immediate area, in the personal sense. Several hundred local people have been employed there over the last eight years, covering a wide range of mostly part-time jobs.
As an example, two young North Brookfield men, Reed Desplaines and Mark Robbins, who have worked at Long View for about a year, took care of the Stones' needs after
"business hours" and any immediate problems that occurred between 10 p.m. and 8 a.m. They also did much of the upkeep. Says Markle, "We buy all our materials in town, except for tape and recording equipment. So that's been good. We've had no problems with neighbors and have been treated with respect.
"We're very glad to be here." As to the effect the Rolling Stones will have on Long View Farm itself, Markle gave two conclusions, one practical, the other reminiscent of his years as a philosophy professor. "It's bound to increase our visibility and level of business," he said, first.
"But more importantly, the arrival of the Rolling Stones constitutes the end of a chapter for us. It's been almost a decade that we've been trying to bring bigger and better bands to Long View Farm. That compulsion has now ended. In that sense, the arrival of the Rolling Stones has set us free."
10.Appendix J.> 1981 THEY ROCK 'N' ROLL AT ALL AGES UP HERE THE NEW LEADER September 24, By Larry Lewis and Michael Holtzman
North Brookfield � There are Rolling Stones fans in every age group, it seems. In some instances, the respect which band members have earned from townspeople is based more on their personalities than the music. Jack Cutrumbes operates a farm "next door" to Long View Farm, just past the studio on the hillcrest of Stoddard Road.
"They keep to themselves," he says of the band. "They're down to earth, they're not snooty." Cutrumbes has met drummer Charlie Watts who, with Mick Jagger, has favored riding horses at Long View. "I thought he was just a horseback rider. He seemed like a nice guy. I talked with him a lot," Cutrumbes says.
"Then my son went to the show they put on in Worcester and there he was on stage. My son couldn't believe it," he adds. Cutrumbes explains that any problems he's had with Stones-watchers have not been caused by the younger fans. Instead, "It's the adults who defy you." He admits he's confused though, why people would want to stand in an open field in pouring rain for the chance to hear the group rehearsing. "That doesn't make sense to me. I'm not into this rock 'n' roll stuff." Ironically, Cutrumbes, at age 44, is almost a contemporary of the band in years. "I'm right up there with them," he says.
William Nelson lives on Oakham Road and has been jogging past the recording studio for five years now. He jogs or takes long walks every day, in fact, which is no mean feat for a 71-year-old. Nelson, too, has found himself caught up in recent events. He's met Mick Jagger. "He was nice to me," says Nelson, echoing an opinion of the singer often made. Nelson knows studio owner Gil Markle as well, and has been taking his camera along when jogging in hopes of getting a picture or two. "No, I haven't had any luck yet, but I'll keep trying," Nelson said earlier this week. At the other end of the age scale are Tim and Kim Perron of Rutland. Although Kim professes she's "not that much of a Rolling Stones fan," her husband, 22, is a die-hard follower. The Perrons have visited Long View where Kim was able to take pictures. They were also lucky enough to have been among the select 300 people who attended last week's warm-up show in Worcester. "It was an experience," remembers Tim. "You couldn't sit down, you couldn't breathe.
"It was great. It wasn't loud. They sounded like any other band, but because you knew it was the Stones�" his voice trails off. "Jagger took off his shirt and danced around. He was up for it," adds Tim, who notes he wouldn't go through the experience again, however, because of the size of the crowd. He also recalls, "We saw more people from the 1960s than the kids; 45- and 50-year-olds. I couldn't believe it."
He says, the show was "one of the best things to ever happen to Worcester.
"The best thing to ever happen to my wife and me was meeting Jagger." He says. "You can listen to the records any time but it's nothing like talking to him."
Perhaps the biggest stir in town was Monday when Mick Jagger casually walked into The Pub on Summer Street during the 6 o'clock news.
"He wanted a Heineken," explained bartender Joanne LeBlanc. "We didn't have any. Jagger settled for an Old Milwaukee draft," she said. He hung around for about an hour before the place began to fill up.
"I was so shocked I didn't do anything. I didn't want his autograph, I wanted a ticket," said Dave Lovett. Lovett sat in the stool next to Jagger and said he had seen the Stones' leader on TV a few minutes before he came in.
"My brother owns Poor Boys' and I was sitting right here when I met him," he said pointing.
"I knew he was going to come in here sooner or later," said Glenn Waugh, sounding like a sure-of-himself pub owner. "He was a regular guy. Arlo Guthrie was here playing poker with all the guys a year and a half ago."
Glenn's wife, Debbie, who oversees the operation of the bar, knew something was up when she left for home and saw two North Brookfield policemen near The Pub. She called the bartender from her house.
"Mick Jagger was here!" said LeBlanc.
"Somebody forgot their jacket down there?" asked Debbie Waugh through the bad connection.
11.Appendix K.> IT'S ONLY ROCK AND ROLL BUT HE LIKES IT THE NEW LEADER September 24, 1981 By Larry Lewis North Brookfield
Sitting comfortably near the fireplace in his home on Barnes Road, sipping coffee and listening to the stereo, Howard Ferguson appears the picture of contentment, befitting a man who is chairman of the town's Board of Selectmen. But the music chosen by Ferguson isn't the soft tones of WSRS radio. Nor is the topic of his conversation the latest figures from Wall Street. Instead, he is listening to Tattoo You, the newest album from British rockers the Rolling Stones. He can't hide his pleasure at the success of the group's stay in town at Long View Farm. In his capacity as a selectman, Ferguson has been monitoring events since shortly after the Stones' arrival on Aug. 10. "I didn't know they were here until about a week after they arrived. One day I was driving by the farm," he said, "when I saw a man in a jogging outfit. We started talking and became friends." The jogger turned out to be Jim Callahan who, with Bob Bender, make up the Stones' security staff. Callahan is described as "a fantastic person" by Ferguson. Since their initial meeting, Ferguson has visited the farm on several occasions, meeting lead singer Mick Jagger and key personnel. One night, he was introduced to Jagger at 2:30 a.m. "Security is very tight. You don't get to meet them by accident."
"Mick is a straight guy, he's great," says Ferguson. "He's very levelheaded. He's into physical sports, weightlifting � a very pleasant person.
"One day I drove by the farm and there were about 10 cars parked along the road." At Long View, Ferguson warned Jagger who had been preparing for the Stones' upcoming tour, in part, by jogging on local roads, that it might not be wise to jog now. "Jagger got into a car, drove himself past all the parked cars and nobody recognized him. He parked further down the road and jogged from there." Ferguson reflects, "For someone (Jagger) who's been through the ropes growing up, I've got to give him a lot of credit." In fact, the group's visit has done a lot to change Ferguson's opinion of them. "They've turned my whole attitude around," he notes. Ferguson emphasizes his wish to clear up what he feels has caused some confusion and bad feeling. An article in another newspaper, stating that the town's selectmen were against allowing the Rolling Stones to hold a concert for local residents, was misleading. "They (Stones) wanted to play in town but were concerned with how to set it up. The selectmen didn't give a definite 'No' to any request, because there never was a formal request from the group. We never gave a formal denial." "The chief (Police Chief Harbig Thomasian) and I worked on this. In fact, yesterday (Sunday) I delivered to the studio a petition with 126 names asking that a concert be put on. I haven't heard anything yet." On Monday, Ferguson was still hoping something could be worked out before the group leaves this week. Part of the reason the Stones wanted to put on a local performance for the town was reportedly to thank residents for their cooperation in accommodating the famous group. In general, townspeople have stayed away from the farm; most of those trying to get into Long View have been from outside the immediate area. "The biggest problem has been after the bars close," says Ferguson. Would-be Stones spotters have spent many a night parked along the back roads near the farm, hoping to hear the music drift across the fields as the group rehearses. "It's not a serious problem, however, Ferguson notes. "We've been very fortunate. People are curious, but they've moved when asked." If a local concert could have taken place, Ferguson would have expected it to be held at the elementary school. "It would have been totally unannounced, by invitation only," he says, while admitting that such a method might have created some personal headaches afterwards. Rumors that a show might take place at Poor Boy's nightclub in town were scotched by Ferguson, who explained that the club was just too small to legally allow enough fans inside.
Another problem would have been the question of where the crowd would go after the concert, both those who attended and those who couldn't. Reportedly, many people followed the Stones back to North Brookfield after the group played in Worcester last week. In any case, Ferguson says "The Rolling Stones have a tremendous amount of respect for the town. They love it here." Ferguson is obviously proud of recent events but doesn't believe the group's visit "is overwhelming to the town." He thanked local residents for not bothering the band during its stay. At one point, he notes, "I think I saw my family about two hours in three days." As side two of Tattoo You closes, Ferguson admits, "It's going to take a lot for me to forget this." Clearly, he has been affected by the sincerity of the friendships he's made during the visit, indicating how hard it is to say good-by to new-found friends. He jokes that he has become "a 37-year-old hippie" and suggests with a big smile that his guiding motto may become the well-known phrase "Crank it up."
"This is ridiculous, but it's fun."
12.Appendix L.> Time Out Long View Farm: It is really Something Else December 11, 1981 By Andree A. Belisle
Artists who record at Long View Farm in North Brookfield can do one of two things with their material: take it to a record presser to have several hundred discs made for demos or let Long View's own publishing company handle the details. The company's name is S.E. Music. Long View Farm's corporate name is T.S.E. Where did the name come from? "S.E. stand for 'Something Else,'" explained studio manager Kathy Holden, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "T.S.E. . . . stands for 'This is Something Else.' Most people, when they come here, you take them through and they say, 'Boy, this is something else.' That's how Gil got the name."
In a monastic setting, tucked away in the rolling hills of a Central Massachusetts community, lies a musician's retreat called Long View Farm, a recording studio seemingly carved out of the countryside. Situated on 145 acres of prime farmland, the studio has hosted such recording artists as the Rolling Stones, the J. Geils Band, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Stevie Wonder, Arlo Guthrie, Rupert Holmes and an apparently endless list of top names in the recording industry. The farm is the brainchild of Gil Markle, a former philosophy professor at Clark University who bought it in 1973. What began as a desire to combine a change of lifestyle with an intense interest in the field of recording soon mushroomed into a financially successful enterprise. Markle's concept combines the best of two worlds � work and pleasure. Long View offers a relaxed creative environment to anyone from a demo status musician to a superstar. The outward appearance of the former dairy farm gives no hint of the massive changes that have taken place inside the sprawling farmhouse and accompanying milk house and barn.
What was once a shelter for a New England farming family is now a professional complex housing two fully equipped studios (one 16-track and the other 24-track), while at the same time maintaining the charm and casual atmosphere of a secluded hideaway for the great, the near-great and the hope-to-be great.Markle, the 41-year-old impresario of Long View Farm, talked about the farm during an interview at his office at Worcester Airport. (He lives at Long View Farm.) He was dressed casually and his hands were in constant motion. He said the farm was intended as a home but evolved into a "facility that would be so attractive and work so well as to inspire others to come to use it.
"I thought at first that I just needed a room to keep a tape recorder or two," he said. "Basically, a large hi-fi set that I had in my home in Paxton. A slightly more professional place to put my speakers, tape recorders, things like that.
"But one thing led to another and pretty soon I was taking out walls and ceilings. Two friends of mine, Geoff Myers and John Farrell, who I had known for years in Provincetown, answered the call and came to help. "John and Geoff are both musicians and are very talented working with wood. And their addition to the team, to the project, helped a great deal that fall of '73. "In the back of my mind was the possibility that people might pay me to use Long View Farm for listening to and making their own tape. But it was in the back of my mind."Not until extensive renovations were made in the winter of '74 did it occur to Markle that "Long View was going to have a professional role to play in addition to being a nice place to live. "It had just gone too far. It was a hobby run amok. And something had to be done to rationalize the investment of time and energy and money." Ms. Holden, 35, has been affiliated with the complex in various capacities for the past seven years. Dressed in denim culottes, cable knit sweater and cowboy boots, she is typifies the feeling of down-home charm that pervades the compound.
During an interview at Long View Farm, she described Markle as "a person who knows how to use people's talents to create his own world."
"The business sense is definitely there," she says, "but there's more. He's got a certain charisma. This place could never have existed without him. Ninety-nine percent of the work might have been done by someone else, but he had that one element, that catalyst, for everything to happen. "It's not just the money. It's a certain magic, a certain insight, a vision of how things should be. More than just how the rooms would be or how the buildings would look. A philosophical idea of the place. An ideal environment, not only for the groups that come here, but for the people who work here. He made all that happen in a very special way." Markle's keen business sense is a vital factor in this industry, where the cost of producing a single major album generally is not less than $100,000. While there are no average costs for the total production of a tape, there is, Ms. Holden said, "A $50 hourly charge for the use of Studio B, and we generally get about $100 an hour for studio A. These are non-residential rates. For a residential rate, it comes down to about $170 an hour for room and board and complete lockout facilities for Studio A for about eight people. "As far as the rate is concerned, it actually works out to be less expensive to record here than in a studio in New York where you have to put the band up in a hotel." Unlike many recording studios that offer only the cold business atmosphere of a location in a creatively sterile concrete framework, Long View Farm offers an ambiance that is, at once, very professional and very homey. If an artist wants to record at 3 a.m., the staff is awakened and preparations are made to meet the needs of the client.
"In one sense, we are a hotel and a restaurant as well as a recording studio, Ms. Holden said. "A lot of times, people like to come here for R&R. They love to go horseback riding and boating or just walking and jogging in between rehearsals or taping sessions. It's very quiet here." The quiet of Long View Farm was interrupted recently by a visit by the Rolling Stones, described by some as the world's greatest rock 'n' roll band. Markle said the decision by the Stones to come to Long View Farm to rehearse for their upcoming concert tour was arrived at largely by word of mouth. He credited Peter Wolf of the J. Geils Band and John Belushi, bot of whom had recorded there and were friends of Jagger's, with influencing Jagger's decision.
"That was a very exciting period of time," he said. "People have said since, and accurately, that the Stones made the best, the most glorious, the most sumptuous use of Long View Farm to date.
"They used all the bedrooms, all the services of the staff, our twin-engine plane, our travel company. They used it all. It was a 24-hour-a-day proposition. The phones were ringing all 24 hours. There were many travel arrangements that had to be made on behalf of visiting set designers, makeup people, the various business contacts that surround the Rolling Stones. They came from all over the world to be available to Mick Jagger. Many of them stayed at the farm; many of them stayed at the Sheraton in Worcester, many of them stayed at motels in Sturbridge." While things have returned to normal at Long View, that period, according to Markle, was, "very demanding. We had to have people up night and day cooking, cleaning, answering telephones, keeping the grounds and perimeter safe and secure. "There were carloads of kids who came from all over the United States to try to see the Rolling Stones. They would all end up, at unpredictable times of the night or day, on Stoddard Road hoping that they could get a glimpse of one of the Rolling Stones." During this tumultuous period, Markle found it difficult to think about how he felt about this extraordinary event. But now he has started to write down his feelings based on some notes he took during the Stones' stay.
"I didn't have too much time to reflect on my own feelings. I've had more time since to do that. There was not much leisure for philosophical reflection during the stay of the band. It was basically working 20 hours a day.
"I've had time to reflect since and have had many thoughts about their stay, about what it means for a band like the Rolling Stones to command such attention from the world, such an outpouring of energy from hundreds of thousands of people who treat them as godheads, not as human beings."
The atmosphere on a recent cold New England fall day was quiet. Nevertheless, the interview with ms. Holden was interrupted by a steady influx of staff members who unhesitatingly stop in just to say hello or ask a question or relax for a moment or two. There is no feeling of being an outsider. Besides hosting superstars such as the Rolling Stones, Long View Farm makes it services available to novice musicians. Ms. Holden outlined the steps to be taken by the aspiring musician. "The first thing I ask them," she said, "is if they want to come and see the studio and talk about it. I ask them if they've played out before. I want to make sure they're ready to come in. That they're rehearsed enough, that they're tight.
"A lot of times you have people who don't know from anything when it comes to recording. They have a song they like that they wrote and they want to record it and they really don't have any idea of what's involved. And I try to get a feeling of how knowledgeable they are about what they're doing and whether this is the studio for them. I find out the name of the band, for example. That gives me an idea if there is a band. You get a lot of calls where it would just be a waste of time for them to come in and record. "They also have to have enough money. Some people figure you never really need even an hour to record a song. Generally, if they're serious enough, the band will come out to see the studio and talk with Jesse Henderson, the engineer."
"Talent is more and more a heavy criterion for success," said Randall Barbera, the general manager of S.E. Music and a former studio manager at Long View. "More so than it used to be. I'd say 50-50 with luck. A lot of people have big hopes, but their chances are very slim because of the percentages.
"But I try to encourage everybody that I talk to. Basically, I believe that if you're good and you stick with it, it will happen. It's just a question of perseverance.
"You just kind of have to wait for it to happen. When I say wait for it, I mean do everything you can to make it happen." Long View has made it happen. For Markle, the visit by the Stones' climaxed many years of toil. "It certainly is sure that we no longer have to worry about bringing a bigger or better rock 'n' roll band to Long View Farm," he said. "It's great to be freed from that particular compulsion. And it has been a compulsion, for the better part of a decade, to establish the success and image of Long View Farm in terms of the fame of those recording artists who came to use it.
"It's very nice to have made that point in a dramatic and conclusive manner. And I am very pleased that that chapter is now behind us." In a parting gesture to the Stones, Markle presented each member of the band and their entourage with Long View Farm jackets. He was rewarded when two members of the group wore their jackets on stage at a recent concert in Chicago. Since the Stones left, Long View has been host to Melanie, Arlo Guthrie and a number of "demo-status" musicians. Booked into Long View for 10 days at the end of this month is Bennie Strange and the Teterboro All-Stars, a rock ''''roll band out of the Midwest.
And what lies ahead?
"It's hard to say what will captivate our energies now," Markle said. "Suffice it to say that we are talking with some people about originating live television performances from Long View Farm." "Typically, it would be a band which would be using Long View Farm to make a record," he said. "During two days of a stay, they could create a live performance which would be beamed out instantly to the rest of the world." Markle and Ms. Holden are only two members of the staff of closely knit people that keep Long View Farm operating. Every person working at the studio is also a musician in his or her own right and all of them are in love with their professions.
As Ms. Holden said, "the place is really the sum total of the people here."
13.Appendix M.> ROLLING WITH THE STONES HARVARD CRIMSON November 5, 1981 By Paul M. Barrett
Last July, Long View Farm manager Kathy Holden got a call from the producer of a "new and upcoming band from New York," who wanted to rent out the rustic recording studio for six weeks. Eager for business, Holden tried to sell the unidentified rookies on Long View's economy package: play in the barn, don't run the horses too hard, and no seconds on dinner. "I didn't want to scare them away," she recalls with a smile.
The Rolling Stones weren't scared, and they opted for the luxury plan � sauna, Jacuzzi, and live-in servants included. Mick and the gang left North Brookfield in mid-September, when their current American tour began, but the crew at Long View still hasn't quite gotten over living with the greatest rock and roll band in the world. The attention from media and fans was only one problem; you can hang up on reporters and slam the door on sight-seers. But what do you do with a rambunctious Keith Richards at 4:30 a.m.? Long View owner and mastermind Gil Markle has never had anyone enjoy his hospitality with such determination. Anything but worried about their playing, the Stones left themselves plenty of time for the other type of R & R. Only they tended to begin right after breakfast time � about 2 or 3 p.m. � and continue well past the point when good little farm boys usually hit the hay. Almost without exception, the Stones lived up to their individual reputations while staying at Long View: Mick did the bossing, Keith did the boozing, and no one really knew what Bill Wyman was doing. And yet, as Markle and his employees portray the scene, there was ample evidence of the men behind the images.
Some of those characters are showing the signs of age a bit more than others, Markle says. Wyman, who turned 45 two weeks ago, has never been big on exuberance, and at this point "he's just not that interested in the rest of the band," explains the Long View landlord. Once considered shy and retiring, the bassist seems to have made the transition to thoroughly bored. "He is much more concerned with living a regular life than with being a rock and roller like the rest," Holden says. Charlie Watts, traditionally described as the other silent Stone, may be equally tired of the music, but "he's still willing to play in service of the myth" the band has built over 19 years of performing, Markle says. Moreover, Watts has retained his ability to function as part of the team, even when the team hasn't been together for more than three years. Those who sat in on the rehearsals at Long View agree that Watts' understated drumming keeps the group moving on stage as much as his modesty and sarcasm keeps the others on their toes at other times. For the few fans who follow Watts' career with any interest, let it be known that he still plays on the four-piece Gretch drum kit he has used since the early 1960s, and even in practice he refuses to stray far enough away from the beat for anything more than a few stuttering snare rolls. His mates, however, are not so steady; they played the whole time at Long View with a record player nearby and often had to stop and listen to a cut or two from Sticky Fingers or Let it Bleed to refresh their memories. While Watts spent time in the farmhouse kitchen, chatting with the cooks, or amusing Holden's 3-year old son, Mick Jagger oversaw the constant in-and-out flow of set designers, costume experts and record company executives. Described as an efficient businessman and an accomplished manipulator of personalities, he rarely feigned interest in things or people outside of his sphere. "We were too respectful of each other to pretend to engage in meaningful conversation," Markle says flatly. Jagger was the only band member at all aware of the furor the Stones created during their pre-tour tune-up. The group's highly publicized angst over whether to play a date in Boston "was almost purely a charade," says Markle. "They didn't give a shit if they played or not, if someone had told them to go to Providence or go to Boston, they would have." Most oblivious of all was Keith Richards, who seems to have best preserved the fire and spite that once characterized the Rolling Stones, "He carouses, brawls, and listens to rock and roll, except when he's playing it," says Markle, adding that most afternoons all the guitarist did was "drink vodka and lurch from one hi-fi to another." For six weeks, Richards never got further from the farm than the end of the gravel driveway. A familiar scene during the Stones' stay was Richards and fellow guitarist Ron Wood carrying on hour-long rough-housing sessions, stopping only to refill their drinks and turn the volume on one or more stereo systems a little higher. On the practice stage, though, Richards joined Watts as the musical task master, even filling in for Jagger when the singer forgot the words to a song. Markle says he would be surprised if the Stones don't return, pointing out that it had been seven years since the five of them sat at the same table to break bread. And, of course, if the Stones decide to take their rock and roll with them into late middle age, then Markle would certainly profit from being their New England bar keep. Whether everyone else at Long View would survive is another question, his manager says, adding that she used to be a big rock fan before the Stones onslaught, but now she's "beginning to listen more and more to classical music."
14.Appendix N.> THEY'RE HIS FAVORITE, NEXT TO THE BEATLES THE NEW LEADER September 24, 1981 By Larry Lewis
NORTH BROOKFIELD � By now, the world's greatest rock 'n roll band has probably left this town, having completed several weeks of rehearsal for their American tour which begins Friday in Philadelphia.
The temporary fame which the Rolling Stones have bestowed on North Brookfield has been international in scope. Many people, mostly from out of town, have tried to gain entrance to the focal point of it all, Long View Farm, the studio where the Stones were staying. Most attempts were unsuccessful.
And yet, a local man who has helped to ensure the privacy enjoyed by the group says, "To be honest, if I walked by Keith Richard (lead guitarist) I wouldn't recognize him."
It's not that Fred Slauenwhite of 99 School St. isn't interested in the famous group, "I've always liked the Rolling Stones. They're my second favorite band, next to the Beatles." It's just that, unlike many people, he seems a little less in awe of them. Slauenwhite is a member of the town's volunteer fire department and has been assisting local police in manning the roadblocks at the ends of Stoddard Road, where the studio is located. The roadblocks became a necessity on weekends, after long-whispered rumors about a visit by a group with the initials, "R.S." were proven true.
Slauenwhite explains that town police used a list provided by the studio to determine who could get through the roadblocks. "If your name wasn't on that list, the police would have the dispatcher call the studio to see if you could come up," he says.
Most of the time, the answer was 'No.' But it wasn't for a lack of trying on the part of the would be gate-crashers.
Slauenwhite recalls the time an attractive female showed up in a limousine. She gave a name, claiming that her father owned a limousine rental service supposedly being used by the Stones.
None of this proved to be true, and the woman was not allowed to go through the roadblock. "She left, drove around to the other end of the road and tried the same routine with a different name." Again, she had no luck.
Or the all-girl band which claimed to be recording at Long View "in Barre." Slauenwhite said Nelson Barrett, a part-time officer, suggested, "We'd better check up there to see if they've moved the farm."
In general, the police have been courteous to the fans, says Slauenwhite, allowing them to hang around the roadblock on the off chance of spotting a group member going through. This casual approach, however, didn't mean the police took their duties lightly.
Slauenwhite found himself running through the fields behind the studio, chasing after intruders, with local and State Police, as well as New Braintree police and the Stones' own bodyguards.
While the thought might at first seem odd, he says the police must entertain the possibility that someone could be approaching the studio with a more malicious intent than just getting an autograph. Reportedly, uninvited "guests" have been discovered inside the ground level of the barn which houses the soundstage.
Then there was the reporter from the London Daily Express who almost got himself arrested as a reward for his persistence. "He said he had a pass, but his name wasn't on the list. The studio said not to let him in. He said he'd badmouth the town if he didn't go through.
"The cops said they didn't care who he was; if he didn't leave they'd arrest him on the spot for disturbing the peace," Slauenwhite says. "He left."
Slauenwhite regards the bodyguards with much respect. "They're big; they are huge," he says, adding, "they're nice guys."
Like many people Slauenwhite does recognize Mick Jagger, the Rolling Stones' singer and main focus. He recalls saying hello to Jagger on the front lawn at Long View, "He turned around and waved to us."
Slauenwhite remembers another group member who left the farm "driving a beat up old Vega" into town for cigarettes. Like anyone else connected with Long View these past weeks, the unknown Stone had to leave his name with the police at the roadblock or risk not being easily let back in.
"Lots of kids have gone up to Green Hill (behind the farm) to listen at night when the group practices," says Slauenwhite, who was lucky enough to have heard the Stones rehearsing.
The 27-year-old Flexcon Co. employee says the Rolling Stones have been a great thing for North Brookfield, adding that more people in town should have received tickets to the group's Worcester appearance last week. Still, he maintains a casual attitude about all the hoopla.
"I've met Aerosmith and the J. Geils Band besides Jagger," he shrugs, recalling two other groups who have recorded at Long View Farm.
And referring to the studio's most recent and famous guests, he says, "Hey, they're here, they're here. Then they're gone tomorrow. I'm not going to change because of this. If everyone would think that way, they (the Stones) wouldn't have any problems."
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| JumpinJackFlash |
I read it all, it was quite good. "The Stones are coming, The Stones are coming." I think the only sad part is that his girlfriend Nancy left him. I don't see how she couldn't understand that he would be busy, and providing a stepping stone for their future. After all it was her Idea to make a studio. It's not like he was sleeping around on her, I hope she's freezing in that tee pee now with that Bennie guy. Still though, I like reading stuff like that, good read, thank's. |
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