Hittin' the Note

It is far less conspicuous to crash a party by yourself than arriving with someone else. The key to successfully crashing a scene is to always remain circulating, while exuding the air of a confident host overseeing his own dinner party. In nature, no creature is a better survivor than the three hundred seventy five million year old shark. They must constantly swim to keep the water passing through their gills or they literally die from drowning. By always being on the move everyone assumes you must be a friend of someone else since you aren't speaking with them directly. Or, at least they assume as much.

Sprawled across Skip's floor in the old Sig house, Mona Man fires up a bowl. The bong passes around the horn. Major Strausser. Alpo. Griff. The cross legged circle is consumed by a dense billowy cloud of smoke. Alpo's face contorts with stacatto spasms exhaling broken shards of gray haze. Tears streak down my cheeks and onto the filthy apple green shag carpet. "Ramblin' Man" blares from a Marantz stereo in the background. Allman Brother's coming to town this week. Pretty sure it's Friday... I catch a gleaming squint through the reeking fumes of conspiracy.

September 1973. My first two weeks of college at UCLA and I'm already bored and trying to get kicked out of the joint. Without rhyme or reason, my new college buddies and I are cutting all classes, rolling down the hills of Westwood toward the freeway and the Fabulous Forum to the band's sound check.

The Forum used to be easy to access during the day. We simply drove around the backside where a large rolling door opened up to a hangar sized loading area. A big moving truck is surrounded by a number of vans and other vehicles. Roadies are carefully lowering equipment down to their compadres. There is absolutely no security in sight anywhere. I saunter right in. As I walk through a darkened narrow hallway, I suddenly breeze passed a familiar face. I think to myself, "Shit. That's Bill Graham." I enter into a well lit room where Dickie Betts is standing in a small group. He's only about 5'9", absolutely thin as a rail and his acne pocked face looks worse in person than in his photos. Then again, maybe it's just the poor overhead lighting making everyone look unhealthy with a greenish pallor. In any event, a few of the guys cast a glance toward me.

Not wanting to stand out anymore than already, I ask where to find the road crew. Dickie says to go out to the stage area and ask for Twiggs. I tell him thanks and as I walk away, the curious eyes quickly forget me and return back to their conversations. I cross through the backstage area skirting behind the concourse and enter the cavernous arena. It really is quite enormous. And -- yes -- it is fabulous. Zeroing in on the tweakiest looking guy on stage, I introduce myself to Twiggs. Wrong dude it turns out. Oops. Nice to meet you, Red Dog. Beautiful Southern, Gothic ginger hippie with flowing red main and beard, trailer park white trash. Sleeves rolled up, veiny forearms covered in prison tats tell the story of a misled life on the road that I am desperately running headlong toward in a dead sprint. In short, my kinda guy. In a whiskey gravel scratch, he asks, "Who the hell are you?" Without so much as a blink on my part, I say something right because in about two minutes I'm helping unload amplifiers off the back of a moving truck. I hit the jackpot.

That evening's show is a benefit for the North American Indian Foundation. It seems just about everyone in the band has a little bit of Cherokee in them. Afterward, the greenroom is laid out with a terrific buffet spread. The big deal for these southern boys is the Colorado Kool Ade chilling under ice in the tubs. Yeah. These are the days before Coors beer is distributed east of the Mississippi. These guys love Coors! The band is on the road with Marshall Tucker, an outfit out of Spartanburg, South Carolina. Filling out the bill is San Francisco's own Boz Scaggs, who I've known on and off for about four years. A former girlfriend of mine had run off with his keyboard player, Joaquin. I end up becoming pretty tight with Boz's head roadie and younger brother, Mark.

Begin the Beguine

Let me assure you, Artie Shaw earned his Lothario tag! While attending UCLA during the 1970s, I lived across the hall from Artie in an apartment complex on Kelton just off campus in Westwood. Amazingly, even though he was in his mid 60s at the time, he maintained a steady stream of stunningly beautiful, young women running in and out of his place at all hours.

UCLA enjoyed a well deserved national reputation for its ravishingly lovely female population. So it seemed only natural for the Casanova of his generation to set up shop within steps of the dormitories and sorority houses. A veritable stable for the old stud retired to pasture. And, he was in great company. Hugh Hefner had already reached the same conclusion a few years earlier when he ditched Chicago's dreary winters for balmier climes at his Playboy Mansion West in Holmby Hills just a few blocks away. It was little wonder I never heard Artie practice his clarinet. Not once! When could he possibly manage to find the time in his hyperactive social schedule with all of the demands?

I share these reminiscences on the occasion of Artie's newly remastered compilation release, which is an absolute must have for aficionados and neophytes alike. Shaw was the "it" guy of the Big Band era. Known as the "King of the Clarinet", Shaw's creativity and virtuosity of playing made him stand out from many of his contemporaries, including fellow clarinetist and "King of Swing" Benny Goodman. Shaw: "Benny Goodman played clarinet. I played music."

Throw in Ava Gardner, Lana Turner and Evelyn Keyes as three of his eight uber trophy wives and you begin to understand the dynamic charisma of Artie Shaw's megastar celebrity during his hey day. Five Stars says it all. Go check it out. *****