4 Breakfast in Nudie Suits Hollywood Exit 5

CAST OF CHARACTERTS
In alphabetical order,
Mike Bloomfield- musician, bandleader.
The Blues Magoos- band; psychedelic-pop.
William Briggs- musician, piano, hot rodder.
The Byrds- band; folk-rock.
Freddie Cannon- teen-pop star.
Jon Corneal- musician, drummer.
David Crosby- musician, Byrd.
‘Indian Ed’ Davis- musician, guitar.
Brandon DeWilde- actor, Broadway, Hollywood, closet musician.
Ian Dunlop- artist, musician, narrator.
Peter Fonda- actor; Hollywood.
Chester Fox- manager, promoter.
The Flying Burrito Brothers- roots band, hard working-short lived.
Mickey Gauvin- musician, drummer.
Dennis Hopper- actor; Hollywood.
The International Submarine Band- band, pre-country-rock.
Bobby Keys- musician, loud sax.
Buzzy Linhart- musician, eccentric.
Arthur Lee- musician, Love.
Junior Markham- musician, dust-bowl blues.
Hugh Masekela- musician, producer.
Mimi- groupie.
John Nuese- musician, upside-down guitar.
Gram Parsons- musician, songwriter.
The Remains- America’s lost band.
Leon Russell- musician, producer.
Lawrence Spector- manager.
Barry Tashian- musician, songwriter, campfire cook.
The Turtles- band, chart toppers.
John Zacherley- TV Vampire.
Plus many others who show up along the way.
6 Breakfast in Nudie Suits
T he sleepy engine wakes and coughs into to a willing Bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-
bum-bum. I’m ready to go. After handshakes, hugs and good-byes, I climb into the
microbus and open the sliding the window.
“See ya, somewhere in the land of a million items.”
“Good luck, I hope you find it,” Brandon laughs.
“Thanks, I’ll send a postcard from the desert.”
“’Bye.”
I coast down Waveview Drive, turn up onto Topanga Canyon road and start heading
east, away from the Pacific Ocean, California dreamin’ and my Hollywood hangover.
Winding up through Topanga Canyon, I pass a dumpy looking roadhouse-bar, the
Topanga Corral, a place I had played a dozen times or more during the last year. It’s a
great morning for leaving California. Spring is the season to turn over new ground,
plant seeds, watch ‘em grow and mature, bear fruit.. or, is it vegetables? Either one
would be fine.
The old VW bus is rattling along, it’s slow but it seems to be going okay. It went fine
a few weeks ago, when I drove one hundred and fifty miles up to Lake Isabella, in the
Sierra Nevada foothills, to go camping with Gram Parsons for a couple of days. He
had just come back from a short tour with the Byrds and we had always wanted to see
Bakersfield, even from a distance. It was really just a dusty, big farm-town but, in the
past, we had held it in over-glorified esteem because of the mid-60s country music
that came out of there. The Bakersfield Sound had inspired us when we were in the
International Submarine Band and had begun a bizarre adventure into country music.
The run up to Lake Isabella was fun, Gram and I had enjoyed seeing each other again,
talking, catching-up and it was the trial run for the rebuilt VW engine.
Near the ridge, just ahead, is Mulholland Drive, the twisty hill top road I used to
drive, late at night, after a gig on my way home to Laurel Canyon. I’m not taking it
today. I’m not going back to Laurel Canyon. I’m going to skirt round the Valley, head up
to Palmdale then over to Cajon and we’ll probably get to Joshua Tree by mid-afternoon.
I’ll be glad to get out there, after that, who knows what route we’ll take. It could be
anywhere, as long as it’s east of LA.
My buddies, Barry and Briggs, are on the road up ahead of me driving their ancient
Chevy panel van. We’re going to try and stay together or, at least, hope to catch sight
of each other, over the one hundred-and-seventy-five miles on the road today. Both of
the funky vans are at least twenty-five years old and cost about two-hundred-dollars
each. We fixed them up, got enough work done to make them legal and hope that they
splutter their way across the U.S.A. We’re not rushing. We’ve planned to stay in the
Hollywood Exit 7
slow-lane for awhile, the three of us have had enough of Hollywood. It’s time for recess.
The Flying Burrito Brothers are on-tour, well, more of a pilgrimage really.
I got the itch to get on the road and get out of Hollywood a couple of months ago.
One day I had gone over to visit Gram and while talking with my buddy over a couple
of beers I began thinking about getting out of town. It’s funny how you can see what
you’re really feeling after that second beer.
Afternoon Los Angeles sun dazzles me driving down from Laurel Canyon. I fish around
in the glove compartment trying to hook some shades, cross over Sunset on to Sweetzer
and park a few blocks down. Up the steps to the second floor apartment, I knock.
“Hey. Come-on in.”
“Hey man. Good to see ya.”
“Yeah, yeah. How ‘bout a beer?” Gram offers, opening the fridge. “Let’s see. M-m,
yeah, here a’ those li’l culprits, hidin’ behind the orange juice. Mexican, ya want a
Mexican?”
“Sure man, sure.”
“So, what’s happenin’, how ya doin’?” He asks as he pops off the bottle tops.
“Ah, okay. Okay, ya know.” I took a swig of the Dos Equis.
“A-a-ah, yeah.” We pull out a couple of chairs and sit down at the table. “We had a
weird time, last night. Weirdness, man!”
“Hey that’s what we’re here for, weird times. Were you guys doin’ a gig?”
“Yeah, out at that place in south LA, Peacock Alley.Y’ know the place, didn’t you
come out once, when we were there awhile ago?”
“Um, which one was it, that place down by Watts? With the Burrito Brothers?”
“Yeah, that’s it. We just finished another week there, shit. So, last night we were
driving back, about two-thirty, an’ just down the block there was a guy, lyin’ right in
the middle of the road. Drunk, shot, O-D’ed, dead? I don’t know. We didn’t stop, there
was a bunch of guys over on the sidewalk, just didn’t look too cool. Down the street
a bit more, there were two cops hasslin’ a couple of black guys, you know, pushin’
them up against the wall. What a place! A bit later, we’re at a stoplight, an’ get this, two
guys come up to the van and started yellin’. They looked crazy. Wild hair, wearin’ army
jackets, one of them had a gash on his face. I mean the whole side of his face looked
smashed-up. They were grabbin’ at the door handle and one started reachin’ ‘round
behind him like he might have had a gun or something, we just floored-it and went
right through the red light. Jesus! It’s like a battlefield at night, sometimes.”
“Hey, that’s what happens when you go out of Beverly Hills. There’s just too much
heat under the soup and it’s always boilin’ over. Makes you want to stay home, jump in
8 Breakfast in Nudie Suits
bed an’ pull the covers over ya head, huh.”
“Yeah. Man, LA is a fuckin’ crazy place.”
“And getting’ crazier everyday,” Gram agreed. “You know that place, The Prelude, out
in the Valley, where you guys play sometimes. Well the guy downstairs was out there
the other night, he went and saw a, sort of, psychedelic blues band playin’. An’ after the
gig, he’s out in the parking lot, he hears an engine start-up and this chocolate-colored
Cadillac comes roarin’ across the parking lot. No lights, he has to jump outta the way
and it doesn’t stop, it just crashes into the back wall. The front end goes right into it,
like it’s cardboard, and like, breaks through, sticking right out onto the stage! He said he
couldn’t believe it. The car door opens and this tall, oriental-lookin’ babe gets out and
she’s not hurt or anything. She just looks around, like turns around a couple of times
and wobbles on her stilettos. She pulls out a cigarette and says, ‘You got a light?’ He’s
just standin’ there with his mouth open, like still shakin’. She’s got a long silver lamé
scarf, an’ she wraps it round her neck a couple times, gets back in the car, pushes in the
lighter, slams it in reverse, burns rubber, screeching, backing the Caddy outta the wall!
She stops, lights-up her cigarette, then peels outta there with the bumper draggin’ an’
sparks flying everywhere. The only thing she cared about was lightin’ her cigarette!”
“She musta been loaded, or full a coke.”
“Hey, she’s just tryin’ to have a night on the town in LA.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“So what’s up with you, did you finish-off the recording?”
“Um, well, hm, the recording. I’m really finished with the recording, in more ways
than one,” Gram replied, rather mysteriously. “Somethin’ else has happened. It looks
like I’m gonna be doing something with the Byrds.
“No shit! Really? Since when?”
“Well, I’ve met with them a few times, played some things, you know.Yeah, I’m
tryin’ to get them into country music, we’ll see. They’ve got another album to do and
they need somebody since Crosby left. I told them that I’d want to do some of my
songs though. We’re talkin’ about it.”
“Hey that’s great! Yeah, great. Wow! What about the Submarine Band album, what’s
gonna happen to that?”
“Well. Corneal and the other guys are still hangin’ in there. There might be some
tracks to finish up. It’s, sort of, up to them, if they wanna pick-up the ball and run with
it. I gotta go see Larry to find out about some legal stuff.”
“Ha, I’ve got an appointment with Larry too. Next week. It might be about some
acting work or something. I did some last week, as an extra.”
Hollywood Exit 9
“Acting. Hey! Its Hollywood.” Gram used one of our favourite catch phrases,
applicable to almost anything.
“Yeah, yeah. The work was really stupid. With Tim Conway, ya know from that TV
show, ah, whatever it was called, um, Gilligan’s Island, no another one, a-ah.. whatever.
I sat around for hours, waiting for the scene, bummin’’ cigarettes from a make-up
man, who maybe thought I was comin’-on to him. They got to the scene I’m supposed
be in and the guest star, Nancy Wilson, gets to her spot and the director doesn’t like
the color of her dress! So they stop everything and we have to wait around for another
hour while someone goes out to find her a new outfit. When they were ready to roll
again, it really didn’t look any fuckin’ different.You know, like so what! The show was
completely dull, the comedy routines and the script were so bad that they’ll probably
have to use canned laughter.”
“Har-har-har-har.”
“Yeah. So, I don’t know, that’s show biz.”
“An’ long may it reign.”
“All hail, Holy Hollywood.”
“A toast to the entertainment industry!” We clinked our beer bottles together in salute.
“I went out to the desert about a week ago. Just drove out there and stayed for the
afternoon, out by Joshua Tree.Ya know it’s so big and, well, calm. I just didn’t want to
come back. I’ve been thinking about getting’ a camper or a van and a tent, just to go
out somewhere like that and stay for a bit.”
“Ian, you’re always pissed-off with LA,” Gram laughed.
“Yeah, I ought to take a break. It’s getting crazier every day.”“Well, all I can
recommend is to have another beer and we can cry about it.”
I like distance driving, I always have. I drove out to LA in early ‘67 when we moved
out to Hollywood. We were in a rush then, there were already potential gigs in the
pipeline and interest in The International Submarine Band from the music people,
managers and record companies. We had stopped at Nashville on the way to California,
just to get a little taste of the country music capital but that was the only deviation from
the beeline to LA. Driving across America is always such a wild trip, an experience full
of weird, wonderful sights and places, a draining but elevating journey on that long
road. I had done the drive across a couple of times before. I was seventeen the first time
and that trip was like a ritualistic passage from Boy to, not quite, Man. A ceremony,
appropriate in the early ‘60s for space age American kids and reverential to the country
where the car is king, or, at least if not a reigning monarch, a cherished member of
your immediate family.