(part 31) CHRIS DUCEY BECOMES CHRIS LUCEY ?

Sunset Blvd. and Clark 1965

There was a new feeling in the air. It was different from when I had been in LA in 64. It was partly due to the wave of British bands sweeping across America, but there was something else, something completely new about the atmosphere around the Sunset Strip and West Hollywood.

I began to notice that people were more open and friendly than they had been in 64. There seemed to be a genuine interest and level of acceptance between people on the street who were strangers. Instead of just ignoring each other, they actually were taking time to stop and communicate. Petty differences seemed obsolete, while curiosity in and about others, seemed to be taking the lead.

You could quite literally walk outside, not knowing anyone, walk from Sunset and La Cienega to Sunset and Clark, where the Whiskey A Go Go was, and have a whole new set of friends. Really! It was a trip! And words like trip, groovy, right on, it's boss, far out, etc., were all being born out of this new sense of community. It was happening in a lot of places all over the country, but it would be a while before everyone knew how powerful and wide spread this social movement really was.

The world was being changed, right before my eyes. LSD was something I started hearing about as soon as I got out on the streets. Rumor was that you could find God on this stuff and alter your consciousness for the better. Almost immediately, I forgot about my losses and began to assemble a new personality, mixing the British pop scene, where I had just been, with newer elements of the psychedelic world springing up around me.

Color and design began popping up everywhere. Peace signs were a new and powerful reminder to people, that a war was going on, and the country was taking sides for and against it. "Make Love Not War" was one of the best slogans I have ever heard in my life, and was something 10's of thousands of young and not so young people practiced religiously, myself included.

A new phenomenon called "Hippies" began appearing everywhere. Young people, who thought dancing to good music, smoking weed, and making love, far out classed the typical get a haircut, a job, and join the army generation. These two factors would eventually clash violently, on Sunset Blvd., in and around Pandora's Box and The Fifth Estate, which were roughly located at Sunset and Crescent Heights Blvd., about a year or so later.

Everywhere I went, people were talking about music and new groups that sprung up like flowers out of the pavement. You could get some people together and just make a tape and walk in to countless record labels in Hollywood and get the damn thing released as a record. It was fantastic! Up at the Whiskey A Go Go, Johnny Rivers was doing live afternoon shows and killing em.

This would soon give way to bands like The Byrds. But I don't want to lose sight of my own story here, because just before this new wave of bands came ploughing through LA, there was a transition period. In between Johnny Rivers and The Byrds, I had begun to meet a lot of people, and one of those was a girl named Pam Burns. I don't recall how exactly we met, we just met. That was the way of it then, you just ran into people everywhere and got to know each other, it happened all the time.

Pam worked at Mira Records, a company that was started by Randy Wood, who at one time had been president of Vee Jay Records. He had offices on Sunset Blvd, west of the Whiskey and Pam was one of his personal secretaries. Pam liked me a lot and learned about my past quickly. She remembered the Billboard ads and asked me where I'd disappeared to. I told her the story and she couldn't understand how someone like me had just come along and then just vanished more or less.

I told her that I didn't know either, but that's what had happened and here I was with not a goddamn thing to show for it and no work. I played a lot of songs for her, so she knew I could write and sing and wasn't just some over hyped no talent ass hole. She said she wanted to talk to Randy Wood about me and see if she could get him to give me a shot at working on this project of his, that had run into contractual problems with an artist he'd recorded an album with named Chris Ducey. I told her thanks and to let me know if anything came up.

(part 30) THE WOMEN AND THE STREETS OF HOLLYWOOD

Community.livejournal.com/ photo

I still remember that moment like it was yesterday. Staring at my suit case and guitar case, wishing I didn't have to lug them around, but having no place to leave them. So there we were, me and the 2 cases. I stared at the blacktop, covering Ben Franks parking lot, thinking about how warm it was compared to London. I was over dressed for Southern California, but couldn't do anything about that either.

If I took off my suit coat, I still had to carry it, or keep and eye on it, so it just seemed easier to leave it on. For the last year and a half I had stood on stages in front of thousands of people, been on television in two different countries, hobnobbed with the rich and famous, been written about, photographed, and recorded. Now, I was just alone, standing in a parking lot with nowhere to go.

It was a moment that froze in time, when you realize clearly, that there are, and will be, no guarantees about anything. I was yanked out of my dreamworld, literally, by the sound of a girl's voice asking, "Bobby?" I turned in the direction of her voice and tried to figure out who it was. To this day I cannot remember her name. I am sorry, she may have saved my life, at the least, she certainly made it easier.

I didn't recognize her, but she knew me. "Yeah," I said, "it's me." "Wow you look great," she announced. "Like one of the damn Beatles," she said. "Thanks, I just got back from London." I replied. "What were you doing there?" she asked. "Making records with Mick Jagger." I said. She stared at me like I was from mars, trying to incorporate what I had just dropped into the conversation. "Really," she responded, not too sure I was telling the truth, "What was that like?"

"It was OK I guess, but it didn't really work out too well." She had no idea of what I was talking about. "So what are you doing here in the parking lot? Why didn't you go inside?" She asked. "I just got here, just a little while ago." I said, "I was trying to figure out what to do." "Well where are you staying, are you here in town?" she asked. "I don't know." I said. "I don't have any place to stay." She looked straight at me and said, "My girlfriend and I have an apartment just a couple of blocks from here, you can stay on our couch if you want?" I still remember the relief I felt when she said that, like a boulder had been lifted off me. One problem solved! "Yeah, I answered, that would be great if, are you sure it's ok?" "Sure it's ok, my room mate will love you."

This moment in my life proved to be the beginning of how I would live in Hollywood and the surrounding area for the next 20 years. It was the women of Southern California that saved my ass, literally, over and over again. I lived with them, I loved them, I fought with them, I got loaded with them, and every other "with them" you can think of. If it were not for them, I would be dead, period.

I bonded with so many different women in those 20 years, that it would be close to impossible to recall or remember each one of them. But as far as I can tell, not one of them ever hated me and there are none that I ever remember hating. To the contrary. I am still coming across many of them, because I am writing this, and because of the internet in general. Some of them, from 30 and 40 years ago. They tell me stories, send pictures they still have, and all kinds of wonderful things. For this, I am extremely grateful and happy. I'm sure the possibility still looms large, that I have yet to encounter some, who may not hold me in high regard. This too, I will accept willingly.

After settling in on the couch for a day and having a place to stash my stuff, I hit the streets. I had to get out and get something going. I was used to having a plan and then acting on it. If no one was looking for me, then I'd go look for them. If no one knew who I was, and they didn't, then I'd tell them. It was like what I used to do, before Tony Alamo found me. Just get out and circulate, like me and Danny Whitten, Billy Talbot and Ralph Molina used to do. Find out where the action was and go there and stay there.

(part 29) NO ONE TO SAY GOODBYE TO, NO ONE TO SAY HELLO.

Ben Franks coffee shop on Sunset Blvd.

I boarded the plane at London's Heathrow Airport and looked out the window at England for the last time. There wasn't anyone to see me off, and no one was waiting for me back in America. Other than looking like a "pop star" I was again the boy from Tucson, Arizona via Geneva, Illinois, who played songs he wrote on a guitar in his bedroom.

I was leaving with nothing more than 2 failed records and 2 dismal British TV appearances. I was the has been that never was. The big hype! Mr. publicity and not much else. It was a strange feeling to have done what I had for the past year and a half and to now be leaving as if nothing had ever happened.

I had no idea at 20 years old what this all meant. I had no money, other than about $20, and no plan for what to do when I got back to the U.S. No one on earth knew where I was at that moment, and most likely didn't care, with the exception of my own family who didn't know either. I hadn't called anyone and asked for help, because I was too ashamed to.

I believed they thought I was doing great so I couldn't tell them I was coming back a failure. The use of the word failure has caused some people to scold me after having read what I have written. But "failure" is what I was. I hadn't succeeded at getting anywhere. I had just made a lot of noise, and got my picture taken, and my name printed. There was no hit record, no money, and no anything else.

Hell I couldn't even find someone to take me to the airport. So if the word "failure" is out of place I'd like to know what else to put in as it's replacement? I had not succeeded. Where I come from that is known as failing. I also learned "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again." I had every intention of trying again.

I didn't exactly know how at that moment, but I believed that Bobby Jameson would come up with something just like he always had. It was like some sort of magic with me. Something I couldn't explain, but something that I relied on no matter what the conditions around me looked like.

I landed in New York City many hours later and got off the plane. I had a layover until my flight to LA so I was put up for the night in The Americana Hotel. After getting my room straight, I went down to the bar to try and get a drink. People stared at me because I looked the way I did and they thought, well you get it, they thought what they thought. I was dressed in a suit so I looked pretty good and had no trouble getting a drink at the bar. I was 20 years old but no one asked me for any ID.

I was standing at the bar by myself when two couples started watching me and whispering to each other. They'd look over at me and then laugh. I guessed at what they were saying, and eventually they came over to where I was and one of the guys said, "You're one of them aren't You?" "One of who?" I asked, "Oh come on now," said the guy, "we know who you are."

I started to correct him and say he'd made a mistake, but stopped because he wanted to buy me a drink. Hell, I didn't have any money and I wanted to drink, so I said "OK!" I'd been speaking with more of an accent than I'd realized from living in England for nearly a year, and coupled with the way I looked, they'd mistaken me for one of The Beatles.

We were all getting along famously, but as I drank my southwestern accent began to emerge. All of a sudden this guy starts accusing me of being a liar and tricking all of them into believing that I was somebody that I wasn't. It didn't do any good for me to explain. They were just pissed off and insulted that I'd duped them into believing something that wasn't true.

The following day my plane landed in Los Angeles. I arrived at LAX with zero fan fare. Nothing! No one to pick me up and no one to say hello. I will never forget it. Just the sense of aloneness, like I didn't exist. Just another body pushing along through the nameless crowd to I didn't know where.

I took a bus transport to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel for $3, it was all I could afford. I wasn't going to stay at the hotel, it was just the closest place to Sunset Blvd. where the bus stopped. Once there I got a taxi cab, another 3 bucks, to Ben Franks on the Sunset Strip near La Cienega Blvd.

I got out of the cab and told the guy driving I was broke and couldn't tip him while I paid the fare. He was a black guy and told me not to worry about it, that he understood. I watched him pull away and then turned to look at Ben Franks. I had no money and no where to go. I had no one I could call and no plans. I was just there, standing like a statue, in the parking lot of that coffee shop. I didn't know what I was going to do or where I was going to sleep that night. I just stood there and didn't move for a long time.....

(part 28) BOBBY JAMESON Fab Magazine 1964

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(part 27) LOOKING BACK AND MOVING FORWARD

8th week Billboard ad campaign with Tony Alamo

So there I was. After 3 records, with 3 different labels, in 2 different countries, I hadn't made 10 cents. The only one of the records that had really done well was "I'm So Lonely" which I wrote, arranged, sang, and produced. Somehow at 19 years old and turning 20 I was blamed for each and every failure that occurred. Tony Alamo, Andrew Loog Oldham, Brit Records, Lee Karsian, and his rich British friends who'd walked out, were all blameless according to them.

Still in a foreign country without so much as lunch money, I was concerned with my tenuous circumstance. I analyzed the closing chapter of my English experience and my overall career to date. Whatever the final outcome was to be, I felt, and still do, I deserved more credit for persevering than I have ever received.

I learned it's easy to blame the artist for failures rather than admit to any yourself. It was management, producers, and record labels who were responsible for many of the failures, but it is Bobby Jameson that they blamed. Be that as it may. I was headed back to the USA with only a tarnished reputation to show for the prior, nearly year and a half, of the Bobby Jameson story.

I would ask that the reader be somewhat patient with me, as I am experiencing dreadful headaches, and find it somewhat difficult to remember and write clearly my experiences. I have tried to highlight specific parts while acknowledging that many details have been omitted from these writings, though nothing of a pertinent nature has been left out. Admittedly I could have done many things better, looking back, but I and the reader have to keep in mind that I was only 19 years old and completely inexperienced.

I had no lawyer, no manager, and obviously no friends by the time I left England. I did the best I could at the time of these events.

Here are the facts...

Bobby Jameson and Tony Alamo. No contract of any kind. That includes publishing. I never signed away the rights to any of my songs to Tony Alamo or anyone else who may be claiming to own my songs or any one of the songs that I recorded while with Tony Alamo and Talamo Records. That would include Kim Fowley Music, who claims to own "I Wanna Love You" which he does not. I reject his claim outright.

Bobby Jameson, Andrew Loog Oldham, and Decca Records, no contract. I have never been paid one penny for the record I made with Andrew Oldham, Mick Jagger, and Decca Records. I never signed a contract with anyone at any time regarding the record "All I want Is My Baby/Each And Every Day." That record has been released numerous times as a single and as an addition to numerous albums world wide in 44 years.

Bobby Jameson and Brit Records. Probably some sort of an agreement made with a 19 year old kid under duress, on foreign soil, with no legal representation at the time of the signing. Questionable at best. I have never received any compensation from any source at any time for this record and song other than my rent was paid and I was fed while working for Brit Records. Again, Kim Fowley Music claims ownership of the song "Rum Pum Mum Num." I reject his claim outright and claim all rights to my song and performance.

As I relive these facts from my past, and attempt to clearly detail those events here, I am forced to examine how it is that not one penny in royalties for writing/publishing/and or performances has ever been paid to me, or seems to be of any consequence to those who shared in the responsibility of the events that occurred. I have never made a penny from any of these recordings or songs, or spoken to, or been contacted by any of those involved.

(part 26) AMERICAN POP STAR GOES HOME A FAILURE

It was a big deal to both Brit Records and the TV show's producers. I'd crossed some line that you don't cross according to all of them, and they were not going to stand for it. They demanded an apology from me and went on and on about how much they'd done for me, and how insensitive I was and this and that and... That was it! I kind of lost it at that point, because all I'd heard for over a year was how much other people had done for me, as if I hadn't done a goddamn thing.

I told Chris Peers, who was the big cheese ball at Brit, that someone should have told me about what they were planning to do on the TV show before I got there, so I might have had an idea of what to expect before they dropped it on me at the last minute. "I thought it was a bullshit idea Chris," I said, "but nobody asked me. You guy's all expect me to do what ever you say and that's it. Well I guess you know now that's not just it."

I laid into him pretty good at that point and aired some of the feelings that had been building up for a long time. "When I was in America," I said, "I was singing live on stage in front of thousands of people. Ever since I came to England all I do is go in the studio and then on TV. I told you guys that "Rum Pum" was not the right song, but you wouldn't listen so I did it your way." "Look Bobby," said Chris, "We told you in the beginning that we at Brit thought it was the best way to to things. To gain a commercial success with a song like "Rum Pum," and then you'd be able to do the kinds of songs that you wanted to do."

"Well it's not working out Chris," I said, "You've got another TV record just like before. Why don't you give me a band and let me put together a live show?" "Now Bobby, we've been through all this before, and everyone agreed that the way we're doing it is the proper way to present you to the British audience."

I interrupted him and said, "Chris, I frankly don't want to do it your way anymore, or Andrew Oldham's way. All I know is that I'm the one going on television not you, and that both of those times have made me look and feel like a fool. I never had that happen until I came to England and let other people tell me what and how to perform. It's just something I always knew how to do. But for some reason no one in this Goddamn country will let me do it."

At that point, some of the other people in the room said it was time to end the meeting and let everyone have time to reflect in a calmer fashion. So there I was, alone again. Bobby Jameson, boy wonder, pissing off the hand that fed me. I felt like shit and had no idea of what to expect or what I should do. I knew I didn't want to keep parading around like a "teen dolly" for the likes of Chris Peers and Brit Records and do more absurd TV performances. So what then? What should I do?

I remembered what PJ Proby had told me when he was in a similar jam over splitting his pants and being threatened by the British Home Office with deportation for lewd public acts, as they called it. "Bobby," said PJ, "You'll know when it's time to leave England. It'll just be obvious to you when it's there." That was the last time I ever spoke to Proby, but now here I was, asking myself if that's where I'd gotten to. "Was it time? Was this it?" I had that feeling like, "Yeah, fuck it! It's time to go home."

My life had been like a buzz saw for over a year now. I was a completely different person than the one who'd been discovered in Hollywood, at the "Carolina Pines" by Tony Alamo. I'd seen and done things in the past year and I don't know how many months, that a lot of people will never even know about let alone experience. I felt lost and lonesome for the States. I just wanted to get out of England and go back to America, so that's what I set out to do. No matter what anyone said, and they had some things to say, I was going home.

Brit refused to help me in any way and that was that. They turned their back on me and I understood why. I had no money and no friends. There wasn't one person in that whole country I could ask for help. The only way I ever got help was to put myself up for sale, as I have already written about in a previous post. I had no way to buy a plane ticket out of the country. Brit would only assist me if I continued to do what they wanted, and that was out. So what was I supposed to do with this new pile of shit I was living in?

I didn't know then, and I don't remember now, but somehow I ended up at the American Counsil or something. You know, like a diplomatic US building in a foreign country, that's where I went. I told them who I was, where I was from, and how I got into England in the first place. I told them I'd been brought to England by a bunch of people, both American and British, as an American pop star to work with Andrew Oldham and make records. I said that things hadn't gone too well and now I wanted to go back to America, but none of the people who brought me here had made any arrangements to get me back. "They all abandoned me," I said.

The guy looked at me like I was from Venus. He got so mad I thought he was going to have a stroke right then and there. "What do you mean they abandoned you?" he asked. "I mean they just left me here about 5 months ago and went back to America and I haven't heard from them since," I said. This guy got even more pissed off after I said that. "We'll bloody well see about that," he said. He told me to go back to my flat. He asked if I could do that and I said I could. He told me he'd contact me as soon as possible with news on what we'd do about my situation. He verified my passport and wrote down a lot of information and then politely sent me on my way.

In a couple of days or so, not very long, he contacted me and said there was a one way ticket in my name to New York City, and then on to Los Angeles. He asked if that would be convenient for me? I told him "Yes!" but was a little startled that it happened so fast. I asked him to tell me who paid for the ticket, but all I could get was that it was paid for by the same people who had arranged to get me to England in the first place. It was clear, I thought, that they had not been given a choice in the matter. Something about International Law and responsibility regarding citizens on foreign soil and such. I figured they'd threatened Lee Karsian and his rich English friends into getting my ass back to the US. I, to this day, do not know what actually happened.