(part 97) LIKE FATHER LIKE SON

I stood in the Mayfair Market parking lot staring at the telephone receiver in my hand, unable to move. My dream of finally reuniting with my father was gone forever in the twinkling of an eye. Again, the tyranny of reality crushed all hope of a better life for me with the news of my father's suicide only months after Diane's death.

I'd convinced Nancy to leave me for fear she would have followed me down into hell and died. I cared about her in a way that I have never cared for another human being. I was unwilling to stand by and watch her accompany me into the abyss. To this day I know I did the right thing even though it left me completely alone.

Another friend of mine from "The Strip," Geno Danello, cut his wrists and bled to death in an abandoned building on Sunset Blvd. during this same period. I was surrounded by death, and had decided it was just a matter of time for me as well. I started telling people "like father like son" in a grim determination to accept my own fate.

As far as I was concerned, it was inevitable that I would commit suicide, and end what had become my life of repeated failures and shortcomings. I stopped eating, and drank all the time, except when I passed out. I consumed about a half a gallon of cheap scotch a day, which cost about ten dollars.

I kept doing enough to stay in the apartment and buy the booze. It was one of the darkest periods of my life, but it didn't kill me. I learned just how hard it is to starve and drink yourself to death, during that period, and I chalked it up to another one of my failures.

At one point I went up to Palo Alto on a bus to see my mother, who was in a state of deep depression because of Bill Jameson's suicide. As well, a cousin of hers had a son who'd been murdered. The shape I was in didn't help matters. While I was there, I had to check her in to a mental health facility, because she was in such a bad way.

No matter where I turned, I could not find any help for myself, which just pushed me further into darkness. After doing some crystal meth with my younger brother Quentin, I went back to L. A. and the apartment on Sweetzer, and continued on with my black journey downward.

Some time in 1970 I went up to the 9000 building, where GRT Records had an office, and got Ron Cramer to see me. I went there in a desperate attempt to beg for money for my album "Working." I was pretty well gone, and had a hard time making myself go there to begin with.

During an all night bout of drinking, I'd shaved my head after reading a science fiction novel called "Stranger In A Strange Land" by Robert Heinlein. I didn't remember doing it when I woke up the next day, so when I went to the bathroom I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I walked in.

"Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed, as I stood there looking at my completely bald head in the mirror. I could not believe how bad I looked as I stood there in near shock. I was so thin anyway, that with my hair gone, I looked like a pencil with eyes standing on it's tip.

Anyway, when I went to GRT Records, I was completely self conscious about the way I looked, and kept waiting for someone to say, "Man what did you do to yourself?" It was during that visit to GRT that I met John Rhys, who was producing an album with a group from Cleveland called Rastus, whose album would eventually be released on GRT.

For some reason John took a liking to me and invited me out to a studio in the valley where he was mixing part of the Rastus album. He said he was going back to Cleveland in a couple of weeks to finish work on the album and told me I was welcome to go back with him if I was interested.

I jumped at the chance to get out of L.A. and said, "Yeah, I'll go, I'll go anywhere at this point." That statement was true as true could be. The vibes in Hollywood sucked and I wanted away from the whole stinking mess, so I said "Yeah John, I'll go, I'd like to go."

(part 96) THE DAY MY WORLD ENDED

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This is my brother Bill. In 1969, following Diane Linkletter's suicide, he was living in Radnor, Pennsylvania with our father Bill, senior, and his wife Louise. I was in L.A. with Nancy on Sweetzer Ave. in West Hollywood. My entire life was sinking into some dark forbidden place and I was unable to stop the emotional and psychological demise.

I began drinking enormous amounts of alcohol, because I could not get hold of any drugs. The death of Diane had gotten into me on a level I had no prior experience with, and I was unable to deal with the aftermath rationally. The Manson Murders, Diane's suicide, and the loss of everything in my career, combined in a destructive atmosphere that enveloped me.

Nancy was there, but was powerless to help pull me out of the destructive state, and at some point I knew she was going to be dragged down with me. I began telling her she had to get away from me, because I was worthless, but she would not go. She'd decided somewhere in herself that where I went, good or bad, she would go with me, even if that meant dying.

I was doing just enough yard work at the building on Sweetzer, to maintain the right to the apartment Nancy and I lived in. We didn't eat much, and any extra money, of which there was little, was spent on alcohol and small amounts of food. My hope was, and I mean this in a most desperate way, that I be allowed to join my brother Bill and my father in Penn., and get the hell away from L. A.

That did not happen. To the contrary. I was given a message by the Stecks, from my mother, I think, and told that the message from my father was, "Don't send Bob." This single act felt like a hammer being bashed into my head. "Don't send Bob!" Once again I felt as though the forces of the world were stacked against me, and that I was no match for them.

What had once been a proud person, who was able to overcome any obstacle in his path, I was quickly becoming a person crushed by each new challenge that arose. 1969 turned into 1970, and the darkness of the times came right along with it.

Nancy and I wandered through the haze together with little help from anyone, other than Joe Steck and his wife Judy, who continued to allow me to work at the building where we lived. Fortunately, during those times, Joe saw me in a light that was not as negative as the view most others had of me. He was more philosophical about it, and was glad I was in the building.

He understood the pain and misery I was engulfed in from a different vantage point. To him it was a massive learning experience for me, rather than the ultimate end to Bobby Jameson. Conversely, both Joe and Judy, were concerned, as was I, for the welfare of Nancy, who was determined not to leave me.

I am a bit foggy on a fact here regarding Nancy, and that is, that at some point I got her to leave. It was one of the most unselfish things I have ever done. I was more concerned with her well being than my own. The fact that I am having trouble remembering, is whether I managed to get her to leave before, or after, the next God awful event that came crashing into my life.

On a sunny California day in 1970, I was told by Joe Steck, that my mother was trying to reach me. I walked south on Sweetzer, down to Santa Monica Blvd., where there was a Mayfair market and a telephone booth. I called my Mother and asked her what the trouble was and this is what I heard her say. A remark that I will never forget as long as I live. "I don't know how important this is to you,- Bob, but your father Bill committed suicide."

(part 95) ME, JIMMY GEORGE, ED DURSTON, AND DIANE

Corner of Sunset Blvd. and Horn Avenue in West Hollywood with Shoreham Towers in background

My friend Terri reminded me to tell the reader how old I was when this happened, and I agreed that was something I needed to do. It was 1969, and I'd started making records in 1963 with "Let's Surf/Please Little Girl Take This Lollipop." It's only about a six year period I have covered so far.

I was 19 years old when I recorded "I'm So Lonely/I Wanna Love You" for Tony Alamo, so I was just a kid. Five years later I felt a hundred years old, and was still only 24, and a full bore addict alcoholic.

I went up to the apartment on Horn Ave. to talk to Ed Durston after Timmy Rooney told me Ed was in the apartment when Diane jumped from her 6th floor kitchen window. I also wanted to see Jimmy George, who lived below the apartment where Nancy and I had lived with Ed.

From what I'd learned, Jimmy had actually been outside his apartment, and seen Diane falling to the pavement below. At first he'd thought someone was playing a practical joke and had thrown something out the window, but then realized it was a person.

He didn't know at first it was Diane, and he'd seen her hit the ground. He was in shock, but ran over to where the person hit the pavement, and that is when he realized it was Diane. He told me he could not do anything for her, and it made him feel like an asshole.

He said she was still alive when he reached her, and that she looked up at him but couldn't speak. He said she was bleeding a lot from her head, and he wanted to help her, but didn't know what to do. I knew Jimmy, and he was a happy go lucky guy, but on this day he was broken in a way that is hard to describe, just broken.

I tried to tell him there wasn't anything he could have done, but how do you tell somebody that, after what he'd seen. He was the only one on the planet who had seen it; how the hell did I know how he felt, or what it was doing to him? It was the last time I ever saw him, and to this day I still don't really know how that may have altered his life.

When I got to Ed, he was doing better than Jimmy, but he still looked like he'd been through the ringer. I asked him, "What the fuck happened Ed, what the fuck was going on?" He looked up at me from where he was sitting and said, " I don't know man, I really don't know. We were just there, the two of us," he said, "talking a long time about life. You know, like half the night, and everything was OK. Then she just started acting crazy."

"Whatta ya mean Ed, crazy how?" I asked. "Well, we were sitting on the couch, and she got up and went out on the balcony, and just started climbing up on the railing like she was gonna jump off. I ran out there and drug her off, and pulled her back into the living room, and pinned her down on the floor and said "What the fuck are you doing Diane? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Ed was ringing his hands as he told me the story. He was having a lot of trouble going over that night. "So did she tell you what was wrong?" I pleaded. "No," said Ed, "She told me she was just screwing around and everything was OK and to let her up because it was just a joke." Ed kept rubbing his hands together like he couldn't get them clean. He just kept rubbing them together.

He continued on, "I made her promise me that if I let her up she wasn't gonna do anything crazy, and she said, "I promise." "I let her up, and she said she was going to go in the kitchen and get a glass of water, and I said OK." Ed looked like he might start crying at any second, and I didn't blame him, because it was too awful to comprehend.

"She walked into the kitchen and I turned around to watch her and she just climbed up on the countertop by the window over the sink. I ran in the kitchen and tried to grab her, but she just went out the window before I could get there." He paused for a moment, as if to get his courage up and said, "I had a hold of her ankle man, I had her by the ankle, but I couldn't hold her, I just couldn't hold her man."

I stood there in front of Ed with this crystal clear picture of Diane's kitchen in my head, with her going out the window, and Ed trying to hold her by the ankle. I just broke down and cried like a little boy. I just couldn't believe that it had happened. I stood there in front of Ed crying, for I don't know how long. I just sobbed, because there wasn't anything I could do about it either.

(part 94) BOBBY JAMESON RESPONSE TO STEVE STANLEY

My response to Steve Stanley's email

I was very pleased when I saw Steve's email, and as I promised, I deleted certain posts as a way to remove the harshness and stigma that would have been here forever. I do not want anyone injured, including myself. My goal has been and still is, to come to an understanding of facts and issues, which have arisen out of the release of the Chris Lucey cd in 2002, and the subsequent realities and responsibilities that accompany that release.

I know that Steve's heart was in the right place when he started, and that malice was never his intention. Even as he offered to give me his check for writing the Mojo article, he was attempting to give me something that he believed I was due. That money was his, so I could not have taken it, but I do understand that it was a gesture of kindness by him.

Steve Stanley does not owe me money, Rev-Ola Records and Joe Foster owe me money, as does ACE Records UK, who are involved with Rev-Ola, regarding the licensing of Chris Lucey. Steve was able to secure a small check for me, from ACE, $127.15, some months ago and I now publicly thank him for doing that. It was not his obligation to do so, nor was it his obligation to give me money for his writing of the Mojo article.

As I have said, and reiterate here, Steve included in that article, my requests, that not being paid for my writing and recording in the past, be included in his article, as well as that the Chris Lucey album was written, recorded, and released before Love's first album. He did this quite graciously, and I thank him for it here.

As you can see from Steve's email, his position on certain issues has modified, and I told him that I have made more mistakes than most in my life, but that moving forward in the end is always the best point of any achievement. Everybody screws up from time to time but the point is we get better at this thing called life by growing as people from the inside out.

If I was held responsible, forever, for all the stupid and hurtful things I've done in the past, I would be in prison for life. It takes a lot of character to admit that things got a bit out of hand, but it is imperative that I make clear that I do not hold a grudge for Steve Stanley, or feel as though I have won anything.

What is clear to me in this whole thing, is that everyone can win a little and give in a little, so that in the end what was once a sticking point, now becomes a valuable lesson learned and that the future will be smoother because of gains we have made here.

I had to literally die from addiction and suicide to become willing to change. I would hope that some can take a lesson from Steve Stanley, and become willing to change and progress without having to reach rock bottom to do so, as I did. I was able to find sobriety by the admission of my own defeat. It does not have to always be that hard.

At any time, anywhere, we can alter our course because it is sensible not because we are forced to. I have the greatest respect for Steve Stanley and the courage it took to wage this battle in public, but more so, for his courage to press on with me, and together reach an outcome that is good for both of us. Thank you Steve and I will now think of you as my friend. Bobby

(part 93) EMAIL FROM STEVE STANLEY

Email from Steve Stanley to Bobby Jameson

I received this email from Steve Stanley today after Steve and I had a long an productive telephone conversation regarding what was being posted on my blog. I am posting the email with Steve's knowledge so you can be aware of what has happened in a positive way to both Steve and myself. I will be removing from the blog some of the posts which have Steve and I responding back and forth. I agreed to do this so as not to have a record posted publicly of the bitterness we both exchanged equally. Steve and I have resolved our differences in a way that is constructive for both parties and I applaud him for his willingness to accomplish what was a difficult task for both of us. I will post my response to this email which I am delighted to say will be quite positive. I apologize for any comments that might be lost when I made changes to the blog.

Bobby and I ironed out a lot of issues yesterday and I wanted to share some thoughts with his readers:

In 2002 I was given the assignment of annotating and art directing the Chris Lucey CD reissue for Rev-Ola. It was odd timing because I had just discovered a copy of the LP a few weeks earlier, so I was new to the material and completely unprepared for the story that I was about to uncover. I set about researching “Chris Lucey” and found that he didn’t exist, or did he? Further research led me to understand Chris was, in fact, Bobby Jameson. But where was Bobby? I kept finding people that claimed to have known him or was in his orbit, but I couldn’t find Bobby. Where was he? Everyone thought he was dead. Without any leads to make me believe otherwise, I marched on, collecting tidbits here and there. I became obsessed with his story, and as my deadline neared, and I was nowhere near finding him.

The deeper I dug, the stranger and more fascinating the story became. I had a lot of research material, and some of which I collected was entirely false—he NEVER turned Diane Linkletter on to LSD. (I profoundly regret writing that.) He didn’t open up for Ceasar and Cleo (Sonny & Cher). And he didn’t jump off the Hyatt House—it was the Pacific Theater where Bobby took his leap and (miraculously) lived to tell. I ended up interviewing a dozen or so people but was never fully satisfied with what I came up with. There was a huge chunk of reality missing from this tale.

I never really believed that Bobby was dead. A few months went by and I became dedicated to finding him. I just had to know what his story was really all about. So I hired a private investigator, used his SSI number, and found him. ALIVE. So I was really relieved to find him. We spoke for hours and I told him that he would be receiving royalties for the Chris Lucey CD. It was my belief that he would be paid fairly and promptly. I sincerely regret telling him this now because his royalty check—which was very small— didn’t materialize for another five years. It was a mistake of mine to force Bobby to revisit prior record business frustrations (read: PAIN). I apologize for that.

Now, the truth is this: Bobby didn’t want to be found by anyone. He was satisfied living a life of anonymity, far from Hollywood, U.S.A. Bobby, I apologize for taking you away from the obscurity you preferred to reside in. I hope that the path you are now on leads you to new friends, positive experiences, and inner peace.

Thanks for letting me contribute to your blog.

Best,
Steve

(part 92) SHARON TATE AND DIANE LINKLETTER GONE

Sharon Tate



In the early part of August 1969 we woke to the Murders of Sharon Tate, Jay Sebring, and a number of others. At the time it was not known who committed the act, but it none the less ran through Hollywood and surrounding area like ice water on a cold day.

This slaughter was followed, a short time later, by another equally morbid multiple homicide of innocents. There was a mind set, in late 1969, that pervaded every part of the town we lived in, as a result of this tragedy. In fact all of Southern California, and for that matter most of the world, was equally shocked by the grisly front page news. There was a totally negative view of Hollywood and L.A. in general.

You couldn't escape the sense of dread, it was everywhere. It hung in the air for a long and persistent period of time. In my mind it summed up the way I felt about life itself: That at any moment, you could just fold up and die. I am not trying to be morbid, or unnecessarily grim, I am telling you exactly how it was at the time following both killings.

As stated earlier, I was already on my own downhill slide into a personal hell. So this occurrence, as you might imagine, just added to my degenerating outlook. I knew by then that everything in my life was caving in, and that Nancy and I couldn't afford to live in the apartment on Horn Ave. any longer.

I wasn't getting paid and Nancy wasn't working. Up until then she didn't have to, but all of a sudden we were forced to scramble, and that's what we did. We had about a month or so left in the apartment, but after that we didn't know. Fact was, we were piss poor at dealing with reality on a day to day basis. Our choice for coping with this mess was to get extremely loaded, and act as if everything was gonna be fine, which it wasn't.

So that was how we dealt with the sinking ship. We moved the deck chairs to the upper deck and ordered cocktails. Unfortunately, the process of refusing to take responsibility for my own life, and that of those around me who were affected by my choices, led to an overwhelming sense of defeat deep within me that was lethal in the long run.

I just couldn't find what I'd always used in the past. The attitude of "Fuck it! I'll just make another record and get on with it." This time was different. I just didn't care. I couldn't get it going, because the nagging sense of "What's the use" had for the first time in my life taken refuge in my thinking.

It was the most debilitating sense of hopelessness I had ever encountered, and was magnified by current events, and the abuse of drugs and alcohol. The only relief at the time was more drugs and more alcohol to blot out reality, which of course made it worse.

I have no recollection whatsoever of Diane Linkletter being a big drug user. To the contrary. She was around all of us when we were fucked up, but she was not fucked up. I am not saying she never got loaded, but what I am saying is that she was not excessive.

We respected her for that, because she kept her shit together. That's how I remember her, as dignified and together, within a framework of utter distraction perpetrated by the rest of us. Nancy was not chaotic either, but indulged more than Diane.

I knew Diane was prone to becoming depressed and forlorn over problems with her father, but I never thought it was something to get overly concerned about. Right before Nancy and I left the apartment on Horn Ave., for good, I spoke with Diane privately for the last time.

She had just inherited a quarter of a million dollars for her 21st birthday and told me it didn't mean shit to her, and that she really didn't want to take it, because it just made her feel more controlled by her father, Art. I told her, "Fuck it! Take the money Diane, and then go do what you wanna do." She agreed that that made sense, and I believed she was OK when I left her. I had no idea how wrong I was going to be.

Nancy and I moved into an apartment on Sweetzer Ave. in West Hollywood. I agreed to be the gardener for an a apartment building, managed by a guy named Joe Steck and his wife Judy, who had once been a dancer at the Whiskey. Joe wrote the screenplay for Waterhole #3, a movie with James Coburn. I don't remember how I met Joe, or why I agreed to be the gardener, but Nancy and I needed a place to go, and that's where we ended up in late 1969.

The Stecks said we could give their telephone number to a few people so they could contact us. I still remember the day I got the call from Timmy Rooney. "Hey Tim," I said, "How's it goin?" "Not so good," he answered, "I guess you didn't hear." "Hear what?" I asked. "Diane," he said, "Diane what?" I asked. "Diane, she committed suicide." There was dead silence on the phone. I couldn't make my brain incorporate what I'd just heard.