(part 112) THE BOTTOM: WHERE I BELONGED...

Herbie Cohen

The Troubadour was never the same for me after that night with Danny. Every time I went in there, I remembered vividly the look on his face as he quietly walked by me and out of my life. I still went there, because it was close enough to walk to, but I never felt comfortable again.

One night I ran into Herbie Cohen there, and went over to say hello to him. I'd never gone anywhere socially with Herb, except when I met him years earlier at his house with Zappa, so it was kind of unusual to encounter him in that setting.

We stood in a corner of the bar, and talked a little about music and the business. I asked him if anything was going on as far as my stuff was concerned and he said, "No."

I'd been writing songs for Arizona Music, which he and his brother were running, for about five months, and couldn't really understand why nothing had been accomplished, other than me putting a lot of finished music into it which I asked him about.

He seemed irritated by my question, and told me to back off a little. He acted like I was his office boy, and I wasn't willing to accept the way he was treating me, so I told him so.

Herbie had a reputation as a New York street fighter, which I was aware of, but I had a reputation as a Los Angeles street fighter and bar brawler, and I don't think he thought much of it at the time.

He acted as if I were a Hollywood pussie who couldn't fight, and that's how he treated me. This of course played directly into my constant problems with various record business executives and producers throughout the past. It had become a major sticking point in my personality, and I was not willing to take any shit from the likes of Herbie Cohen.

It didn't occur to me at that moment that Herbie and his brother were the ones paying me each week, so I said something to him that really pissed him off. It was nothing overt like, "Fuck off" or "Fuck you," just something that for whatever reason pissed him off.

Out of nowhere, Herbie turned on me. He tried to kick me in the balls while I stood in front of him. I was surprised by this, and knew instinctively that he'd attempted, but failed, to do some real damage to me.

I turned my body sideways, and grabbed my beer bottle off the bar by the neck. I held it up at shoulder level hissing, "What the fuck are you doin' Herbie? Why'd you try to kick me in the balls?"

Knowing he had blown his surprise attack, Cohen looked at me with that "let's get it on" look that I'd seen plenty of times before. "Come on Herbie," I said, "You wanna fuck with me?" I waved the beer bottle in his face, and watched his eyes follow it in my hand.

By this time Herbie's original opinion of me had shifted, and it was obvious by the concerned look on his face. That old "crazy fuckin Jameson" shit came over me, and I was ready to go to war. "Come on Cohen, you fuckin' punk ass mother fucker. I'll kill ya you son of a bitch."

Herbie glared at me in anger and I glared back. We stood there a moment, and then he just turned away and walked out the door. I don't remember what I did, probably stayed there and got drunk.

Whatever happened that night had far reaching consequences in my life. The end result was that the Cohen Brothers quit paying me my weekly salary and I began to panic.

I went to their office in Hollywood, but Herbie wouldn't talk to me. Martin said there was nothing he could do, because Herbie told him not to pay me. I left, feeling like my world was again crumbling, and that old feeling of "now what do I do" swept over me like a tidal wave.

One day everything was fine, and a day later everything was fucked up. I hadn't started the fight with Herbie, but I must have gotten to him in a way that he was unwilling to excuse or forget, because his form of revenge was swift and deadly in my world.

As usual, I had no money saved, and nothing else going on. I retreated to Gavin's house, or some other place, and got loaded. I always got loaded when I didn't know what to do.

The weeks went by, and I sank deeper and deeper into an abyss of fear and depression. I couldn't pay my rent and even though Gavin and Ron didn't pressure me, I felt bad that I couldn't cover my own end.

I'd sit at the piano and play songs, and write new ones, but no matter how hard I tried, I felt like life, my life, was not worth continuing. I was dog tired of the endless problems and always being broke. I was tired of always being in the position to have to kiss someone's ass or watch my world collapse.

It was 1972, and I had been doing this kind of bullshit since 1964, and nothing ever seemed to change. I'd get up for a while, and then go straight to the bottom again, as if that were my natural place to reside. At the bottom. "Maybe it was," I thought, "Maybe I just needed to accept it. Accept that the bottom was where I belonged."

(part 111) A NIGHT AT THE TROUBADOUR: DANNY WHITTEN

Danny Whitten


Danny Whitten

I met with Herbie and Martin Cohen at their offices on Sunset Blvd. in Hollywood, as scheduled, a couple of weeks later. We talked about publishing and how many available songs I had at the time.

I asked them, "How many do you want?" They kind of snickered at me and said, "No seriously, how many unpublished tunes do you have available?" I told them I wasn't being cute, that I meant what I said. "I write so many songs that it's hard to keep track of how many, but if you give me a minimum number I can come up with it, whatever it is."

This dance went on for a while, and I finally convinced them I could fill up a publishing company by myself. In other words I could create an entire catalogue of finished, ready to record songs, in less than a year.

We came to an agreement that it would be my publishing company, Arizona Music, and they would administrate it, whatever that meant. For this arrangement, I agreed not to write any songs for anyone else for a year, unless the Cohens refused the song after hearing it. Then I could put that song somewhere else.

They agreed to pay me $100 a week for the first year, and then we'd see how it was going after that. I agreed to this arrangement, because I was broke, and because I thought they would get some of the songs placed. I also believed they could get me signed to a new label deal, because they had some power in the business.

After signing this agreement with the Cohen Brothers, I started getting a weekly salary. I felt pretty good about what was happening. I moved into Gavin's house for $250 a month, and got to sleep on the couch in the living room, while Gavin and Ron Radkovitch both had a bedroom downstairs.

It was a lot of money for me to pay back then, but it was a nice house and they treated me like one of them, so all and all it was the right thing to do at the time. I spent my time writing songs, making tapes, and partying with Ron and Gavin, and everything was going along pretty well, or so I thought...

I started going down to the Troubadour Club at night, which was located about a mile and a half from the house at the corner of Santa Monica Blvd. and Doheny Drive. I'd go down there for a couple of beers and hang out to see who was playing.

One night in 1972 they were having a hoot night at the Troubadour, you know, a time when anybody could get up and play. I ran into Danny Whitten, Billy Talbot, and Ralph Molina there. Danny said he was going to play a solo set.

He told me he was straight, and I asked him how he felt about playing sober? "Hey, I'm alright." he said, "I feel good." I eye balled him for a moment and said, "I don't know Danny. Playin' straight when you're used to playing loaded is a real bitch." "No really man, I feel good. I'll be alright," he said.

I tried unsuccessfully a few more times to get him not to try it, but he insisted that he was OK, and looking forward to it. When his turn came up a while later, Billy, Ralph, and I think Bruce Hines, all got his gear up on stage so he could play.

I stood there wishing he would't do it because I knew how important it was to him, and if it didn't come off good he would be crushed. He was a sensitive dude and I had known him for a lot of years. I was afraid for him because once you look out from a stage sober, at faces, it's a lot different than just playing for a couple of friends in an apartment.

Anyway, Danny was determined to go on and he did. He sat on a wooden chair, as I remember, and said a few things about being there and wanting to play and then began. I watched him as he started and he seemed to have it together, but then all at once it began to fall apart, and I knew what was happening in his head at that moment.

I'd been there before myself and it sucks! You just go blank, and it's like you don't know what you're doing, and the panic of public humiliation comes down on you like a landslide.

I stared at the floor in misery for Danny, as he said he was sorry and left the stage. I knew in the deepest part of my heart what this must have done to him. He left that night and barely said anything to me, and I remember his face and how he looked the last time I ever saw him.

Later in 1972, I heard that he had overdosed after Neil Young fired him, and it broke my heart some more. Danny was 29 years old. I remember teaching him his first guitar chords in 1964 on Franklin Ave. in Hollywood, when we all lived together...

(part 110) ST. IVES DRIVE

Frank Zappa and Herbie Cohen

I woke up this morning in tears, because the pain in my head is so bad. In the last few months I have been in agony. This morning I looked at my life and saw only hopelessness and misery. After a couple of hours, I wrote this trying to continue the story. (from 2009)

I have had difficulty in remembering, in context, the sequence of events in their correct order. Forgive me if I make mistakes. This is something of a double edged sword, in that I don't want to do it, but feel compelled to finish what I have started.

Because the two songs, "Junkie Jesus" and "Jesus Was An Outlaw Too," were in the movie "Clay Pigeon," as background music, I went to ASCAP, and signed with them. I got a $1500 advance, the only money I've ever received from either ASCAP or BMI in my life.

It helped at the time, believe me, because as usual I was broke. I felt as though it was a sign that things were going to get better, and I looked to the future with positive anticipation.

Months later, following the Jesse Ed Davis and Randy Newman session, I'd been hanging out with Gavin Murrell, and his roommate Ron Radkovitch, at their house in the hills. Gavin too, was convinced that things were looking up for me, and for himself as well, because of his work on the film "Clay Pigeon."

During that time, I met with Herbie Cohen and his brother Martin, who had represented Frank Zappa. I'd met Hebie Cohen before, with Frank, so it was a not a meeting without some prior context. Herbie was aware of the songs I recorded with Davis and Newman, and the movie, and he wanted to hear what else I had written that was unpublished,

I invited him up to Gavin's house, on St. Ives Drive, in West Hollywood, which overlooked the Sunset Strip near Doheny Drive. It was a nice place with large windows all along the back of the house, that opened onto a deck that looked out on a panoramic view of the entire city.

As usual, I had a lot of new songs. Some were fully finished and others partially completed. I played some things live for Cohen, and then played him a rough demo tape of other songs I'd recorded in Gavin's living room, both on piano and guitar.

Herbie seemed impressed with what he heard, but was an understated guy. It was hard for me to get an emotional read on his reaction. I guess the best way to put it is, that if he didn't say anything bad about the stuff I played him, it was good. Herbie said he would talk to his brother Martin and we'd all get together again at their office in a week or so, which we did.

After Herbie left, I asked Gavin what he thought. Gavin said in his opinion it had gone very well. Playing music for someone is different than just talking with them. When you create something, and then play it for someone, you kind of want to get an emotional response from them, to guage their reaction, but with Herbie this didn't happen.

As I said, Cohen was real low key. Gavin on the other hand was an onlooker, so he viewed the situation from a far less emotional stand point than I did. He was convinced it was positive, so I opted for Gavin's opinion on the matter.

After some general research I found that this song was written and recorded in 1972 on St. Ives Drive at Gavin Murrel's house, and was one of the songs played for Herbie Cohen. It says 1981 in the opening credit, but should say 1972.

(part 109) JESSE ED DAVIS ARRANGEMENTS AND GUITAR

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Jesse Ed Davis playing with Conway Twitty in 1965 Photo supplied by Jason Odd Australia

It's hard to know when I've finished writing about something. In the case of Jesse Ed Davis and my working with him, it seems as though more should be said.

The subject matter of "Junkie Jesus" and "Jesus Was An Outlaw Too" was where I went to, lyrically, following "Holy Holy Holy" and my failed attempt at making a truly unique second album for Verve in 1968. "Working" was in a way, as I have said, a form of capitulation to those who held the purse strings.

It was the failure of "Working," and the catastrophes that followed, that caused me to write even more graphic lyrics once I ended up in Ohio. My intent to create one of a kind lyrics was a deep driving force within me that can only be partly explained through the finished recordings that Jesse and I created.

I can tell you that during this session, Kirby Johnson, who was a hell of a good guy, kept coming over the talk back mic from the control room, offering suggestions to Ed Davis about how and what to play at any given time.

Jesse listened to this a couple of times, with a look of frustration on his face, and finally just said to Kirby, "Hey man you wanna come out here and play the guitar?" Kirby answered back, "No!" Jesse's response, "Well then shut the fuck up, will ya?"

I started laughing and Kirby damn near crawled under the board in the control room. Gavin Murrell took it all in as if it were just part of the day's work. He sat in a chair saying nothing with a big grin on his face while Jesse, me, and the other two players continued on working.

It was always clear to me that Jesse Ed Davis knew where he was going and how to get there. The guys playing with him knew it too. I did not play on the tracks at all on this session, there was no need. I would have slowed down the process that occurred between the three of them.

Jesse wanted me to concentrate on the vocals, and that was it. His crew built me the platform, musically, from which I could speak in the form of my vocal. His enthusiasm for what he and I were doing was undaunted and complete.

It remains a highlight to this day in my life of recording music with great players. I have the luxury of that experience to keep forever.

These two tracks are important, not because of my involvement so much, but because Jesse Ed Davis arranged and played on them both. In the history of great guitarists, Jesse Ed Davis, an american treasure, is among the finest.

Bobby Jameson

The video below is a recently found 3rd song from the session with Jesse Ed Davis and myself. It was located in 2011. It is a work track with my vocal and Jesse doing overdubs to his own guitar tracks. Jimmy Karstein, drums, and Bob Glaub, bass, are isolated out in this track.

(part 108) JESSE ED DAVIS, RANDY NEWMAN, AND BOBBY JAMESON SESSION 1970-71

Randy Newman

The fact that Jesse Ed Davis was an American Indian (Kiowa) was a big deal to me, because I'd grown up, in part, in Arizona, and was forced to work for my Mormon step father on the San Carlos Indian Reservation, north of Phoenix, when I was 15 years old.

I never forgot the absolute disgust I had for my step father and his associates, and the way they treated the Apache, Navajo, Zuni, and Hopi Indians. I worked in the alfalfa fields around Phoenix in 1960 for him loading hay trucks with Apache, Mexican, and poor white laborers.

I did this work under the threat of being made a ward of the court of the State of Arizona by Francis Farr; he was my mother's third husband. I remember telling Jesse that I believed the United States had committed serious crimes against American Indians, and that I was ashamed at having been forced to work for people who may have helped do that.

Similarly, Jesse's disgust with the white man's religion, Chistianity, and the way it was used to systematically destroy American Indian lives, culture, and language throughout American History, was the connection we shared in common while recording "Jesus Was An Outlaw Too" and "Junkie Jesus."

The fact that I'd taken the sanctity of this subject, and turned it inside out, and made it into music and lyrics was a serious and important concept for both of us while constructing the recordings. It was more than just making a record. It was a statement of deep and righteous anger and sentiment, directed at the untouchable subject and the subject's benefactors at large.

He, as well as I, took pride in the creation of what some deem a sacrilege, but in our way of thinking was a contrary statement of strength aimed at hypocrisy, bigotry, and genocide by the status quo over a couple of hundred years. It was also a continuation of my use of opposites within a single context, as I had tried to do In the second Verve album.

In the original session there were three songs recorded. The third song, which I have a partially completed version of, "Mary Please Forgive Me," was in the same vein as the other two songs, but not nearly as well constructed. Hopefully in time I will make this version available along side the other two. I have already posted the original version, which was written and recorded in Ohio a few posts earlier. (part 100)

What I have written here is my version of what transpired in 1970-71 between Jesse Ed Davis and myself. I am not seeking agreement or approval from anyone regarding my own experience here, or my recollection of it some 38 years later.

When Randy Newman came in to do the piano overdub on "Jesus Was An Outlaw Too" he started laughing when he heard my vocal track and the lyrics. He was sitting at the piano with ear phones on, and looked up at me as I approached him asking, "Did you write this?" "Yeah." I said, not knowing whether he approved or disapproved.

"This is great," he said, "Great stuff." I was relieved and gratified, because Newman was a hell of a writer and his approval meant a lot to me at the time and still does. You don't have to agree with what I wrote to be able to acknowledge that it was well written and original, so I never knew one way or the other whether Randy approved or not of the subject matter, but he did acknowledge his approval of my work in general. On his way out Newman said, "If you got anymore stuff like that you want me to play on. let me know, that was fun."

When I first heard about Jesse, I was told his name was Jesse Edwin Davis, so that's how I greeted him, which he immediately corrected. "Ed," he said, "Ed Davis." I got that this was important to him right off, so it became a running gag that afternoon in the studio to occasionally refer to him as "Edwin," which he hated but tolerated from me those short few hours in 1970-71.

The guitar overdubs, and guitar work in general by Ed Davis on these recordings is, in my opinion, some of his finest work. Until I popped up with them after 35 years or so, only a hand full of people ever knew about these songs, or that Jesse had worked on them with me.



The songs can be vaguely heard in the movie "Clay Pigeon" MGM (1971) as background music in a couple of dance scenes, but otherwise went completely unnoticed for 35 years until I put them up on my myspace site.

(part 107) JESSE ED DAVIS AND BOBBY JAMESON SESSION

Jesse Ed Davis is a Native American genius. He was Kiowa on his mother's side, and Kiowa and Cherokee on his father's side. In an autobiographical song, "Washita Love Child," Jesse sang that he was born in a Kiowa-Comanche tepee, (reference wikipedia).

In 1970-71, after I got out of the nut house, a friend of mine, Gavin Murrell, was working as the music director on a movie called "Clay Pigeon," for MGM. Gavin knew that I had written songs like "Junkie Jesus" and "Jesus Was An Outlaw Too," and believed they were important enough works to be captured for all time as recordings.

I had no record deal or anything else going at the time, so he came up with a way to get those songs recorded. He needed background music for a couple of club scenes in the film, and he asked me to record my songs for that purpose.

He told me that they would be barely noticeable in the film, but that it was a way to get them recorded. I agreed to do it, because I wanted to take the songs into the studio, with some good musicians and see how they'd turn out. All I had at the time were the lyrics and a vague idea of how they ought to sound.

Gavin and Kirby Johnson, who also worked on the music with Murrell for the film, discussed with me the possibility of getting certain players to play on the session. We came up with Jesse Ed Davis on guitar and Randy Newman on piano.

The bass player, Bob Glaub, and drummer, Jimmy Karstein, were brought to the session by Jesse. I had little knowledge, personally, about Jesse, other than I knew his name and reputation to some degree. It was Gavin Murrell who convinced me that the combination of Jesse Ed Davis, Randy Newman, and myself would be a "something to behold," as he put it.

Because Gavin had to account for every penny he spent to MGM, we had one chance, and no more, to get these songs recorded. We had no opportunity to rehearse, arrange, or anything else until the day of the session. Kirby Johnson had written basic lead sheets for the players to use, but really there were no arrangements whatsoever.

Gavin had surmised that coupling Jesse and Randy's musical ability with my lyrics and vocals was a sure thing, as far as recordings go. He was convinced that if the session came off well we'd have a recording that was as special as it would be timeless.

Whether it would ever be regarded as commercially viable was not an issue, but the concept and construction was central to getting the songs recorded. He knew that Jesse and I would either love or hate each other within five minutes of our meeting for the first time in the studio.

Jesse's reputation for being outspoken, as well as completely competent musically, and being loaded most of the time, was matched by my own reputation as a crazy man who wouldn't settle for second best in the studio, and who was also loaded most of the time.

Because I had been on the news a lot, as a result of the Hyatt House drama, Jesse knew who I was and seemed a bit amused by me and my crazy shit. When he heard the lyrics to "Junkie Jesus," and "Jesus Was An Outlaw Too," we became immediate friends, period.

I played him the songs in the rough, and he seemed to get the idea right off and began arranging the music on the spot. He told me, for instance, not to make the change from the basic E chord to the A 7th, like a white guy would, but to extend the use of the E chord vocal all the way to the B 7th turn around.

At first this was difficult for me, because I naturally wanted to go into the A 7th like a white guy, but I soon figured out what he was getting at, and began to hear exactly what he was getting me to do with my song "Jesus Was An Outlaw Too." If you hear the song you will understand what I just described.

The bass player and drummer were used to working with Jesse, and had no difficulty following his lead as to what they should play, or how and when they should play it. He'd tell them what to do and they'd do it. It was like a well oiled machine from the beginning and stayed that way until we were done.

I myself stood by in amazement, as Jesse, Glaub, and Karstein constructed the basic tracks for the songs. Every now and then Jesse would say to me, "Come over here and sing the vocal, so I can hear what you're doing." I'd jump in and start singing and he'd stop me and say, "Try it this way," which I'd do.

As I said, at first it was difficult to sing the song the way it is on the recording, but once I got the hang of it, it was totally natural. It went from white to soulful, because Jesse Ed Davis taught me how to sing my own song.

Once Jesse knew I could, and would, do what he asked of me, and that I was there to make the songs as good as they could be, he began smiling broadly at me as I hammered out his vision of my song.

We connected at that point on some other level, that I find hard to describe in average terms. We were like two arrows shot from different places that crashed into each other at the tip and burned together in mid air.



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I received information for this post from Jason Odd in Australia, regarding the names of the bass player and drummer that Jesse regularly used on the road during the time period of 1970 to 1974. Those names are Bob Glaub on bass, and Jimmy Karstein on drums. I would like to thank my friend Jason Odd for his knowledge and time regarding this information.