(part 221) THE MONSTER

“The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There’s also a negative side.”
- Hunter S Thompson

For me the monster was the music business and my involvement in it, or not, as the case may be. The continual up and down, as it related to making records and trying to do something with them, had finally done to me sober what it had done to me loaded.

It had trashed every dream and every desire I had ever had about being in the music business. I was broken inside like a clock. My main spring was damaged in a way that left me unwilling to reach out to anyone where music was concerned.

I didn't dare participate for fear of being sucked back into another attempt at success. The monster had kicked the shit out of me one too many times, and I saw clearly the wreckage of my life in bold technicolor terms.

Like a reluctant soldier, I admitted defeat and turned away from the battlefield of my dreams. I retreated, and wandered off into the land of isolation, the land of nobody.

I stopped talking about music and playing. I cursed my life and God for my abilities. I wished I had never written a single song or ever made a record, but mostly I cursed ever wanting to.

The young boy in Tucson, Arizona in the 50's, and his decision to be a star was now the cause of my despair rather than my salvation. I looked back in time at him, wishing in vain that he not follow his dream.

There was nothing and no one to turn to. No place of safety from the monster. It was out there lurking. It's minions were everywhere, spread out across the city.

A casual hello could lead to a conversation that once again might lure me into foolishness. A chance meeting in a coffee shop; the catalyst for further regret.

"I have to be careful from now on," I thought, "that little prick is still a child and doesn't know any better... even now."

I stayed here and there with different people from the program, but the sense of isolation was too deeply etched in my soul. I didn't believe anybody really understood or cared what had happened to me.

I tried a thousand times to explain to someone the damage that had been done, but their eyes always gave them away, always said clearly, "Get over it Bobby. Give yourself and everybody else a break, will you?"

I always left, I always had to. I could not do what they wanted, what they expected. I was trapped inside myself. I was in there, but no one could see me, hear me, or contact me.

I knew what was happening, but could not prevent it. Others saw my face and my body, and that's who they talked to, but way down inside that shell was me, screaming for help and finding none. Falling into myself like a collapsing building.

I stared out at life like a man in a cell. I kept to myself, occasionally making contact with the living for brief periods, only to retract again and lose myself in the dark aloneness of my existence.

(part 220) SWEET DREAMS

click
(vinyan photo)

NOTHING SUBTLE
ABOUT THE COFFIN
LIKE REALITY
I LIVE IN...

ONLY AS DETRIMENT
REGARDS ITSELF
NOT TO BE THAT
WHICH IT IS

DOES THE LIE
OF REGARD
UTTER ITSELF
INTO MY EAR...

WHO I AM
IS NOT DECIDED
BY ME
BUT BY THOSE

WHO TEND TO THE MISERY
OF CONSCIOUSNESS
AND DRESS IN
WHITE SHOES...

THE PORTRAIT
OF ANOTHER
HUNG ON MY FACE
NAILED TO MY SOUL

HAND PICKED
DURING MOMENTS
IN THE GARDEN
OF DEATH

CARRIED HERE
BY CHILDREN
OF DECEIT
IN CHALKY HAND

AND DELIVERED
AS A NIGHTMARE
WRAPPED IN
SWEET DREAMS...

Bobby Jameson Dec 6, 2010

(part 219) TOO HIGH ON A DREAM

The Legends Of Rock-N-Roll idea deteriorated over a period of months. Along the way, there were a number of meetings with the group in Century City before the complete demise of the project.

During these meetings there were times when it seemed the idea had been accepted at face value, and that the people I'd been talking to were going to make it happen.

My weakness back then was that I was broke. That's why I had to go begging for money. The fact that I had none, forced me to become involved with the people in Century City.

Originally I'd met John York at the recording sessions I'd done during the Dennis and George deal, when money hadn't been an issue.

Back then, I was able to pay for his work in the studio, but now with the Legend's thing, "me and no money" was the main threat to the success or failure of the entire project, because I couldn't even pay for the studio.

John and his family were barely getting by back then, and I didn't know about the financial status of Nicky Hopkins or Gene Clark.

Mostly I knew that musicians had always gotten screwed over, so even if they'd been part of some successful ventures in the past, it didn't mean they had any money now.

John York, Nicky Hopkins, and Gene Clark had all agreed to offer their services for free as a personal favor to me, so I wasn't about to hit them up for money to pay for the studio time too. The understanding was, that I would get the studio time and they would show up and record some songs with me.

With their participation guaranteed, you might well be able to imagine that there were going to be others who would want to play as well, simply because Nicky, Gene, and John were involved. It's a music thing. "Who's gonna be there? Oh yeah, OK I'll play."

I kept trying to convey to the Century City group the realities of the situation and why I needed money, but after awhile they seemed less and less capable of grasping the importance of what I was telling them.

They treated my need for studio time as a problem, instead of agreeing to resolve the issue. They repeatedly implied that it was some sort of shortcoming on my part.

I, on the other hand argued, that if I had the money to get started in the studio, I wouldn't even have bothered talking to them in the first place.

I complained that they were losing sight of who I'd lined up for the project. "This is a one time deal, man! You won't ever see this again," I yelled. They were completely unmoved.

Whether it was because they were unconvinced about the calibre of those involved, or something else, I will never know. But in the history of music, and in the lives of those who make the music, this will go down as one of the dumbest things I have ever had the displeasure of watching fail.

To think of an album, full of original music, with Nicky Hopkins, John York, Gene Clark and the others, including myself, who would have ultimately played on such a record, is in and of itself a colossal act of stupidity, because it didn't happen.

To realize it didn't get done, simply because I couldn't raise a small amount of money for studio time from a bunch of half wits, still boggles my mind today.

In my life I have seen more idiotic bullshit done and not done over money than I would have ever thought possible in the beginning.

The lost opportunities and failed realities which are consumed by the fires of greed and stupidity, and then shelved or lost by fools who piss on art for the sake of a dollar sign, still leaves me shaking my head today.

Years later, when I talked to other musicians about how this record almost happened in the early eighties, they shook their heads in disbelief that something so valuable got shit-canned over mere studio time and a lack of vision, particularly in the light of Hopkins and Clark's passing.

Ultimately I walked away from the fiasco, numbed in a way that still haunts me today. After living through so many failed records and soured deals, my bitterness toward fools, money, and greed reached epic proportions.

I took this defeat so hard that I quit trying to get anything going with anybody. Not because I didn't want to do things, but because the misery and pain caused by events like these was going to kill me if I didn't stop trying to tame the monster.

The going up too high on a dream was now not worth the seemingly predestined crash to earth that just kept repeating itself...

(part 218) LEGENDS OF ROCK N ROLL

Gene Clark

Back in 1981 or 82, not sure which, I used to see Slim Whitman ads on TV all the time, and made fun of them until I realized that he'd sold ten million albums for ten bucks a whack because of those ads.

Slim Whitman was an old country singer that I was unfamiliar with, other than through the TV ads, but I soon learned to respect him and whoever thought up that advertising scheme.

"Man," I thought, "that's a hundred million dollars minus costs, and they can't be more than, what, ten million?" It was a staggering realization. So much so that I talked to John York about it at length.

I told him I was gonna try and find some people who would put up some front money, maybe three to five thousand, to get some studio time. All I needed from John was help in lining up some players who were willing to record a few songs for free initially.

"We can call it Bobby Jameson and the Legends Of Rock n Roll," I said. John agreed it was a good idea and promised he'd talk to Nicky Hopkins and Gene Clark about it. John had played with Gene in the second Byrds band.

I used my name, not because I thought I was that great, but because I didn't consider myself to be a rock n roll legend. But John, Nicky, and Gene Clark were, and so that's how that name came about: Bobby Jameson and The Legends Of Rock n Roll...

After circulating the idea around town, I was introduced to some people in Century City, who were in the TV advertising business, or so they claimed.

Century City is right next to Beverly Hills and consists of a lot of black glass high rise buildings full of supposedly well off, intelligent, and highly successful people.

I remember meeting with a women and maybe two other guys, at first, and they all appeared quite interested in the idea, particularly when I brought up the Slim Whitman numbers on units sold and the revenue they created through the simple TV adds.

Everybody was familiar with the Whitman ads, even if they didn't like them. They had all seen them, and had probably made fun of them, but they had not thought about how successful they were.

My rap was to get them to focus on how a small amount of start-up money could create a quality product, using name people, that could then be shopped around for further financing to complete a great album that would be sold on TV like Slim Whitman.

I told them I had Gene Clark from The Byrds, which I did, Nicky Hopkins, who'd played with The Stones, Jeff Beck and others, and had been on about a hundred number one records, which I did, and John York who'd played with Gene in the second Byrds Band, and myself.

I said I was the lead singer, and that between us all we had a ton of new and unpublished songs ready to record. I hyped it so hard even I was impressed. I told them we were lining up a drummer but didn't know exactly who it was at that time.

The whole idea was laid out for them on a silver platter, and all they had to do was come up with the initial money to get us into the studio and get three songs recorded and mixed down.

They asked me why we didn't pay for the recording ourselves and then let them hear it before they got involved. "Because we're all broke," I said, "if we had the money to do it, we'd do it. That's why I came to you guys."

I remember this little prick standing in front of me in his expensive office, eye-balling me through his thick glasses like I was a bug or something. "Well I don't know," he said, "you're gonna have to bring us something before we can make a decision about this."

"Do you understand the people I've got for this thing? Gene Clark of The Byrds, Nicky Hopkins, a fuckin legend, and John York of The Byrds?" I asked, now frustrated.

"Well yes, but you want money with no guarantee to us whether this proposal of yours..."

I cut him off! "Hey man," I said, "I have just given you something that is worth a fortune with well known people who are willing to do it, and you're jerking me off over bullshit."

"Well now wait a minute Mr. Jameson," he said, "I am simply proposing good business sense to you..."

I cut him off again. "What you are doing, you dumb shit, is letting something you couldn't put together in your lifetime slip through your fingers because you are too stupid and too cheap to understand what you have right in front of you."

The look on his face, and on the faces of the others in the room, were like portraits of dead people. I knew what was happening. I knew it like the back of my hand. It was more of that good business bullshit I'd heard too many times--where an unbelievable opportunity is right there, but the people looking at it are too arrogant and full of shit to just say,"Hell yes! Lets do it!"

(part 217) ME, JOHN YORK, AND NICKY HOPKINS

Bobby Jameson


John York


Nicky Hopkins

In 1981 I felt as if I were back in the 70's. The only difference was that I was clean and sober. It was a big difference. Without that I would have surely gone on a bone chilling rampage following another complete collapse of my world.

I didn't know back then whether I was going to be able to stay sober through it all. I was faced with the prospect of homelessness and no job. So finding somewhere to put myself was a top priority in my daily thinking.

There always seemed to be a temporary fix, but it was pure drudgery having to constantly look for the next bed or couch. I can't even begin to remember all the places I ended up.

I recall clearly staying with Georgiana Steele at her aunt's house in Glendale for around a month, and I will always be grateful to her for the time I was given there. But in all honesty I was too depressed to stay anywhere for very long.

I felt like an unfixable loser, and lived in my own dark world of isolation a lot of the time. Having to communicate with people for more than an hour or two was damn near impossible.

I'd become reacquainted with Georgiana through John York, who had been a member of the second Byrds band, as well as being one of the musicians who'd played on Outlaw, Ten Cent Call, and Barrooms during the Dennis Poulsen deal.

I'd become good friends with John and his wife Nadia, and stopped by their apartment a lot when I was out searching for a way to restart my ever crumbling life.

One afternoon I showed up there and John introduced me to Nicky Hopkins, who had played keyboards and piano on about a hundred number one records over the the years.

We sat around talking for awhile, and at some point I picked up John's old acoustic guitar from the couch and started messing with some chords I'd come up with.

Hopkins asked what I was playing and I said, "It's just a four chord blues riff I made up."

"Well I thought I'd heard every chord there was," he said, "but I haven't ever seen or heard what you're playing."

"It's just a B-7th configuration, finger wise, played in four different fret locations up and down the neck," I said,

"Never seen it done like that," said Hopkins,

"Yeah, well you don't change the fingering, just the fret position," I said, simulating what I was talking about on the neck of the guitar.

Nicky walked over and sat down at a keyboard in the middle of John's living room and asked, "Would you play that again Bobby?"

I went over to where Hopkins was seated and John picked up a bass guitar. I launched into playing the chords again and started singing the lyrics to the song I had written.

Nicky kept watching my fingers sliding up and down the neck of the guitar and shook his head.

"What's wrong?" I asked,

"Nothing," he said, "I've just never seen this progression before in my life, and the way it sounds. It's just totally different than anything I've ever heard."

I looked at John, who was smiling like a Cheshire Cat and shrugged my shoulders.

"Play it again," said Hopkins, "I have to learn this. I have to hear it again and again so I can get the right notes. Play it again Bobby, keep playing it until I get it. I can't believe I haven't ever heard this before."

For about three hours that afternoon my life made sense again. Me, John York, and Nicky Hopkins playing music together in John's living room, and loving every second of it.

Three creative souls surrounded by John's family with the sun pouring in the windows, picking, plunking, and thumping in an upstairs apartment in Hollywood, California.

(part 216) THE WALL OF TIME

click

AFTERNOON
GALAXY
OF GREY...
CONTEMPLATING
HESITATING
WITH EACH
WORD...
THOUGHT...

FEELINGS OF
REMORSE
CARVED INTO
THE ROCKS OF
MY SOUL...
BLOWN THERE
BY THE WIND
LEFT THERE
BY CIRCUMSTANCE...

NOW I CAN
BREATHE
THE RUSTY AIR...
DRINK IN
THE SOLIITUDE
OF LONELY
HOURS...

A WATCHFUL EYE
A WAVING
HAND
A SHADOW
ON THE WALL
OF TIME
STRANDED
ON A
ROADSIDE CALLED
INFINITY...

Bobby Jameson Nov 19, 2010