Luck or Something Like It (10 page)

Because I was an employee of the hotel, I could get straight back to the dressing room before the crowd could descend on him, so I would always have four or five minutes by myself with him. Interestingly, looking back, I never saw him in street clothes; it was always stage clothes or his famous robe. He was always soaking wet with sweat.

This was at the time he was dating Linda Thompson. She and I later became good friends when she started doing
Hee Haw
. I’m sure what I got was only a snapshot of his life, but that much success seemed so lonely. I think he just enjoyed having someone to talk to.

As the crowds started building up one night I excused myself and told him I was going to play blackjack. He actually said to me how much he would love to just walk out and play blackjack some night, but Colonel Parker had convinced him he couldn’t, that it would be too dangerous. At the time, I thought how sad that must be, and that the colonel was just trying to control him. In retrospect, I think the colonel was probably right. The public has no mercy or respect in that situation.

Several months after Elvis died, I was on an airplane with his last girlfriend, Ginger Alden, who I had met with him in passing. She told me she thought I would like to know Elvis had told her many times that a song I had written called “Sweet Music Man” was his favorite song. I can see where he could relate to it as he got older.

Those are very treasured memories to me, and I thank Ginger for sharing them with me.

The experiences of the First Edition weren’t just about who we met, though; they were also about where we went. If you ask any one of us, one of the highlights you’d hear about would be our trip through New Zealand, which we did for a public television show there called
Rollin’ Through New Zealand
. We took a minibus from Dunedin to Auckland and did concerts in about thirteen cities along the length of the country. We were treated like superstars. They
loved
us in New Zealand. We could always depend on our songs doing well on the charts there, even if they hadn’t done so well in the United States. We made friends with some of the Maoris, the indigenous people in New Zealand, ate some incredible local food, and Mickey Jones and I stayed way too long in the sulfur baths in Rotorua. We couldn’t walk for an hour afterward, because our muscles were so weak from the sulfur water.

Memories like these are immeasurable perks in the gypsy life of a touring musician.

Around this same time, Larry Cansler and Michael Martin Murphey started writing songs for the album I mentioned earlier that they called
The Ballad of Calico
. They were fresh from writing a huge hit entitled “Wildfire,” so they stayed with the concept and excellent musical chronology of a ghost town named Calico, located in the Mojave Desert. After most of the pieces were sketched out, they brought Terry and me a few songs, which convinced us that this should be our next album. For a couple of months we recorded the tracks and vocals almost around the clock at Glaser Studios in Nashville. The solos and background vocals were incredible, and we pushed ourselves to the max. We then took the project back to L.A. and used a full studio orchestra for the opening—“Sunrise Overture” and “Calico Saturday Night.” Kin Vassy sang a song on the album called “School Teacher,” which we all thought would be a big hit for us.

Calico
was a groundbreaking album, and the songs stood up against anything on the airwaves at the time. Although the album didn’t do that well initially, it has since been revived with a large cult following. I only wish Kin had lived to see it. He passed away in 1994 from cancer.

Kin was a good friend, and as much as anybody else, he put his unique stamp on the First Edition, both vocally and as a writer. Being from Georgia, he sang with all the passion of a Georgia country boy. Every time I think about Kin, I think about a song he wrote called “Pocket Change.” It was a story that I had related to him about how when I was a child, I always felt better when I knew my dad was in the house. I could always tell when he came in late at night because when he took off his old khaki work pants and dropped them on the floor, I could hear the change in his pocket. Only then did I feel safe. The original title was to have been “My Father’s Change.” A lot of people, myself included, took their turn at trying to translate this image into a song.

Los Angeles in the early 1970s had a burgeoning music community where many singers and songwriters collaborated or at least shared ideas. Once, I remember, at a small affair at Rod Stewart’s house in Beverly Hills, I told this story to the group and how I struggled with trying to capture the essence of the emotion. A few minutes later, I heard Elton John on Rod’s piano trying to figure out the song version. Like the rest of us, he couldn’t quite get it, which is why I am so grateful to Kin for sticking with it until he came up with the right tune and lyrics to match my childhood experience.

Little by little, the
entertainment roller coaster called the First Edition started taking its toll on the members of the group. As much as we truly cared about one another, we all saw the writing on the wall. Even with our success, it was a hard life. After almost a decade of great laughs, good friendships, incredible experiences, twelve albums, and nine charted records, including “Just Dropped In,” “Ruby,” “But You Know I Love You,” “Something’s Burning,” “Tell It All Brother,” and “Heed the Call,” the First Edition had run its course.

At one time we all thought we’d stumbled on a magic success formula and would ride it forever. We’ve since learned that our attitude was unrealistic. This business is mountain climbing. You don’t just go to the top and stay there. Sooner or later, you’ve got to come back down.

Chapter Ten

Back on My Own

The First Edition played
our last scheduled shows in Las Vegas in the fall of 1975. The breakup was more of an evolution than a falling apart. Terry Williams wanted to try to go solo. Mickey Jones had aspirations for an acting career. Mike Settle, one of the mainstays of the group, was long gone. The group simply lost its collective purpose and momentum.

The two years surrounding the breakup of the First Edition was a dark period for me, both personally and professionally. Everything I had built for at least a decade or more seemed to be falling apart, and there were no easy answers about what to do next. Was my short but exhilarating ride in the pop music business over? Would I have to settle for singing “Ruby” and “Reuben James” on an oldies TV show thirty years from now?

Not having a career direction was just one of my problems. My ten-year marriage with wife number three, Margo, always rocky and tempestuous, was now officially over and a nasty divorce loomed.

My marriage with Margo Anderson had lasted since 1964, a lifetime in my matrimonial history up to then. It was great for about the first ten years, but I was constantly on the road during that whole long period, first with the Bobby Doyle Three and Kirby Stone and then later for years with the First Edition. Little by little trust became an issue for both of us. After we had made the move to L.A., Margo got bored or something and began to experiment with psychedelic drugs with some of the guys she had met in a drama class at L.A. City College. That got just a little too “hip” for me. I came home unexpectedly one day after being on the road, and a young guy had his clothes in my closet.

Somehow I just knew that arrangement wasn’t going to work. I tried to do the right thing for the marriage. I told her, “If you can forget him, I can forgive you.”

She said she would. She said she could. But she couldn’t. A few days later I saw them together and I knew right away.

“Another one bites the dust.”

I don’t really hold a grudge. It was truly a sign of the times. It was, after all, the late ’60s and early ’70s, and a lot of marriages fell victim to the upheavals in sex, drugs, and outlandish lifestyles. Plus, as I said, I was so blinded by ambition in those years, so preoccupied with making it in the music business every minute of the day, I wouldn’t have seen a problem in the marriage if you’d hit me in the head with a two-by-four. I identified with my career and not much else.

Margo and I were divorced in 1976. Everything I had went into making a final settlement with her, because I didn’t want to be in a situation where I would be making payments forever to someone who no longer was part of my life. Consequently, I gave her whatever she asked for and gambled that I would be better off in the long run. Of course I still had child support payments for Kenny Jr., then eleven, who I had wrongly assumed would continue being a part of my life.

Through much of that period, a bloody battle raged in the Hollywood divorce courts of Los Angeles. Once I graciously offered to give Margo everything, she decided even that wasn’t enough; she wanted more than everything. So the battle lines were drawn. She is the mother of my son Kenny, so I will choose my words carefully.

I had really strong feelings about Margo at that time, and none of them were good; I thought she was an absolutely uncompromising
bitch
. I have reason to believe she didn’t care for me very much either. When all was said and done, though, we both got what we deserved. It was a hard-fought fight, but it ended fair. We ended up with an amicable split.

In 1976, Margo moved away with Kenny and I wouldn’t see him again for several years. I went back to the courts to see what could be done, because I missed Kenny more than I can even talk about. But I received a phone call from his grandmother, Margo’s mother, and she asked me to be careful because it was hurting Kenny. She told me he did not want to see me anymore, and that the court battles were tearing him apart. I agreed to stop my court proceedings, a decision I have always regretted. I should have fought for my son. I thought at the time I was doing what was best for him, but later I would discover how much my actions had hurt him.

I have seen Margo once since then, and she seems to be much more sensible now. Funny how these things are never my fault. I always thought we brought out the worst in each other, except for Kenny. He has always been, and still is, an amazingly brilliant and talented young man. She deserves all the credit for that. I am very proud of him, and I thank her.

Kenny at one time told me he wanted to be in the music business and asked if I had any suggestions about how to get started. I recommended that he do what I did—put a group together, work locally, and start getting a feel for what this life was about. Then he could make a more informed decision as to whether music was what he really wanted to do with his life or not.

My advice to him, as to anyone considering music as a career, is “Don’t do it for the money.” Most people who set out just to make money don’t last long enough to actually see the money. They get discouraged and quit. Longevity is based on your ability to accept rejection and keep trying. Most people can’t do that. Those who do survive do so because they feel music is their calling. These people are hard to discourage.

Kenny then informed me that he felt music was his calling, but he still didn’t want to go on the road. He was stubborn, just like his mom, but in the end he was right. He stayed with it until it worked for him. As a father, you have to love that.

I personally had no idea how to generate income without traveling and performing, so I wasn’t much help. Kenny did land three record deals and released an album on EMI titled
Yes, No, Maybe.
He realized he didn’t want to continue as a touring musician and, through his manager, had the opportunity to write the scores for some sports-based videos. I heard the music he was writing and I loved it. So we brought him on board to help with the music on
Gambler V;
the director, Jack Bender, agreed that the music Kenny was writing was great.

He had found his place in the music business. He was now a “scoring machine,” which got him in the doors to the studios. He went on to work at Paramount Television, and his career took off composing TV themes and underscores. In fact, that’s his voice heard around the world singing the iconic “Extra, Extra” on the television show
Extra.
So when you hear “Extra, Extra” before and after that show, just remember: “That’s my boy!” He never left L.A. and has done very well. I am extremely proud of the man he’s become and the life he’s carved out for himself.

As if the First
Edition disbanding and my divorce weren’t enough, during that time, my dad passed away.

Everything is relative. Bands breaking up and bad divorces are pretty meaningless when stacked up against this event of July 7, 1975.

I think my dad was scared to die. In my thirty-six years he had never told me he was frightened about anything, but then again, I guess dads aren’t supposed to be afraid of anything, are they? My dad was facing major surgery, a surgery he didn’t really want. He knew he needed it, but nevertheless he didn’t want it. Maybe he had a gut feeling, but something, whatever it was, was out of the ordinary for him, and everyone in the family could feel it. You could see it in his eyes.

I remember that I didn’t understand it at the time, but my mom had once called for an ambulance for my dad when I was very young. He had had heart problems for years, and that emergency was heart related.

Awaiting the ambulance, I remember he said to my mom, “Lucille, I don’t care how sick I am, when that ambulance comes here to get me, I don’t want no damn sirens! If I die, I die, but no sirens, please!”

And he meant it. That had been really important to him for some reason. Something about sirens meant “serious” to him, and he wanted no part of broadcasting his health problems to the other people in the projects.

Along with his heart ailment, my dad had diabetes so bad that his left foot had turned black. That’s not a good sign. This is what the 1975 surgery was about. The time had come to operate or amputate—those were his two choices. He wasn’t excited about either one, but it was out of his hands now. My mother had put her foot down, and around our house, that was the law, even for my dad.

On his first day in the hospital, he tried to keep his sense of humor up. When someone would knock on his door, he would always say, “Friend or enema?”

The nurses all loved him. On this particular occasion, our dad had asked my brother Lelan to get in touch with all the kids in the family and ask them to be sure and come see him before his surgery. This was so unlike him. He never cared for a lot of hoopla around him. If anything, he discouraged it. But this time he wanted everyone to be there.

The surgery was a standard procedure that even the doctors weren’t worried about. They told us they did three of these surgeries a day. It was a vein transplant from the inner thigh to the ankle. This would increase the blood flow to the foot and solve his problems. He was supposed to be up and around in a matter of days.

My dad’s stay in the hospital was the first time in years all the kids were together in the same room. There were eight of us, plus my mom, so that was no small feat. We were all married by then and had moved far away from our mom and dad. It was much more difficult now to gather than when we were young. But we did it.

I remember all of us around his bed before he went in for the surgery, laughing and telling jokes. This was nothing to worry about. The doctors had made the family feel very comfortable about it. But my dad wasn’t laughing like he normally would be. I think he must have felt this wasn’t going to turn out well.

The surgery lasted about three hours, and when the doctor came out, I instantly felt, as you sometimes do, that the news wasn’t going to be good. It wasn’t. When we saw the look on the doctor’s face, I guess we just assumed the vein surgery hadn’t gone well and they elected to do the next best thing. We thought they had decided to amputate his foot. That in itself would have been a death sentence for my dad.

It was much worse than that. My dad was seventy-two years old and smoked a pack of cigarettes a day and drank heavily most of his life. He was in worse condition than any of the doctors had led us to believe. Once they had anesthetized him to operate, they hadn’t been able to get any of his vital organs to start up again. He had advanced cirrhosis of the liver, his heart was damaged, and his lungs were severely compromised by those decades of smoking.

When the doctor said, “I’m sorry, he’s gone,” I swear the entire family thought he had gotten up off the operating table and left for somewhere. We wanted to ask, “Gone where?” Then it hit us almost all at once. Our dad had died.

This man who had been married to our mother for as long as any of us knew and who, with all his problems and disappointments, had done what so few fathers in the projects had done—been there for his children—was now gone.

He had just been here talking to us a few hours ago, and for the first time we all realized he was the first family member to die and none of us knew how to feel or really what to do. The silence was deafening. Finally my older sister Geraldine said, “What do we do now?”

I think it was Lelan who suggested that we not go view the body at this time. He thought we should take a moment and make sure our mom was okay. She clearly was not—her level of pain was more than any of us could imagine. Geraldine volunteered to drive Mother home while we went to the waiting room to begin making a whole new order of family decisions. It seemed like we were moving so fast, but this was obviously what needed to be done.

Without saying as much, Lelan knew he was the man of the house now and had to do what none of us knew how to do—make the funeral arrangements. Once that was begun, the family settled in and told Floyd stories. Roy talked about catching our dad with his vodka bottle in the closet and pretending to be “Floyd’s conscience.” Lelan and I talked about our $10 or $20 visits. Barbara talked about our dad catching her smoking one time and how she claimed the cigarettes were mine. I was ten at the time, but my loving sister had no problem throwing me under the bus at that age. The storytelling went on for four hours. It was sad but somehow joyous at the same time. Dad would have liked it, had he been there.

At the Crockett funeral home where Dad had said he wanted to be buried, we got together for the last time with aunts, uncles, and more cousins than we even knew we had and again told Floyd stories. Some we were sure weren’t even true, but they had the “Floyd flavor” and they made for good memories and good laughs. As we all gathered around the casket for a final viewing, I realized I didn’t even really know my dad, not like I should have. There were so many questions I should have asked but didn’t. I had never taken the time to ask him what he did as a child, what things he liked, whether he was a happy kid, and whether he was truly proud of us.

I did know this: he was a good man who had to face things that I wouldn’t have to face because of him. Like all the other people that day, I was there simply to say good-bye and let him know I loved him very much. We all did.

In the fifty years
I have been in this business, I can honestly recall only once when I felt uncertain about my future. When I left the Bobby Doyle Three in Houston, I went straight to Los Angeles and started getting a paycheck from the New Christy Minstrels. When Terry, Thelma, Mike, and I left the Christys for the First Edition, we left on a Friday and started our new life the Monday after. I was broke at the time, but I had the possibility for a future and a musical family to support me.

But when the First Edition called it quits, I felt—for the first time—totally lost and alone. Those first two years after the breakup, I hardly worked at all. I had always been a group singer. I loved singing harmony and I loved the friendship. Now I was suddenly thrown into a situation of being, in effect, a solo singer. There wasn’t another group in the offing to join. Having been the lead singer for most of the First Edition hits, I hoped to keep singing without them. But the truth is, I didn’t know how to be a solo singer. When you are in a band and things aren’t going well, you can say, “Hey, we’re not doing very well, are we?” But when you are by yourself, you can only say, “I’m not doing very well, am I?”