Waging Heavy Peace (4 page)

From Talbot’s we took off to the dinner with the Bridge board and walked down to the restaurant together. When we got there, the ladies from the board (Vicki Casella, Executive Director of the school, and Sarah Blackstone, an expert in the field of Augmentative and Alternative communication) were already having a little wine and winding down. I would have had a beer or something, but as I said, I quit drinking, and I really don’t miss it that much. I had a cranberry and soda mix, which is what I like these days. Steve Atkinson, another board member, showed up and said he had just missed us at the toy store and people were all talking about the fact that I had just been there. (That is always surprising for me to hear and think about. I guess a grown man who happened to be famous geeking out with a train in a toy store with two other guys is somewhat interesting and could be seen as news.)

The next day we returned to the retreat and finished at about noon. We had to come up with a few concepts on how to ensure the Bridge School’s future. I have been able to help with concert fund-raisers, but Pegi is the force behind the Bridge School. The catalyst. It was her idea. One day when Ben Young was young and we were looking for school placement, after a particularly depressing look at a local California classroom for the disabled, Pegi was near tears. She just blurted out, “Why don’t we just call your friends and put on a concert to raise money and start a school? We could get Bruce Springsteen!” I just looked at her, dumbfounded by this audacious idea.

Because of his grace, Bruce did it and made our first concert a sellout. We started the school on those funds. Bruce Springsteen is the real thing. He was at the first big peak of his career, and his appearance was amazing on all levels. We also had super performances from Nils Lofgren, Tom Petty, Don Henley & Friends, Robin Williams, and an unannounced CSN
.
The Bridge School was born. And it all came from Pegi. Elliot and Marsha Vlasic have been booking the Bridge School benefits since the first one, choosing the artists to be invited and making sure they are all taken care of.

Bruce is still my friend. We don’t talk much. We don’t have to. He is great and in his own league. I am not him and he is not me. But we are on similar paths, writing and singing our kind of songs around the world, along with Bob and a few other singer/songwriters. It is a silent fraternity of sorts, occupying this space in people’s souls with our music. Last year, I lost my right-hand man, the pedal steel guitarist Ben Keith. This year Bruce lost his right-hand man, the saxophonist Clarence Clemons. It’s time for another talk; friends can help each other just by being there. Now both of us will look to our right and see a giant hole, a memory, the past and the future. I won’t play with another steel player trying to re-create Ben’s parts, and I know Bruce won’t play with another sax man trying to play Clarence’s. Those parts are not going to happen again. They already did. That takes away a lot out of our repertoires.

Bob Dylan doesn’t have anyone like that, I don’t think, although maybe it was once Mike Bloomfield—now there was a great guitar player. Bob is painting now, and Elliot—who once was Bob’s manager, too—says he is a master. I’m not surprised. I’m sure Bob has the master’s touch, whether he is painting from a photograph or a memory of something he has seen. He chooses his images. He has been doing that for a long time. His songs have known no bounds in their influence, and the folk process transfers well to painting. He may just be getting started. Like music, the world of art has its own rules to break.

With Pam Smith, at Falcon Lake, Manitoba, August 1964.

Chapter Six

Mort

A
t age eighteen, I purchased Mortimer Hearseburg, or Mort, a 1948 Buick hearse that was for sale from a local mortuary. I had seen an advertisement in the paper for the hearse and went to a place where several hearses were parked. I thought a hearse would be the ideal band vehicle, something that could finally replace my mother Rassy’s car. We always spent a lot of time loading and unloading her small Ensign, an English car made by Standard Motors. It wasn’t big enough for our band’s gear, but we made it fit. I must mention here that Rassy was the biggest supporter of my musical endeavors and believed in me from the very beginning, offering her encouragement always. (By the way, her real name was Edna, but her daddy nicknamed her Rassy.) While we lived in Winnipeg, she had supplied her little car for all the Squires’ gigs up to that time, allowed us to practice in the living room of our little flat, even lent me money to buy my instruments and amps when my dad wouldn’t because of my terrible school grades. Once she took me over to a relative’s house with my amp and guitar and had me play “Malagueña” for them because she thought I was so great. I didn’t even know the song, but I loved to improvise on the chord changes, which I thought were genius.

She got really pissed when my dad did not help me buy my instruments. When my dad’s book
Neil and Me
came out in 1984, she was incredulous beyond description! She would quote from the book and then say, “Oh, for God’s sake, what a load of shit!” noting that he didn’t have any relationship with me compared to her and had done nothing to support my musical life.

She never forgave him for leaving us. I did.

Anyway, when I arrived at the place where the hearse was supposed to be, behind a wire fence, there was a gated area where two identical hearses were parked. The only real difference between the two was that one had a blue interior and the other had a burgundy interior. The interiors I am referring to are the inside velvet trim in the back of the hearses. The exteriors were wild! They were at least eight inches taller in the hood than a normal Roadmaster, and they were very long. The wheelbase was 156 inches. The name
Flxible
was on the side of the front fender. Two 1948 Buick Roadmasters that had been custom-built as hearses! I loved them.

In the back there were really nice curtains and a headliner of plush velvet with pull-down shades,
and there was a sliding divider window between the front and the back. There were rollers on the floor for moving the caskets easily in and out of the back through a gigantic rear door. What could be better than that? Perfect for rolling amps and PA in and out, sleeping and storing equipment, I thought to myself. The price was $125 for either one.

They were both in good running condition. (That was the thing about hearses; they were always in good shape because of what they were used for.) I made a choice. The blue interior was the best, so I took that one. Rassy paid the bill. Thank you, Mom! I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was high as a kite! At the first gig with Mort, I felt like the Squires had a new identity. The hearse was an amazing attention-getter, and that is what being in a band needs. When you get to a gig, you got to be cool. We were the coolest thing in town with Mort. No one else had anything like that. Nothing they had could touch it.

Of course, Pam Smith’s dad was not so sure about it when I pulled up in front of their house in the residential area where they lived. The neighbors all thought that someone had died. Pam was my steady girlfriend, my first real love. We went together for about a year, maybe less, as I remember it, a long time for someone that age. I saw a recent picture of her a while back, and she still is beautiful today. She was wearing a flannel shirt in that photo that looked like the same kind I love to wear. Even after I left Winnipeg, my thoughts kept coming back to Pam, and occasionally I would send her long rambling letters, which she did not answer, probably not knowing what to say. Long and short of it is, she was my first real love, my first companion of that kind, someone I could talk to, and as with old friends there is always going to be a warm feeling there. Sending good thoughts to you, Pam.

Today I have a hearse identical to Mort, given to me by Taylor Phelps’s partner, who said Taylor wanted me to have it when he died. I drove Taylor to his funeral in it. That car is in
Year of the Horse
, a cool film about Crazy Horse that Jim Jarmusch did. That film is very special to me because it has my dad in it. I loved my dad, and during that time, I started to see that he was not himself. Once I left him on one floor of the hotel in Dublin where we were filming with Jim, and he got lost. That was unsettling. Despite what my mom said, I know he was a cool guy. He was always doing what he thought was right for me.

One beautiful morning in 1963 or ’64, Mort was parked in front of our triplex at 1123 Grosvenor Avenue in Winnipeg. We packed up Mort with everything we needed, and then we headed southeast to Fort William, Ontario. It was our first big road trip, and our first nightclub gig was booked at the Flamingo Club. I was eighteen. I felt on top of the world. (Mort had a straight-eight and a three-speed manual transmission. Mort was a good runner, and to save gas I used to go into neutral on downgrades, not knowing that this practice was putting unnecessary strain on the drive train, which I would pay for later. Even in those days, I was very energy efficient! Of course, Mort was a giant vehicle like Lincvolt, so nothing has really changed.)

We made it to Fort William with no problems, and three wide-eyed kids were finally in the big time.
When we got to the Flamingo Club—a brightly decorated, multilevel supper club with a dance floor and long bar known locally as the Flame—we were ready to play, doing three to five sets a night for the $325 weekly salary plus meals at night. The first night we were nervous, but we did fine.

We played six days a week. The money was great! It was the most money I had ever made at that point, and I was on top of the world. We lived at the YMCA for a small payment, so after food expenses we made a little bit of profit. There were three of us splitting it evenly. Bill Edmondson on drums and vocals, me on guitar, and Ken Koblun on bass. Ken, my school classmate and an original Squire from the very beginning, had been keeping a diary since our first gig.

The Flamingo eventually put us up at the Victoria Hotel, and I was writing a lot of songs for the gig there. We were going Jimmy Reed–style big-time because I loved Jimmy and knew that kind of music would be perfect for the club. I wrote a couple of R&B songs in that vein right away, “Find Another Shoulder” and “Hello Lonely Woman,” at the hotel. I wrote a lot more then, too. One older song that was the same type of beat was resurrected. It was called “Ain’t It the Truth.” These tunes were all R&B-based and we did a good job on them. We did “Hi-Heel Sneakers” and “Walkin’ the Dog” and countless others of that type as well. A lot of local musicians came to hear us there, and local DJ Ray Dee also came to the club to check us out. Ray later recorded us at the CJLX studios and booked us in the area. He was a great help to the Squires in Fort William, offering his leadership and advice.

We made friends with many of the local musicians, and they hung out with us. Danny Hortichuk of the Bonnevilles was just one of them, and I remember him as being a really good guy. Being from out of town was working for us big-time like I had hoped it would. There is nothing like having no preconceptions to live up to or down. Today my past is a huge thing. Everybody has an expectation of what I should do. There comes a time when these things start to get in one’s way. Expectations can block the light. They can shadow the future, making it more difficult to be free-flowing and creative. I need to find that freedom again today if I want to fly.

Meanwhile, back at the Flamingo Club, we were doing “Farmer John” every night and tearing the place up with it. Writing songs at night and in the morning, playing multiple sets every evening at the club, I was living the life I loved and every day was a new opportunity. We were very successful there and got asked back with a raise to $350 per week. I woke up every morning with a clean slate. No expectations weighing over me, and no history binding me to the past.

At night, I had something else on my mind. I was looking at the used-car ads in the paper. Back in Winnipeg, I had spent some time sitting in a 1959 Cadillac convertible that belonged to my school friends Brian and Barry Blick’s dad. He owned a TV station in Pembina, North Dakota, and used to drive back and forth between there and Winnipeg in this big Caddy. It was red with a red leather interior. The car made a big impression on me, so I used to sit in the YMCA in Fort William figuring out how long I would have to work gigs like the Flamingo Club until I had enough money to buy a car like that. I checked all the ads in the paper for similar cars and compared prices. I actually have one today, but it’s all in pieces because the fellow who was going to rebuild it never did get around to putting it back together, for a variety of reasons. I may still get it done, though. It would be worth it just to get closure. Today that car is worth a fortune and it would cost more than it’s worth to put it back together. It would fit right in as part of Feelgood’s.

This car used to run fine. It’s too bad I had it dismantled to rebuild. You live and learn. David Briggs had named it Nanu the Lovesick Moose. It had an interesting feature where the windshield washer had so much pressure that it would overshoot the windshield altogether.

Here’s a memory: Once we pulled up at a gas station in Nanu with the top down and there was a car full of really fine babes right beside us, filling up with gas and looking like a million bucks. They were gorgeous and looked like real fun-loving girls. Knowing exactly what would happen, Briggs said a big “Hi” to the girls and then hit the windshield washer button. Water squirted out of the jets right over the whole interior without touching it and landed on the trunk lid eight feet behind us. He had made his point: It was an impressive and grand display of male virility. David just sat there like nothing was happening. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t stop. We had some really great times, David and I! That was only one of them! I am laughing my ass off right now just thinking of the fun we had! How lighthearted. That was when Nanu was in her prime. I have to get that car running again. What a wonderful thing that would be! That would make me tremendously happy.

One other time we were in Malibu driving down the Pacific Coast Highway in Nanu. We had a gram of coke with us, and Art Linson, who was David’s friend and Nils Lofgren’s manager and friend, was in the backseat. David and I were sitting in Nanu’s bucket seats up front. We were cruising Malibu and feeling real good about life. A Malibu sheriff pulled up beside us and turned his lights on. He was pulling us over! When we stopped, he got out of his car and walked up to ours.

I rolled down my window and asked, “What’s the problem? Is it against the law to drive a ’59 Cadillac convertible in Malibu?”

He was taken aback by my question.

“This car was made for this town!” I said.

He shook his head, smiled at me, and said, “Just take it easy. Have a good evening.”

We drove away. After holding our breaths for a minute, it dawned on us.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” said Briggs. “You just blew my fucking mind.” Linson just stayed put in the backseat, shaking his head.

Sometimes timing is everything. There was ZERO thought process involved in that. I had absolutely no idea what I was saying or doing. It just came out. It was a spur-of-the-moment event. We drove away laughing, counting the minutes till we did another blast. Those were some big times, a long way from the Flamingo Club.