THROUGH THE HAZE #53

California conclusion. Night two with James Cotton, a harsh reality for Half Shell is revealed and the long ride home…

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January 27, 1979

JP arrived around noon, wondering why I did not respond to his phone calls, and I filled him in on my new two-night career.

First night of the Cotton gig went smoothly and JP was cool with me carrying on with the band. Now he could continue hanging with Zavod in Bel Air guilt free.

Night two’s routine pretty much mirrored the Friday’s show. Same setlist, guest spots with Witherspoon that pleased those on hand and only a trip or two back to the dressing room for assorted technical goods. The only variation came when the post show notes for James were handed to me. Angelique was replaced by six foot two Esther whom I whisked backstage post show to meet James. Cotton shook my hand as well, not as much for helping out but for delivering this delicious heavily perfumed hottie to him. As I introduced him to her, his eyebrows raised and he shook my hand, then with a nod added “You’re alright son…Allll Righttt.”

Back at the Trop, around 10:30, we reconvened in my room until around midnight. A mere fly on the wall for the next two hours I listened to Noel, Ray and Maxwell spin tale after tale regarding their years of playing on the road.

Maxwell dug deep, recalling his many years with the legendary Nighthawks, contrasting that time spent with how it went playing for Bonnie Raitt.

Killer Ray’s memories revolved around his Muddy Waters days, the iconic blues legend he and James worked for prior to his Cotton Band years.

Noel was and would continue to be a part of Cotton’s band for nearly thirty years and his adages about Jame’s lack of hearing sent everyone in the room howling with laughter.

Around midnight we parted ways. I thanked them for the opportunity, they thanked me for not effin anything up and keeping their boss in the most pleasant of moods.

As they headed out, Maxwell gave a smile and a buddy hug, then handed me a business card on which he had written his home number and address in case I ever traveled to east to the Massachusetts area. And, as expected, Ray and Noel got in a last round of digs, Noel first.

“James told me you were better at picking out his ladies than Gordon—Our guy puts too much emphasis on butts and boobs. You focus on pretty faces, you know lookers--less bat poop crazy too!” Ray got the last word; “Yeah, he was talking about maybe shit-canning Gordo and keeping your skinny hind end around for the rest of the tour. Had a change of heart though when he realized he would have to adjust payroll…”

As on the previous night my energy level had yet to subside. I adjusted the tin foiled rabbit ears on the black and white tv and tuned in to the news. That’s when things got interesting.

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“Also in the news, it has been nearly a decade since Stephen Stills has played a solo show in Los Angeles and tonight, he is just about ready to kick into the second show of the evening of a scheduled four-night run at the Roxy. All shows sold out quickly and last night’s drew raves from those on hand.”

Those on hand…. Hmmm. Most people would have chose a taxi to get the seven or eight blocks to the Roxy from the Trop. Heeding destiny’s call I chose the five-ten minute hike up the hill route.

Half a block away I could hear those smokey vocals of one of my favorite artists beckon me on.

Many were milling about looking for tickets, with no luck. Having made the trip I was not ready to turn back so I moseyed closer towards the entrance. Perhaps I could talk my way in as I had many years earlier back at the Crystal Ballroom. THROUGH THE HAZE… vol 3 - by M D Navalinski - M’s Substack

Tonight’s bouncer repeated request for those lacking tickets to move along away from the entrance. Perceiving me as just another ticketless clown (which I was,) he spun me around and put a well-placed boot to my butt to send me on my way.

Caught off guard by this impressive maneuver and with proper equilibrium betrayed by the four tall boys I pounded down back at the Trop, my left foot betrayed my right.

Before I could compensate, it was Humpty Dumpty time, and I performed a disheveled and most likely tumble down upon the sidewalk.

With only my pride hurt, his message was loud and clear.

Ironically as I hopped up and turned to begin my trek back towards 8585 Santa Monica Blvd, Stills had just begun singing Go Back Home: “Think I’ll go back home. Back where I belong.” Stills message loud and clear I didn’t look back.

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The following morning, JP arrived, squinty little crab eyes hiding behind sunglasses. He grinned like a Cheshire cat, as he listened to my recent adventures. We checked out—three nights for less than a hundred dollars--the Saab pointed in the direction of Carmel, five hours away.

The rep from Monterey Peninsula greeted us at Morton’s deli where we grabbed three half-inch thick pastrami and rye delights, then followed him to a beachside cabana to discuss the realities ahead for Half Shell Productions.

For the next hour, as the waves crashed in the background, he enlightened us regarding the realities of the concert industry. He had heard positive feedback regarding Half Shell’s professionalism but, he explained, we were trying to find a niche in a market dominated by three very large, powerful, and well-respected organizations--Concerts West, Albatross and Double Tee. Every agency representing artists across the country had established relationships with these promoters. He made it clear that the more aggressive we approach agencies in an effort to get a foothold in the industry, the more difficult those promoters would make those efforts to find anyone willing to broker a show of significance, Half Shell would quickly become no mas—squished like a bug…. Quite simply, those were the cold hard facts… Occasionally a show such as a Buffett or Ponty might fall into our hands, but we need be realistic. A profitable career or role in the industry was not in Half Shell’s future.

He suggested that if we stick to one show per quarter maximum they may not get riled up but, in a worst-case scenario, they might decide to start booking those second-tier performances in Bellingham themselves, to eradicate competition, so to speak.

He suggested we keep our ties with Monty and occasionally, if the timing was right, Monterey would ‘throw us a bone.’ That would be the best they could do.

We shook hands, thanked him for lunch. He went back to the office. We watched the waves crash for an hour or so. With that, our otherwise grand and slightly surreal adventure had come to an end. It was time to head home.

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Gassed up and a sufficient war chest of molecular modifiers still on hand to get us home, we went to work on all the new music we had acquired in the San Fran Tower store as we counted down the miles ahead.

Our acquisitions from Tower—what a bundle!!

We arrived around midnight in Sacramento. With sufficient propellant still on hand, JP decided to finish our journey, estimated time of arrival, sometime before sunrise. It was then our karma took major hits.

First up the effin’ cassette player decided to call it quits. Music—a crucial element to any road trip, was cruelly eliminated. With most of any small talk used up on the journey down, the sound of silence took hold, making time pass unbearably slowwwwwwww. Shortly thereafter the Saab’s trusty thermostat rebelled and refused to make its way out of the engine warning light’s red zone.

For the next thirteen hours—841 miles-- we stopped at every rest area, refilled the pissed off radiator with two large Gatorade bottles of water. We managed to make the miles from rest area to rest area before the gauge pegged into the red zone. Every stop, same procedure was the same: pull over, fill up, proceed…

Just as the sun began to paint a gorgeous day breaking red sherbert sky on the eastern skyline, we pulled into a gas station in Mt. Vernon, twenty-five miles from home for our last fill up.

Body aching and in a daze, I stepped from the SAAB to stretch. As JP poured the unleaded and I squeegeed our bug-stained windshield, a rumbling large Washington State trooper pulled up behind us, awaiting his turn at the single pump. I glanced back and tried to not look surprised at the sight of a six-foot five Washington State Trooper emerging from his vehicle.

The officer stepped from his car, we made eye contact and I did my damdest to offer a guilt-free good morning smile. In an octave two steps higher than normal, offered. “Good morning officer. Heckuva sunrise coming our way…”

He nodded and smiled back. “You two drive safe now...”

We hopped back in, pointed the precarious SAAB north and moseyed towards home.

Five miles later, my navigator, and good friend suggested one last doob for the ditch. I reached under the seat only to find our bountiful baggie was no longer there. I could only assume it had tumbled out as yours truly, Mr. Clumsy, had hopped out of the car.

“Crap! I think I left it back at the Shell station. Shouldn’t we head back?” Our puffy red-veined and crusted eyeballs met. Together we broke into 0ne last giddy, thoroughly exhausted bout of what can best be classified as maniacal laughter. It had been one long monumental freakin’ week for the boys; a truly epic journey.

JP accelerated, still within the speed limit, and the road sign ahead read BELLINGHAM 5 MILES. “Let’s finish this sucker up”….mdnav