JIM GREGORY

Calling him up on the phone, we arranged to meet at his apartment down on Greenwich Street. He lived on the fifth floor of a walk up, and had a spacious one bedroom with windows facing west, allowing sunsets all year round. We immediately started talking about music and it seemed like we had known each other for a long time.

Jim was in a band called, FIVE DOLLAR SHOES, and showed me the album cover. It was an impressive package as far as art design goes. The newly released album, however, would ultimately not sell. Upon hearing a few cuts, without rudely saying so to Jim, I would understand why.

He was a serious smoker and perpetually drank coffee of his own blend that he custom designed at a Greenwich Village coffee house called, McNalty’s. At one point he went to the bathroom. While I was listening to some music he wanted to share with me, I heard him call out, “Hey, wanna see something fucked up?” I got up and went in the direction of the bathroom. There was Jim holding his T-shirt up exposing his two bumps. I looked at him and quickly responded, “Far out, extended ribs,” and then returned to the living room. From that point on, Jim and I were inseparable.

He had a girl friend named Kyle. Her parents perceived Jim as being from the wrong side of the tracks, but Kyle adored him. She was almost six feet tall herself. It was a real hoot, when the three of us would lock arm and arm and proceed walking down the street at our enjoyed brisk eight or nine miles an hour. People seeing us coming would quickly jump aside and then watch us burn down the block past them.

It was like having a double life. Jim and I were steadily growing closer and yet, John and Jimmy were still my most intimate musical mates.

By April, 1972, something very important occurred. I created a song that was very circus splashy, about a trapeze artist who ultimately got bored with fame, and metaphorically flew away.

SEE THE MAN

ON THE FLYING TRAPEZE

WATCH HIM FLY

THROUGH THE EYES OF THE CROWD

SOARING SO HIGH

WITH THE WIND AS HIS WINGS

CATCHING THE GASPS

OF THE PEOPLE HE LEAVES

AND A BOY

SITTING HIGH

IN THE BLEACHERS

WATCHES IN AWE

AS THE STAR RIDES THE SKY

HOLDING HIS BREATH

AS HE FLIES WITH HIS IDOL

WONDR'IN' IF HE, TOO

COULD LEARN HOW TO FLY

GLIDING TO AND FROM

THE ARMS OF THE CATCHER

DEFYING THE DROP

TO THE HARD GROUND BELOW

THE MAN IS DOING THINGS

NO OTHER FLYER

EVER DARED DO BEFORE

OOO

BA -BI-DAH-AH

THE MAN

FLIPS AND TURNS

WITH THE GREATEST OF EASE

HE SWOOPS DOWN ABOVE US

CREATING A BREEZE

A DOUBLE

A TRIPLE

AGAIN AND AGAIN

HE TAKES ANOTHER BOW

AND HIS FANS YELL TO HIM

BUT THIS MAN

WHO FLIES ON THE TRAPEZE

DOESN'T CARE

'BOUT THE GLAMOUR OF HIS JOB

RISKING HIS LIFE

FLYING THREE SHOWS DAILY

WHEN YOU'RE THAT HIGH

YOU CAN'T HEAR THE APPLAUSE

AND HIS HANDS

THAT ARE SO THICK WITH CALLUS

HURT MORE AND MORE

WITH THE AGE OF THE JOB

AND HE KNOWS

THAT THE DAY HAS COME

TO RETIRE

SO

HE FLIPS

INTO A CLOUD

THAT HANGS SOFTLY

ABOVE THE CROWD

THE CROWD SCREAMS

THE BIRDS LAUGH

THE BOY CRIES

AND

THE MAN

FLIES INTO THE SKY

OOO

BA-BI-DAH-AH

I remember Mom sitting on the steps of our split-level home, as I played it for her in our living room. She liked it very much with its sustenuto chorus line that hauntingly repeated, finally fading away. I was going to call it, “Icorus,” the Greek name of the boy who had feathered wings affixed to him with wax and flew to close to the sun, subsequently falling to his death. However, sensing it was something larger than just some art song, I found myself playing it again and again, finally realizing it should be part of a larger circus suite and immediately changed the name to “The Flyer.” In a flash, I then wrote an overture, followed by “The Elephants.” Now, I was convinced about a circus suite and within the month, “The Tightrope Walkers,” “The Lion Tamer” and “The Lion,” quickly ensued. Closing with “The Clown,” with its circus march ending, I was to call the suite “A Day At The Circus.”

First Mom; then later that night when Sue came home; and then Dad after he woke up the following morning; all liked the work with its infectious energy. It was so full of innocence and the ebullience of life. I saw it as a concept piece which would take the side of an album, as would have “Indian: A Trilogy” and “They Shall Inherit The Earth,” respectively.

When I started to play it for Jim, a few days layer, upon hearing the bass line of the overture, he started to laugh and immediately ran over to the piano to see what I was doing with my left hand. Jim couldn’t read music, but could absorb remarkably fast by ear and watching the notes being played.

It never occurred to me my presentation of it would subsequently be rejected because it was not an entire album. I had shown it to a few A & R people and was deeply incensed by their response, especially when that was the only comment they made about the work. I had reached a point of such total frustration, I seriously thought about leaving for Europe to try to start my career there. Sue, of course started crying about me leaving her and the idea of leaving slowly soon enough disappeared.

Ironically, it would be some sixteen years later, with my European wife, Yitka, I was to start a series of classical recordings and finally land a record contract. But at the present moment, I eventually set my anger aside and started to formulate what I thought would complete an entire album within the specific concept.

By now, Sue had not only saved up enough money to pay an advance month’s rent and security, but found a nice fairly large studio at 1420 York Avenue, between 75th and 76th Streets. I, of course, helped her move in. It was nice to finally take the burden off my parents who had so graciously let Sue stay with them. It was also nice to have our house to ourselves again. There had always been that intimacy between us, and it was most welcome to have it again. That said, I found myself sleeping over at Sue’s more often than not, with the comfort zone of having my own home to return to.

Paramount Records fired Sue and she subsequently found herself going from one job to another within the music business. While she shuffled around, she became friendly with a woman named Connie DeNove, who worked at an artist agency called, Premiere Talent. They became quite close and decided “The Girls” should take a vacation at some spa in Europe together, schedules permitting. I took it all with a grain of salt.

I was beginning to be bothered by how Sue treated me like a possession, especially around other women. There was no need to have any jealousy because I was absolutely loyal to her. Yet, the feeling persisted and began to push me away. Obviously, this only increased her insecurity and she pulled harder on the reigns.

It was getting too claustrophobic. Sue was in my business as well as my love life, twenty-four by seven. It wasn’t healthy. So, without overtly making a point of it, I cut her out of my business life; not that she was doing anything along those lines for me anyway.

As the summer of 1972 burned on, Sue managed to land a decent job with Richard Nader, a promoter of rock ‘n’ roll revivals. I’m sure Richard hired her because of how she looked. Yes, she had music business experience, but he was a notorious womanizer. I had to laugh when Sue, after a few glasses of wine, in conversation with Connie, disclosed Richard Nader thought he was gay and needed women to prove to himself that he wasn’t. “That’s a good one,” I thought. Apparently enough women had been seduced by that line and subsequently his very large Arab member. I wondered if Sue was, as well.

In the mean time, LION AUTUMN needed to record some new material in order to try to secure a record deal. So, I paid to record “The Ways of Righteousness” at Media Sound, on Fifty-Seventh Street in Manhattan. The session went very well and I placed the recording first, to be followed by the trilogy for the presentation. But, with power keyboard trios such as Emerson, Lake and Palmer, as well as Brian Auger and the Trinity, the reaction was one of indifference.

Jim Gregory got wind of a big band that needed a bass player and pianist for rehearsing, and called me up to go down and check it out. Don Pinto was an elf-like, manically wired arranger, who assembled an almost thirty piece ensemble to play his big band charts. As crazy as he seemed to be, he was an excellent arranger and musicians from all over the city would come to simply play and sight read his music. As such a group, Don called us BROWNIE’S REVENGE.

Don would manage to find gigs for this monstrously large group and rent a bus and have us go out and play. It’s a good thing that I don’t drink, because, unbeknownst to me at the time, Don had a reputation of lacing his thermoses of vodka screwdrivers with LSD. He would generously hand out drinks to unsuspecting personnel who would subsequently hallucinate for the rest of the day.

But musicians are musicians and they look for any excuse to play. And despite his notorious reputation with acid, he drew some of the finest musicians from all over the tri-state area. Don was a mediocre trumpet player, and wrote himself in as a fourth chair part. But his lead trumpet was the Maynard Ferguson protégé, Nat Pavone. Unfortunately, Nat became a junkie, losing his affiliation with Maynard and didn’t have too many months left on the planet.

During SOMOS rehearsals, when Dick Herbert couldn’t make it, either the wonderful all round woodwind player, John Purcel or the great Ronnie Cuba would replace him on baritone sax. These two guys also showed up from time to time at different BROWNIE’S REVENGE rehearsals and gigs to simply read through Don’s charts. This band also operated the same way as did SOMOS. Don would find work and then the call would go out for us to rehearse before hand. Remember, there were usually thirty of us, so after paying for the bus rental, we were lucky to get ten dollars a piece. It was obviously about the playing.

It was rather schizophrenic and euphoric at the same time. I remember how my father demanded of me to be able to play anything and everything. Here I was, with my trio, and doing Latin gigs and grabbing whatever else I could find to make money; even Klezmer gigs where I’d accompany a singer doing cantorial exercises.

SOMOS, LION AUTUMN and Jim and I would be playing, for instance, “The Lion,” or “Indian.” It was fascinating and very educational for me to experience such different approaches to the same music. I confess I had favorites in the way each entity personally executed my work, and thus started giving specifically selected works respectively to that end.

All during this time Sue had helped Richard Nader successfully launch a rock ‘n’ roll revival show. The opportunity for a vacation presented itself when Richard was going to get married and then have his honeymoon. Upon his return, they would go full tilt ahead and prepare for an even bigger revival at Madison Square Garden. Now that the time was available, Sue called Connie and arranged their spa vacation together. You might ask why wouldn’t I take a vacation somewhere with Sue. First of all, I didn’t have the money to do so; and frankly, I didn’t want to. If anything, I welcomed the time I would be alone away from her.

Dragging me along one afternoon, she met with two other girlfriends to toast Richard’s wedding. I quietly sat on the side while this threesome got drunker, while making their witticisms about Richard. I could only conclude they were members of the Nader seduction club.

I had promised to build Sue a darkroom in one of her closets, while she was away. She happened to be a pretty good photographer, learning from her first husband, Robert Forrest (her maiden name was Gackenheimer). She would take many portraits of me, me and Jim, and a whole series of LION AUTUMN.

I enjoyed the separation. However, it was strange going into her apartment to feed her cat and then find myself so quietly alone. But I also knew I would have been antsy as hell with her. We had just spent approximately a year constantly together without any time apart. Being there, was kind of Pavlovian. I had grown so accustomed to arriving at her space and then us screwing repeatedly over the rest of the evening. Now, with a hard-on, and no release, other than to masturbate, I began the darkroom as promised.

Sue returned and seemed to have had a wonderful time. But she and Connie started to play a game as if Sue had had a lover while on vacation, or was, at least, sought after by different men. This was an obvious ploy to get me jealous. Not only did I not buy it, I felt more possessed and claustrophobic.

LION AUTUMN continued its ritual practicing, only interrupted by the occasional SOMOS job. It’s not that is was getting stale, but we hadn’t anything going for a while; a job, or the promise of a record deal.

Then Jimmy got his draft notice. The Vietnam War was raging, though this country refused to acknowledge it was at war. Nixon and Kissinger, were exacerbating the situation by going into Cambodia, unleashing Pol Pot and the Kirmor Rouge that would claimed one point eight million lives; talk about a criminal act against humanity!

Jimmy was terrified. He was desperate to find a way out of getting inducted. I recommended the lawyers that helped me and soon enough, he was in the process of getting deferred.

John, drawing number “five” in the draft lottery, knew it was only a matter of time before he got called, so he contacted this very same legal team who subsequently investigated his family’s financial holdings. They were going to charge John thirty-five hundred dollars as compared to the fifteen hundred that they had charged me and the seven hundred they had charged Jimmy. John was outraged by their obvious greed motive and swore he’d get out if it meant him shitting in his own pants. We looked at him completely bemused. He continued, “Yeah, ... I’ll bring an extra pair of underwear, but that’s what I’ll do to get out.” Interestingly enough, for some reason, John never got called.

In the fall, Sue and Richard Nader had finished pulling the Second Rock ‘n’ Roll Revival for Madison Square Garden together. They had worked very hard and had dedicated many hours on the project. They also managed to get the great Roy Orbison to close the show. That was a coo in itself.

The evening came and Sue had ringside seats for us. With the second to last act just about to finish, Johnny and June Cash sat down behind us in our box. Johnny was best friends with Roy, and had agreed to introduce him. Seeing him, I immediately got up and kneeled down next to him. “Are you going to the party afterwards?,” He quickly shook his head, “No.” A guard then came up behind me and brusquely put his hand on my shoulder. Turning my head to the guard, I snapped, “Get your hands off me,” and turned back to Johnny, who seeing this, made the gesture with his hand, “Be cool.” I got up and sat back in my seat. It seemed as if everyone on our side of the arena was watching us. I mouthed to him, “Are you interested in getting any new material?” He nodded, “Yes.” I mouthed again, “I need an address. Again, he nodded in agreement. Sue reached into her bag and pulled out an international stationery letter, all she could find to write on. I then handed it to Johnny, who in turn, wrote down all the pertinent information, signed his name and then handed it back to me. I nodded my appreciation and then turned back to watch the show.

By this time, the stage had been cleared and the crew was setting up for Roy. Richard Nader was relishing the power of being the Master-of-Ceremonies and once again peppered the sold out arena priming the pump for what was about to come. The atmosphere was electric. But, instead of introducing Roy, he then side-tracked and surprised everyone by introducing Johnny Cash.

The place exploded, and what just seconds ago appeared to be a mild mannered man in black with charisma, when the spotlights hit him, turned into a God of mythic proportion. He calmly stood up, turned to me and firmly shook my hand with both of his and then walked out of our box into the center arena and approached the stage. Climbing on effortlessly, this moment was his and everyone in the hall knew it. He was the vortex of space itself, quietly standing motionless, as the deafening screaming, which continued for at least two minutes, engulfed him. Strobic light bulbs popped at dizzying speed. He then raised his hands to silence the crowd but the adulation only grew louder and more frenzied.

The audience then began to rhythmically beat their hands and stamp their feet, requesting him to perform. Almost as if giving the indication that he would, he finally managed to tame the cyclone into a stillness where you could literally hear a pin drop. The irony was that this breathlessness in itself was a performance of perfection. Anything he could possibly play would not only lessen what had just transpired, but certainly take all the air out of the room for his friend, whom he specifically came to introduce.

Making some illogical excuse about him not being able to perform because of “Some union rules,” he then graciously introduced his life long friend, and left the stage as the spotlights now focused on Roy. Johnny then returned to his seat behind us. In the darkness of the seats in comparison to the hot white lights of the stage, he and June stealth fully disappeared.

Roy Orbison was wonderful. How could he not be. His entire act was the long string of hit records he had treated us with through our lives. But, it was still a come down compared to what had just occurred. It was an indelible memory that is still so fresh to this day.

It was now winter, and the year’s closing was rapidly approaching. Sid Bernstein, during my teenage years, had managed the highly successful band THE YOUNG RASCALS and then promoted THE BEATLES at their legendary performance at Shea Stadium. He was an incredibly nice guy and very approachable. And in Manhattan’s inevitable intimacy where people’s paths constantly cross, I would find myself run into him on many different occasions. He was always warm to me and we would briefly bring each other up to date with our respective goings on.

Sid, by this time, hadn’t had anything substantial going on for himself in quite some time. He was now involved in a production/promoting/managing group that was calling itself Management Three. Jerry Weintraub, Sid Bernstein and Billy Fields were the entity.

I had been telling Sid about LION AUTUMN since its inception and finally managed to raise his curiosity to allow me to send him a tape of the band. Within a week, Sid agreed to come to Brooklyn to hear us rehearse.

Shocking John and Jimmy, that Sid Bernstein would be coming to hear us, a concerted effort was made to clean up the basement as best possible. Within the week, I personally picked up both Sid and Billy Fields and drove them to Avenue U between Bedford Street and Ocean Avenue. It took a lot of courage and self-effacing to do something like that, especially by someone who had attained such status.

We performed the Trilogy and the suite. They both seemed to be impressed with us as we talked together after our presentation.

I then drove them home and anxiously waited for the contracts to come, but they never did. When I called Sid two weeks later, very much aware that I didn’t want to be accused of pressuring anyone, Sid said that they had been side tracked by internal affairs and he needed a little more time. Another two weeks went by and I called him again, this time finding out Jerry Weintraub had squashed the deal Sid and Billy wanted.

Needless to say, going down for the third time took everything out of me. I was to later hear Management Three was to fold within the month. That didn’t help my moral, inferring it had nothing to do with the quality of the music and the band. But, it was getting to the point of such futility, that it was hard to keep a positive face and tensions began to surface.

All this time, Jimmy had shown super human stamina, working all day and then coming home to rehearse for a minimum of four hours every night. John just got quieter and quieter, to the point, that I assumed he wasn’t happy with me.

John was about to marry his long time high school sweetheart, Mary Ann. Sue and I were invited to the wedding, but felt that it was only out of duty and decorum. At the affaire, both Sue and I felt like we were outsiders on another planet. John seemed very aloof.

We rehearsed a few more times, but the writing was on the wall. Jimmy began to grow antagonistic. When Gary had quit the band, even though he had chipped in twenty-five percent of the cost for a used sound system the band needed to perform, he forfeited his share. Now, with the band seeming to mutually agree to split, I wanted to sell the equipment and get my share of the money. But Jimmy was adamant it would not happen. “What,” I responded. “The band is splitting up and you’re going to keep the equipment?. I don’t think so.” “If you touch any of that equipment, I’ll have a contract put out on you.” “You’ll what?,” I responded totally incensed. “You heard me,” and he stormed away. Well, if it wasn’t the end before this incident, it certainly was, now.

I rented a van and the boys and some friends helped raise the Hammond, Leslie tone cabinet and Acoustic 360 amplifier up and out onto the street and then into the truck. We said our good-byes and that was it.

LION AUTUMN was over. Jimmy had a wedding coming up, too, but I didn’t attend, for obvious reasons. We were to never see each other again.

As for John, it would be thirty years later, when he sought to find me by e-mail. He was now the president of Potamkin, a major car dealership in Manhattan. Apparently he was the best salesman in the country for General Motors and highly respected.

Walking into his office, he was so excited to see me and we warmly embraced. As the afternoon unfolded, he disclosed that he had become so depressed about the end of LION AUTUMN, he didn’t get out of bed for five weeks. His parents even called in a psychiatrist. He went on to say he apparently became so suicidal, that he enlisted into the army. Luckily for him, he was stationed in the U.S. for the duration of his enlistment.

Sitting there in total shock, and reliving my own psychodrama through sensory memory, I said, “Jesus, John. Why didn’t you call me and tell me how you felt. I thought you didn’t care. If you had, I would have kept the band together.” John just stared, and then simply shrugged, “What are ya gonna do?”

But, the break up of LION AUTUMN left me without a presentation with muscle. Yes, there was SOMOS, but it was an occasional thing and also proving to go nowhere under the leadership of Larry Spencer. I felt like a man without an identity.

The country was growing more united in their hostility against the war in Vietnam. Nixon had won the 1968 election promising to end the war honorably. That was rather euphemistic considering the fact, as long as we didn’t truly try to win it, we could only lose; especially the protracted theater we were presently engaged in.

Approaching November 1972, we were well on our way to ultimately killing, according to Robert MacNamara, the former Secretary of State, three million four hundred thousand Vietnamese by the wars conclusion and cause another one point eight million to die in Cambodia. We, at large, were feeling overtly guilty.

George McGovern was chosen as the anti war candidate. Rallies for his election as well as anti war rallies, in general, seemed to blend into one mutual purpose. Sue got wind of one such rally in lower Manhattan and managed to get me on the bill as one of the performers. It happened to be on a day that my father wasn’t performing, so he and Mom came to watch. Unfortunately, it turned out the event I was in wasn’t too well organized and didn’t have a large a turn out. The press were even listlessly mulling through the streets thinking there was nothing worth covering as a sound bite for the six o’clock news.

Inside with Sue, I was readying to go on. My parents were still outside, about to enter, when they overheard a discussion by a frustrated news crew, how there was nothing to tape. My mother then matter-of-factly simply said, “There’s something going on in there right now.” With nothing else to do, the crew quickly dispatched itself inside, set up and recorded me as I started to perform an anti war song I had just written, inspired by Dalton Trumbo’s JOHNNY GOT HIS GUN, called “Who Remembers When We Died And Why?”

It did make it onto the Channel Eleven News Hour and I came off very well in the reporters expose about the event, using my performance audio, after he cut away from me, as the sound track for the rest of the coverage of the festival. That was very gratifying for me and my family. The negative, however, was Sue claimed credit for it happening. My parents had no reason or material gain to make such a claim, but being disturbed by Sue’s, made a point of privately telling me on the side what had really transpired, under the specific instructions for me not to confront Sue on this matter.

The McGovern campaign was to selfdestruct when the press disclosed his running mate for Vice President, Senator Tom Eagalton, had a history of mental illness. This single-handedly gave Nixon a second term in office. Nixon however, was about to cover up a stupid unauthorized burglary of the Democratic convention headquarters, masterminded by his attorney General John Mitchell; thus leading to his own forced resignation under the cloud of impeachment.

The continuation of the war and the growing insight into what was to be called Watergate, created a pall over the nation as the New Year began. Sue was growing intolerably more possessive. Repeatedly, if I had happened to be having a conversation with another woman, she would overbearingly come over to nose around. One time she even snapped at one woman, “Leave him alone, he’s mine!”

Troy, in the mean time, called me up to tell me that he was going into the studio to do some demos with Tommy James as the producer, and that he wanted me to put the band together. “Cool,” I thought and started gathering the personnel. Needless to say, I was curious about meeting Ronnie James’ ex.

A meeting was set up at Tommy’s apartment, which had only mirrored walls and windows. As I noticed little bottles of prescription “reds” everywhere, Tommy began his schpeel while never once looking into our eyes, only preening himself while looking at his own reflection repeatedly.

The session came and I had brought in Jim Gregory on bass, Frank Vental on guitar and David Cox to play drums. Frank had a sand papery bronchial wheezing white noise sound of voice, quite ugly, actually. However, he had perfect pitch. So, when he was placed in the middle of vocal harmonies, three singers sounded as if four.

David was a good player and nice guy. He was, however, seriously trying to control his propensity towards rage and emotional imbalance because of impatience. To this end, he would meditate and pour demitasse amounts of carrot juice into his thermos cup and gingerly sip away.

Tommy needed to get a specific drum sound, which seemed to allude him. Subsequently having David bang repeatedly on different drums, three hours later, David, short of exploding, sat shaking, sitting on the floor behind a screen baffle, so not to disclose his present state of being, while guzzling down the contents directly from his thermos. Needless to say, the session didn’t evolve any further that evening and ended soon after. David then declined to continue on the project, which was scheduled to resume later in the week, and subsequently quit the music business entirely.

Tommy brought in a drummer he wanted to play on the session. I could only assume he had found someone to work with him as many hours it must have taken to get that “allusive sound.” Frankly, upon hearing the playback, I didn’t have a clue what all the fuss was about. Even with the “legendary” Tommy James, the demo did nothing to promote Troy’s career.

Not too long after that, Troy split with Brenda and left Robbie in the lurch. I was disturbed by the news, especially when he had made what appeared to be such efforts in raising Robbie as his own son. It would prove to be the beginning of many deceptions he would perpetrate.

By now, it was clear for Jim Gregory any hope for FIVE DOLLAR SHOES’ success were seriously waning. So, I without a steady band and all this material, and Jim, himself needing a band to affiliate with, began a search for a drummer to form our own group. Alex Futterman, had his own loft on the boarder of Little Italy and China Town. He also had a large heavy dense sounding approach to playing which suited us quite well and rehearsals started immediately.

Alex was a nice guy, with a flamboyant personality. As we got to know each other much better, he told us that he had spent some time in prison. While putting on a show making out with his girl friend on the living room couch, he continued, “It was a year and a half for use with an intent to sell marijuana.” That said, he continued to mall his girl friend. Later, when some flippancy was uttered about the gay world, he piped in, “Don’t knock it, unless you’ve tried it.” I didn’t know what to make of his sexuality, not that I really cared. But, it was his constant making out with his girl friend in front of us, while making sure that we saw; and his continual comments about, “Don’t knock it, unless you’ve ... ,” kept him a curiosity.

Jim and I found ourselves hanging out together more and more. Frankly, we were growing inseparable. Though I would still spend time with Sue, it was growing more a strain. Save for the convenience to have sex whenever possible with her, it was becoming clear, even though I was monogamous, I would, sooner than later, have to make the move to get away.

The New Year, 1973, surplanted the old without any ballyhoo. Sue seemed to drift from one job to another. BROWNIE’S REVENGE did a radio concert on WBLI which Jim and I, of course, played. SOMOS was basically over. There were the cantorial gigs and showcases with singers of little talent and big aspirations; anything to make a buck. Alex, Jim and I rehearsed the additional circus material I had written for the supposed “full album” concept. Still haunted by LION AUTUMN’s demise, life played on. With no record deal in sight, it was about the sheer joy of playing and self-expression.

More often then not, I’d be driving back to Great Neck to sleep. I was used to the thirty-three miles of travel each way. Even when I saw Sue, I’d rather wake up at home so not to first fight the morning traffic and simply just wake up and go to the piano. Sue didn’t pressure me about this because she had to get up early herself to run to work, and I’m sure, as long as she thought that I was “hers.”

Jim, again, got wind of another band, this time in Connecticut, needing a bass and keyboard. David Wolf was trying to launch his own modern version of Spike Jones silliness. I often referred to David as the “White Alice Cooper.” One specialty song was called “Superman.” During its introduction, while we sang the instrumental theme song accapella, from the television show, starring George Reeves as Superman, two decades earlier, David would recite a rap leading into his nutty original song. It was fabulously funny and wonderful. The only problem was that he couldn’t get the release of rights to do the intro to the song, which was quintessential for the piece to work as a whole. The reason why ultimately surfaced. Hollywood was in production of a major multi-million dollars remake of Superman. It was crushing news because there’s no question in my mind, that this was a hit record.

Two of the singers, Frank and George Simms would later go on to sing back up vocals on one of David Bowie’s tours. Frank and I would also do a lot of jingle singing together some ten years later. David would later meet Cindy Lauper, manage, marry and then divorce her after her career ended.

Jim continued to work with song writer/pianist David L. Byron who was signed with E.H. Morris Publishing Company. Whenever the company needed musicians to support David or another writer/guitarist named Ginger, he would be called in.

Troy also floated around in these waters because he was writing together with David on a regular basis. Troy’s choice on keyboards was always me. So, I found myself more frequently brought in to play during the presentation of their songs.

Buddy Morris was the owner/President of E.H. Morris Publishing Company but Agnes Kelhurne ran everything with an iron fist under the pretense of a velvet glove, in his absence. She seemed to relish the power of her executive status and carried herself as if she alone was the company. I was to later hear her husband was a postal employee. I can only imagine the power/sexual games she played at home.

Whenever Buddy did appear, Agnes was like a cat on a hot tin roof. As a good hostess, she would always make her boss a drink. The glass, however, was mixing glass size and perpetually topped off whenever she saw that it was half full. Needless to say, Buddy was continually sloshed around her.

Driving home along one of the many routes I had learned years before when returning from Manhattan School of Music to avoid as much traffic as possible, while stopped at a red light, I saw something that not only made me do a double-take, but dropped my jaw. In the window of an antique/junk store, hung the identical lion portrait Sue had claimed to paint for me. Now, flashing back to when Sue had first given me the painting, I knew why Ronnie James kept looking at me the way she did. She knew Sue was lying to me and probably couldn’t believe it was possible.

Arriving at home, I immediately went to the painting and looked at it in detail, finally taking in out of its frame. And there it was, on the bottom, all this time, hidden by the frame itself; a machine stamp with a script font saying “The Lion.” It was an assembly line portrait where a group different artisans repeatedly painted their specific contribution as the canvas went by. I felt like a schmuck not recognizing this in the first place. I then got mad as hell realizing my ego had allowed me to swallow this horse shit hook, line and sinker. “No wonder Mom was non-plus about it,” I thought.

Confronting Sue, she said that she had changed the painting and it wasn’t the same. What could she really say? It was a flat out lie and we both knew it. I didn’t have to fight with her. I could see in her eyes she knew she was losing me.

It wasn’t this deception, though it didn’t help things, that pulled me away from Sue. She happened to be a smart, engaging, sexually free soul that unfortunately was very insecure and thus tried to keep a strangle hold on me like some material possession. It was maddening. If she could only relax and let go, there wouldn’t have been the problem that she alone created. Yes, I may have inevitably moved on, but not as soon as she caused the need in me to do so.

At home, it was time to move on as well. Not that I wasn’t welcome and always knew that it was “home,” I was twenty-four and growing into my own identity which didn’t necessarily need to happen under the watchful eyes of my parents. Most of my friends had left home years earlier in their lives. My parents were wonderful and made things very comfortable. But still, it was time.

So when Sue phoned me later in the week saying that she found me an apartment across the street from her and that I should quickly come down to see it before someone else grabbed it, rather than telling her to piss off, I drove to the city to see the space for myself. It was a dump just right for a Bohemian who needed his own space. In spite of everything, I decided to take it.

Upon telling my parents what I was about to do, they, freaked. “How are you going to do this?” “I have enough money saved up for two month’s rent and security.” “Then what are ya gonna do? We can’t pay for this.” “I’ll do it myself. I’ll drive a cab if I have to.” Then Dad snapped, “We spent all this money for your education so that you can be a cab driver? No fucking way!!.” “It’s only until I can get on my feet.” Then Mom imploringly said, “But, you can’t leave home.” “Mom … , Dad … , isn’t this what you want?”

There was a pregnant pause. The three of us knew the time had finally come for my rights of passage. I can only assume, how painful it has to be as a parent, letting your child go out into the world on his own. But in a healthy scenario, that is what is supposed to happen.

Of course, my parents wanted to see the space. Walking up the stairs to the fifth floor, well, let’s just say that they flinched when they walked into the kitchen area that had a bathtub right along the middle wall. The ceilings were in such need of scraping and serious plaster work from all the years of paint that had chipped or simply fallen off. The floors were all in horrible condition, either bare wood or linoleum. The bed room was seven feet by ten, the living room was ten feet by ten and the kitchen which was thirteen feet by fifteen also had a closet for the toilet as well as the tub.

As bad as this was, there was also something that was indisputable, the light. The windows had southern and western exposures. And being high up on the fifth floor, they were unobstructed and the sunlight gloriously poured in. The kitchen had the southern exposure which allowed the sun for most of the day. I hung a fern plant that within two months filled the entire frame of the window. The bedroom had one and the living room two western exposures. The irony was that I was a night person, so I had put shades and curtains to block the light, specifically in the bedroom so to sleep late.

The kitchen was obviously the warmest room in the apartment because of the stove. Little did I know at the time, I would have to really use the stove more to warm my flat because the landlord was a cheap son-of-a-bitch when it came to heating. I would ultimately have to buy myself a portable electric heater so to bring the apartment to any sense of tolerable, in tandem with all four burners of the gas stove and oven going full.

The only thing I had in my advantage was that the gas meter was in my apartment. So, when the knocking on the door inevitably came ... “Who’s there?,” I’d ask. “Gas man,” came the reply. “Go away,” I’d succinctly return, and thus never paid a utility bill.

But in the moment of seeing my parent’s reaction, I quickly responded, “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it up ... a little paint ... some rugs ... I’ll even turn the tub into a shower.”

Under whelmed, they nodded OK and then left to see the landlord. Apparently, they put some muscle on him and got him to give me a new refrigerator and stove.

The renovation then began in earnest. I painted the ceilings in the bedroom and living room black because it was the only way to hide the horror. I found the cheapest carpeting to cover the three respective floors because there was nothing else one could do. The kitchen wall and ceiling got white paint and my mother painted a mural of musicians in the ten feet hallway that connected the entrance door to the kitchen.

Next, I wood latticed the wall and perimeter of the tub and then hug clear plastic so to make my shower. The bedroom had green Victorian felt-like contact wallpaper. The living room would have the piano. So, I decided to turn it into a honky-tonk that looked more like a brothel, with red felt, black moldings and silver reflecting interiors.

It was total tacky. But as wacky as this all sounds, it had a strange warmth to it. It was clean. I furnished it with whatever furniture was available from my folks and from Sue. I was ready to live on my own in the splendor I had made for myself. The only thing that didn’t change, were the waves of cockroaches that would crawl through all the cracks. In spite of pushing steel wool into all the seams and using boric acid, I had to develop my own fast hand reflexes as if playing bongos to eradicate them. I even started designating their size as if they were naval ships. The largest and slowest were the egg carriers. I called them aircraft carriers. It was most important to get them for obvious reasons. Then there were the battleships, the heavy cruisers, the destroyers and finally the PT boats, the babies. After several spastic blurs of hand snapping, I managed to eradicate them, save for the occasional one or two. This said, however, if I didn’t seriously stay on top of this as a ritual, within a week or two, at the most, they’d be back with a vengeance.

When I had finished putting the last piece of my effects in place, I sat back to enjoy the splendor of my new home. Relishing the moment, I sat back in different corners to get a feel of the different perspectives. My euphoric state was quickly enough interrupted by the down stair entrance door buzzer. It was Sue and she wanted to come up.

Opening the door, Sue triumphantly walked in while holding a cat in her arms. “Look what I found for you.” Disgusted, I responded, “What? Forget it. Get that thing out of here” Cooing, Sue continued, “Oh, come on. It would make your place real homey.”

“Look at it. It’s filthy. No way!!” The cat hung his head almost up-side-down looking at me with an expression as if imploring me, “Please man. PLEAZZZZZE.” Shaking my head, “ ... And look at its ear. It’s been mauled in a fight.” She then put it down to walk around. “Jesus, look, even it’s tail’s been bitten off.” The cat looked up at me an meowed, “PLEAZZZZZZE!!!”

Sue didn’t say any more and watch the cat as it walked around the kitchen; and just sheepishly looked at me while I looked at the cat. “PLEAZZZZZZE!!!” “I know this cat. I’ve seen it outside of your building ever since I helped you move in, all those months ago.” the cat again imploringly looks at me, “PLEAZZZZZZE!!!” “Oh, shit. OK, it can stay. And in a flash, as if the cat understood what had just transpired, it quickly trotted to the door and peed on the rug. “God Damn it!” I yelled at the cat. “Thanks a lot,” I looked at Sue, and immediately got a rag to wash where the cat had marked.

Thus began a very interesting relationship. I immediately went out and bought a kitty box, litter and some food. The cat never soiled my floors again. It was extremely hungry and thirsty, and seemed rather grateful for being allowed to stay. I thought it was a female, because I didn’t see any balls. And as the days went on, it started to clean itself to the point the dark grey began to give way, and brindle markings surfaced. The rear end of the cat was jacked up higher than any cat I had seen before, and it’s claws were easily and eighth of an inch longer than the usual half inch.

This was no everyday cat. I went to the library and looked through a research book on cats. Low and behold, there it was, exactly like what had now surfaced, from under all the filth, in front of my eyes. The cat was a Manx. I quickly returned home and examined it. Its tail hadn’t been bitten off. It was born that way. And as I examined, the cat purred so loud that it vibrated. “No question about it,” I thought. “Nobody would just leave a rare cat like this on the street. Someone must have just died, or the cat ran away. This was no alley cat!”

I sat and watched the cat continue with it preening, when all of a sudden, it got an erection. “Well, well, well. You’re a guy and somebody lopped your balls off, poor fellow.”

The cat needed a name. “Well, old boy. Since you’ve been a long way from home, and now are home, I think I’ll call you Bailey, like in the song, ‘Bill Bailey, wont you please come home.’” And there it was. I was now a cat owner; someone who had always had dogs and specifically didn’t like cats because of their arrogance. The funny thing was, however, Bailey acted more like a dog than cat, always showing his appreciation that I took him off of the street; greeting me at the door, upon my returning, meowing and meowing hello.

My folks relaxed with the improvements to the apartment, including the cat. They seemed to take it in stride, periodically visiting me, bringing “care packages” of food.

Sue and I lived in a neighborhood known as German Town. One day, while my parents were visiting, a elderly German man who lived right below me, invited us into his apartment so to give us a welcome drink. After pouring out several shot glasses, he made a toast, “Sieg hiel,” clicked his heels and drank the contents. We were stunned. He was an old Nazi. Not making any waves, we politely excused ourselves and walked up the remaining flight of stairs to my apartment. I remember Dad telling me, when he was a young man, how all of German Town was a buzz with the early news of Hitler’s Germany growing into a world power. This only proved that some of these constituents still remained.

This man soon enough proved to be a real pain in the ass. Every time I would practice and inevitably sing, he would start howling like a wolf and bang a pot. One day I lost it and started banging the radiator, while screaming obscenities back down at him through the floor. It had an extremely unsettling effect on me and I had to muster up tremendous concentration to continue anything creative.

Then a younger man came to my door and started complaining about me practicing. It turned out that this man was the partner/lover of the old Nazi. Totally exasperated, I exploded, “If you fucks complain one more time, I’m going to personally come down and beat the shit out of both of you!” I never heard from then again. In fact, from that day on, every time I practiced, they turned on the radio and listened to classical music. Ironically, I had evolved them through my threat.

Spring had just arrived and I was in the process of getting my hack license. I had already gone to the motor vehicle bureau and changed my driver’s license to a chauffeur and had gotten sponsorship from Terminal Taxi at Forty-Fifth Street and Eleventh Avenue. I, now, anxiously waited for my hack license to arrive by mail. My rent was one hundred and sixty-five dollars a month. My phone was another thirty-five. With the rent due in two weeks and me out of money, my license finally arrived.

Fearless, I woke up five-thirty in the morning so to get a cab and be on the streets by six AM. The reason I took the morning shift was so I would be available to do my music at night. Jim had already been driving for a couple of years to supplement his income when things got thin. He didn’t like driving anymore than I did. However, it served its purpose and you didn’t have to answer to some boss. You just had to sit and drive in traffic for eleven hours a day.

It was a grueling dirty job. My hands would be black from handling the money and the steering wheel. To make matters worse, the month of May had become the hottest in recorded history, averaging ninety-five plus degrees everyday. Inside the cab, because the firewall of the car heated so, it must have been one hundred and twenty degrees. There was no air conditioning in taxis then. Riding the brake as one inevitably will do in traffic, the gum rubber sole of my right ankle boot started to soften. I thought that I had stepped into chewing gum, feeling the stickiness under foot. Upon examination, I saw the sole of my boot had virtually melted and pushed back.

Every day, all through this grind, I visualized the cold bottle of ice tea that was in the refrigerator at home. Dragging myself up the five flights of stairs, I’d open the door, fall into my apartment, stumbling towards the refrigerator. Bailey meowed his repeated hellos as I guzzled down the contents of the quart container. I did have air conditioning at home. Though the unit marginally kept the place cool, it, at least, took out the humidity and made the space livable. I would then immediately take a shower, then eat something and finally chill by taking a nap or practicing.

I drove seven days my first week trying to, obviously, make as much money in the shortest time. At night, Jim and I rehearsed with Alex. Ah, the stamina of youth. Came my first paycheck and my eyes bugged out. It was only for one hundred and sixty-seven dollars. Terminal had taken out forty-nine percent for itself. Add the seventy dollars I had made in tips, my total was two hundred and thirty-seven dollars for seventy-seven hours of work, about three dollars an hour. I was mortified.

During the second week of driving, I had refused to do weekends, frankly, because the money was non-existent. Driving during the day meant driving the work force, which was Monday through Friday. Terminal balked, but I refused to acquiesce.

In the mean time, something seemed to be percolating up at E.H. Morris. Jim and I repeatedly found ourselves doing a presentation after we had gotten off of our shifts driving. The rehearsals, too, had became regular. New material was continually presented by David and Ginger.

By the end of the second week, I had earned basically the same amount of money working twenty-two hours less, not doing weekends. After rehearsing at E.H. Morris, Jim and I then rehearsed with Alex into the late evenings. That weekend seemed like a vacation, and Sue and I had sex as many times as I could rise to the occasion. And considering I hadn’t had any for the previous week, the occasion lasted for two entire days.

The third week was not easy to begin. The exhaustion was catching up and any of the so-called excitement of a new experience, long ago had faded away. The coup de grace finally came while I was dropping off a fare. On a narrow street, I had pulled over so that the other traffic could get by. A rather large panel truck didn’t even seem to have any trouble getting around me. All of a sudden, a taxi behind me starts to repeatedly honk his horn for long intervals. I wave my arm out the window for him to drive around, while I get paid and make some change. Finally the taxi slowly negotiates where he could have easily driven through. He stops at my window and then begins yelling, “I fuck you. I fuck your mother! I fuck your father!!” By this time, my female passenger sticks her head out the window, shouting back, “Shut the hell up yourself!!,” And then gets out.

The taxi slowly continues to pass and then accelerates with squealing tires around the corner. Shaking my head, I finish writing down my last fare on my log sheet and drive around the corner, pulling up to the jerk, who had just been screaming. I turn to him, “What the fuck was that all about?” He reached over to his glove compartment and pulled out a thirty-eight. Recklessly waving it in my face, he screams, “Say one thing! Just say one thing!!” All I could think of doing, was leaving my body. The next thing I realize is that he left and I returned. Looking down a gun barrel is like looking down a pipe that your whole body could fit into.

With still two hours left on my shift, I immediately returned to Terminal Taxi to report the incident. The supervisor I had found happened to be a woman. I gave her the other taxi’s medallion number and began to tell her what had transpired, including all of his horrible raging, assuming that she was writing a transcript for the police. All of a sudden, the foreman walks up behind me and starts screaming about how I’m talking to the woman, while using his own invectives. At that point, I just lost it and told him, in no uncertain terms, not only where to go, but where to stick his taxis. Recognizing the futility of it all, I then stormed off.

I knew I was going to have to quit, but the next day was Friday and I figured I would finish the week. Arriving in the morning, I had a serious chip on my shoulder. To my surprise, everyone in the dispatcher’s office was patting me on the back for telling off the foreman, who apparently was loathed by all. Even the dispatcher offered me a brand new car with air conditioning, and gave me an extended two hours on my shift. I was numb. These guys didn’t have a clue. I didn’t want to drive more. I wanted justice done. I was just nearly shot in the head.

That weekend I tried to eliminate my tensions with sex, but it was wearing thin. I didn’t want to be with Sue any more. Monday rolled around all too soon. It was raining very hard, and I knew that everyone on the street would be hailing a taxi. So, rather than not, I made myself go down and get a cab.

I did pretty well that day. I had an airport run, managing to pick up a return to the city, and wall-to-wall fares, so the day seemed to fly by. Driving down West End Avenue with what I thought was my last fare, towards Terminal, I see, in the distance, a station wagon with a man reading a large piece of paper, like a map. Suddenly he stops short and a taxi rams into him from behind swinging his rear end into my lane, with the inevitable outcome of me hitting him, crushing the entire front of my cab. Nobody was hurt, thank God. My passenger just got out and walked away. There was an investigation, but I was cleared of any wrong doing.

Up at E.H. Morris, a serious discussion began between Agnes and her two little darlings, Ginger and David. Jim and I were now having to come in on a pretty regular basis so to not only help refine the arrangements of the newly penned compositions, but put collections of the songs together for presentation. Seeing how much David and Ginger appreciated us being there for them, Agnes acquiesced and agreed to pay us fifty dollars a week. Jim and I looked at each other with a sigh of relief, knowing that we were out of the taxi business.

Fifty dollars a week was nothing. But two hundred dollars a months covered my rent and minimum phone bill. I didn’t care if I didn’t eat. If I didn’t eat with Sue, I could always run home and have Mom fix me something. At least, I was not driving a taxi any more!

As far as Agnes was concerned, Ginger and David could do no wrong. Troy was an amusing side entity, who happened to be David’s writing partner, with a strong rock voice. Jim blended into the environment almost invisibly. I, however, with my classical laser focus, was too serious and intense for the expected “lightness of being,” “matter-of-fact” and “in the street” attitude expected within the pop/rock world. I seemed to be tolerated but never allowed into the inner circle. When ultimately showing each other our personal work, there always seemed to be a bemused humoring of me, by all but Jim, and then we, as a whole, would move on to the business at hand.

Buddy Morris, however, immensely liked me and my music, especially taking delight in my circus. He repeatedly had me play it for him and his much younger girl friend whenever we found ourselves together, while humorously making asides to her like, “Look what he’s doing to my piano.” She always looked at me with very warm and approving eyes. I know for a fact, it was Buddy who forced Agnes to sign me to the company as a writer. There’s no question she didn’t want to, because my contract stated, that only what I was to first write would be part of the E. H. Morris catalogue, demonstrating no interest in anything I had previously written. As incensed as I was at the time by the insult, thank God it was the way it was, because it would have otherwise meant, for seventy dollars a week, they would have acquired, not only my circus, but my entire catalogue.

If Buddy were more hands on and had not relinquished so much of his authority to Agnes, so that he could hang out with his pretty young lover, I’m almost certain he would have put up the money for me to do a first class recording of the work.

In the mean time, Jim and I continued rehearsing with Alex as well as individually chasing down whatever music work we could find. Don Pinto would still phone call, from out of the blue, for Brownie’s Revenge to get together and perform. Life was frenetic, to say the least.

Sue and I ground on. It was reaching the point that as horny as I perpetually seemed to be, I didn’t even want to have sex with her. She had become so possessive I couldn’t breath. My music proved to be the only legitimate excuse to get away from her.

I started doing solo showcases in all the clubs that had them in New York City. I needed to get my name out, as well as let people hear my compositions, and experience my voice and piano skills.

There were also the many showcases for the serious dreamer “wannabees”. Usually, this was a pretense for a “vanity fair production” by someone who would thus invite his or her family and friends to their performance. It was obviously good for the club owner, because between the cover and the table minimums, it helped pay the rent. It also thinned out the cream from the vast numbers of lesser talented who usually only played the club once.

Hopping from one club to another was like a blur: Folk City, Kenny’s Castaway, The West End, The Other End, The Purple Onion, Jason’s, Reno Sweenies, ...

One club was Bud Freeman’s Improv on Forty-Fourth Street and Ninth Avenue. Performing there, I soon started sharing the role as house pianist with a black man named Ray. In between the comedians doing there fifteen minutes, or during certain acts that requested accompaniment I was to meet such funny people as: Robert Klien, Marvin Braverman, Steve Landesburg, Jimmy Walker and Liz Torez.

One day while showing Liz my music, she quickly looked down at her watch and said, “Oh, I’ve got to go to class. Ya wanna come with me? It’s Phil Foster’s improv class.” “Sure,” I responded. I owe Liz for that. It was a great series of classes and an eye opener for me.

To do the exercise and never once refer to yourself in describing what your action is, or who you are, and yet, to still propel the action with the other player or players around you was very difficult and took tremendous skill. I struggled along and slowly evolved, but there were some members of the class that were so adept and funny as hell. At that point in time, one would refer to Jonathan Winters’ skill, but improv super star Robin Williams, who would demonstrate what was ultimately possible, wasn’t even on the scene then.

Candy Clark was in that class and I was smitten by her loveliness, but we never got involved; not that I didn’t want it to happen. It just didn’t. She went on to do the film “The Man Who Fell To Earth” with David Bowie.

Bud Freeman started to take serious notice and wanted to manage me. I would have said yes, if his one artist, Marvin Braverman, hadn’t warned me against it. He was very unhappy with his career development. It’s hard to say whether Bud would have been good for me or not, and it might have been a mistake, but I decided to decline his offer.

Soon enough, though, I found myself in a circle of artists, at different clubs, who were requested to come back and continue show casing. Granted, we weren’t getting paid, but we were refining our performance skills in front of an audience, and as far as I was concerned, getting my material out there, as well as meeting other artists who might want to use one of my songs. And it wasn’t too long before I was aloud to keep a portion of the paid attendance who specifically came to see me. The money was, of course, welcome, and it was an ego boost to see how well I could fill the respective rooms where I performed.

It was now the end of June, 1973 and the unbearable heat would not abate. Late afternoon rehearsals at E.H. Morris began to take on a different tone. David had more rock/pop material than Ginger, who was really a folk singer. He, more than she, wanted to add a drummer to punch up his songs. Knowing of Jim’s long time friend and fellow FIVE DOLLAR SHOES member, he had Jim phone Gregg Diamond to come in.

Gregg was a solid enough player who simply perpetually posed as a rock ‘n’ roll super star. We had a practice run and everyone seemed pleased enough. Agnes even had us take some preliminary press photos together. Jim, Gregg and I looked like a bona fide entity. David looked pedestrian and Ginger looked as if she had wrongly wondered onto the photo shoot. But, Agnes was pleased and as far as the former three of us were concerned, we were getting a salary and that was what it was all about.

Up to that point, Jim and I had manically gone non stop, twenty-four by seven, for three months; squeezing in seeing our girl friends where we could. They weren’t too happy, but that was our lives trying to get on track, constantly putting ourselves out there to get that ‘break.”

So, when a weekend arrived and Alex wasn’t able to rehearse, Jim and I agreed to take the weekend off. It would be good for both of us. We deserved some time to ourselves. According to Jim, he and Kyle were going to spend the two days in bed to sleep. If they happened to have sex, fine. But he seriously wanted to crash.

I, however, needed to get away from Sue and have some time for myself. I seriously resented continually being treated like some material possession. She had become so insecure, that when I had even a most benign conversation with any woman, say, at a party, it represented a threat and was immediately broken up, short of causing a scene.

I talked to my folks about it, and was, obviously, welcome to stay as I needed to relax, sort things out and, of course, practice on our grand piano. I had told Sue what I needed to do, and though reticent, she seemed to understand my need; or, at least said she did. Infidelity was the last thing on my mind. I just needed to chill.

Psyched, as I was driving to Great Neck, I got a craving for something I hadn’t had for a long time, German style spaghetti. Mom used to occasionally buy it for the household. It had a more vinegar taste to it than Italian style, but was absolutely delicious. While I was parking my car, so to quickly run into the deli that specifically made it, I crossed paths with a gal who remembered me from my Pied Piper days, when I was in the SALVATION NAVY. I hadn’t really taken notice back then, but whatever had happened between then and now made me look at her with gusto. Simply put, she had grown up into a real self-confident cutey, who happened to have a Triumph TR-6. Saying that she had always had designs on me and wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass her by again, what could I do but let her do what she had to do.

Following me home, she parked and I made us the pasta dinner with a cucumber salad I had just bought. She rinsed the dishes, put them into the dishwasher and then turned to me and gave me a most succulent wet kiss. Sliding down to her knees, she made up for the times she couldn’t have me all those years before. She was a wonderful uninhibited lover with unrelenting energy and singularity of purpose. So, while Dad was, of course, working, and Mom had happened to have gone out to see a Broadway show, we had the house to ourselves and made love all through the night into the wee hours of the morning; first starting in the down stairs playroom, then the next level living room and then finally up in my bedroom.

About eight-thirty in the morning, I hear a knock on my door and my mother groggily sticks her head in to tell me, “Sue’s here,” doing a double take when seeing me and Little Miss TR-6 in bed. Sue had rented a car and driven out to check up on me, unannounced. I was furious. This was the very shit that I was trying to get away from. And even if I had been the only one in my bed, it took away any chance I had of being alone. I was done, but at the same time, I wasn’t about to create a scene. My father was still asleep. For that matter, Miss TR-6 was, too. So, I got up, got dressed and went down stairs to meet Sue.

“What are you doin’ here?,” I pointedly asked. “I came to see you,” she shrugged. “Why? You know I wanted to be alone. You can’t give me any space, can you?” Without missing a beat she immediately asked, “Whose car is that in front?” I matter-of-factly looked out of the window towards the street, seeing my lover’s car. Turning back to her, I shrugged, “I don’t know; somebody’s.” Mom, still in her nightgown, then cut in, “Sue, I guess you’re staying for breakfast?” Sue turned to her, “Thank you Mrs. Wayne,” while I, shocked, looked at Mom with an expression of, “What the hell are you doing?” Mom then casually continued, “Well, you two will have to go to the store because we’re out of eggs, juice, milk and bread.”

I got the hint, though Sue obviously didn’t, and we were soon enough in her rented car going to the only opened store at that hour. Here was my opportunity to get rid of her, but how. If I were to freak out and tell her “FUCK OFF!!!!,” get out of the car and walk away, she’d only follow me or meet me back at the house. She was on an obvious mission. I was trapped and she knew it. But what she didn’t realize, is that she sealed her fate with me. There was no turning back now. I wanted nothing to do with her any more; period!

I can only imagine Mom’s facial expression when she saw me and Sue return. What made the comedy even more incredible, upon entering the house, there was Ms. TR-6 at the kitchen table having coffee with my father. I guess Dad got up early to see how I was going to get out of this one.

Little Miss TR-6 wasn’t about to leave. She earned her right to have breakfast in my home. I was in a pickle. Dad and Mom quietly watched as both girls claimed their territorial prerogative. It became obvious to me that there was no way out other than just leaving. I waved good-bye to my parents unbeknownst to the girls who were deep in their own exchange, got into my car and drove back to the city. It’s a miracle that I didn’t hurt anybody, let alone myself, through road rage, as I drove home ranting repeatedly about what had just happened.

I hadn’t gotten TR-6’s telephone number and I’m sure by the time she realized that I had gone, she wouldn’t have left it anyway. Apparently, both girls were showing no inclination to leave before the other. They were digging in their heels. It was when my folks said to them that they had to go somewhere else to finish their discussion, that they finally left the house; but together. Mom later said Sue had even waited for Ms. TR-6 to drive off before she, herself, would leave. It was then that Mom said she understood what I had been saying all along about Sue’s possessiveness.

Up at E.H Morris, the expanded ensemble continued to rehearse. But now, Troy seemed to be more then a side entity. He had the strongest soulful voice and it was most welcome when it came to singing harmony.

There was always some new face passing through the company to the point that we all took it in stride. After rehearsals, we’d come into Agnes’ office/living room area and talk about the songs we were working on, sorting through the various styles and arrangements. This discussion candidly unfolded in front of whoever just happened to be visiting, thus including them.

Thinking about doing an updated version of Chuck Berry’s “Roll Over Beethoven,” for Troy to sing, I had the sheet music in hand, studying the lyrics. To the fellow sitting on the couch, not yet introduced I said, “Wanna see a great lyric?,” and handed him the sheet music. He carefully read it through, while once breaking his focus to shoot a glance at me before continuing to the end, and then handed the music back to me, not saying anything. Agnes then came into the room and introduced him to us. I wanted to crawl under the carpet, dying from embarrassment. This was the great Harold Arlin who had written the music to such standards as “Stormy Weather,” “I’ve Goth The Blues In The Night,” and, of course, the songs from The Wizard Of Oz, including “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” Writing with great lyricists such as Yip Harburg, I can only imagine what he thought of me after I enthusiastically showed him the irreverence of Chuck Berry.

Then Sue called me on the phone and dropped a bomb shell. “I’m pregnant.” “You’re what?!” “You heard me. I’m six weeks pregnant.” Numb, I just sat on the edge of my bed not saying anything; just holding the phone to my ear. “Are you sure?” It was my second month without my period, so I went to my gynecologist and he confirmed it. I’ll be at your apartment in about one hour.

The conversation ended and I hung up the phone, sitting is total shock for who knows how long. I then called my parents and told them. Mom indignantly snapped, “I don’t believe it,” and Dad then picked up another phone and joined the conversation. “Who’s her gynecologist,” he asked. “I don’t know,” I sheepishly responded. “Well, find out,” he asserted. “She said she’d be here in about an hour.” “We’re coming in,” he said and they hung up.

Almost to the minute, Sue rang the downstairs bell and I buzzed her up. Opening the door, I somberly let her in. We didn’t say anything to each other. It would have proved itself most awkward to remain as we did, when the down stair bell rang again distracting the moment.

My parents came in, fully armed with their purpose. Mom said directly to Sue, “Hayden said that you told him you’re pregnant.” “That’s right,” Sue said beaming. “Who’s your gynecologist?,” my father quickly asked. We want to talk with him.“ Sue opened her purse and started fumbling through it. “I don’t have his number on me.” But, you said you just came from his office,” I countered. “Well, what’s his name,” Mom asked. “Surely you know his name.” Dad then picked up the phone. “I’ll get his number through information. What did you say his name was?” Now, there was, excuse the pone, a true pregnant moment of silence, save for the clicking on the receiver and the faint voice of the operator requesting, “What listing, please?” We three found ourselves staring in tandem at Sue. “You Bastards!!!, she suddenly screamed and stormed out of the apartment.

It’s frightening to imagine the demons that one will create for him or herself out of desperation, fear, or random subjective need as a sociopath might rationalize necessary. Though Sue wasn’t a sociopath, her pattern of lying and anal need to control ultimately ruined what otherwise promised to be a nice relationship. She was attractive, intelligent, sexually free and, at first, seemed to have a good sense of humor. But, her low self image, I assume, created from within the world of her mother’s alcoholism, obviously undermined something in this otherwise wonderful person.

It’s very sad. Even from the very beginnings of our relationship, she felt it was necessary to lie about the painting. She could have just as easily said, for example, “Hey, look what I found. Isn’t it perfect for your logo.” I would have been thrilled, but she, apparently, had to compete with every woman she came in contact with; even my mother.

Anyway, the die was cast. It was time to move on. Whatever pathology a clinical psychologist would ultimately determine was hers, it would only grow worse through time, and I wasn’t about to personally witness it from within the relationship.

I continued doing my showcases at different clubs around town, including Art DeLugoff’s The Top Of The Gate, which was up stairs at his Village Gate. After being asked to return, Art let me perform for the door. The week before, the great jazz pianist, Bill Evans, performed with the also great Eddy Gomez on bass. I was honored to be given the spot.

Following my performance, I sat at the bar to have a drink and unwind. Andrea True approached me. She said she had some songs and would like to work with me on those and also write together. I thought, “What the hell,” not knowing how good she was as a writer. But I also knew that you never know who you may run into.

We walked around the Village, after my gig, talking about the business, and landed up at her apartment. I was to find out she was a porn star and wanted to put out an album.

With her, soon enough, sucking on my cock, it was hard for me to say no. Besides, now, I was very curious. If she was half as good as she was working on me, she might be onto something. And, she would, obviously, promote her own album as best she could.

So later that week we got together at my apartment and Andrea showed me some very primitive sketches of musical ideas she had. As I remember, there were four or five rather mediocre pieces which I shaped, adding material to flesh them out. Writing out the lead sheets, I put both of our names as author. She had no problem with that and welcomed my collaboration. Being under whelmed by what we had just created, I didn’t bother making photocopies of the music for myself. That turned out to be a mistake, because she erased my name from all the music we did together.

She would ultimately hustle Gregg Diamond several years later, with the same pair of lips that she had just hustled me with, and have the # 5 disco hit “More, More, More.” I wouldn’t recognize any of my input in that song, and, frankly, had no way to prove my involvement with any of the other tunes that Gregg released as her producer.

I do know, however, when Gregg died of a heart attack at the very young age of fifty-two, of all the musicians who played on those record dates, only Jim showed up for his memorial service. Gregg had not paid the musicians and took all the money and put it up his nose as cocaine.

I would run into Andrea some years after her fleeting disco stardom, and told her I saw a film clip of her eating out some chick with incredible passion. She seemed to grimace. She said she was leaving the country and going to live in Austria. I guess she wanted to start over and forget her past.

But at the present moment, Andrea True was happily doing whomever on screen and off under the belief that she was promoting her career. One can only guess how many more names she would erase from her life during her pursuit.

Don Pinto called again, gathering his heard for a Saturday afternoon at some hotel ballroom. Jim and I were surprised at how little time had passed from our last job together. Money was money, regardless of how little. Don was so whacked out, and it was always a hoot to come together with so many other musicians in the same space.

As my own personal policy, I like to arrive a half an hour earlier, minimum, so to examine the instrument I’m about to play. I like to feel the action, hear how well its in tune and see what keys may be missing; remembering the piano, years before, I once had to perform on that was missing eight notes within the center two octaves; resulting in me having to play with my hands at the extreme ends of the keyboard. More often than not, however, I’d just have to wash the dirt off of the keys, for I like playing on a clean smooth surface.

Of course there are the rare moments when a magnificent instrument is waiting there in perfect condition. Those moments are very special. I had even had one with Brownie’s Revenge, where I played on a brand new nine-foot concert grand. What a sound, and the action was perfectly balanced.

So, I walk into the space, which was virtually empty, save for this attractive girl sitting alone at a table. Approaching the bandstand, I stopped and said hello. She was very warm and ingratiating. She said she heard that there was going to be a music event and was curious to see what kind.

Our conversation was so effortless and relaxed. Her name was Kitty Pearson and she happened to be a graphic artist, who, in fact, had just put a bid on a job doing some work for the hotel. Among other things we talked about, I explained why I had come early. I could see in her eyes that she never lost interest in me, so I nonchalantly asked her for her telephone number, which she gladly gave. I then excused myself to check the piano.

It was moderately in tune, the action was pretty hammered out, though all the notes were there. The keyboard, however, was sticky and encrusted with, God knows, how much neglect. With my fingertips black, I held up my hands showing Kitty, as I passed her table on route to the bathroom to get wet and dry paper towels to clean the keyboard.

All of a sudden, while in the midst of washing my hands, a cold psychic flash ran through my body. Shuddering, I looked up from the sink into the mirror. “Sue’s here,” I said in a gasp. I hadn’t even told her about this job, let alone, seen her since the Great Neck incident.

I walk out and low and behold, there was Sue sitting where Kitty had been. Shaken by not only my vision, but its realization, I numbly approached the table. Sue quickly, said, “I told the girl that you are mine and to go home.”

“Get the fuck away from me. It’s over. Leave me alone!” I then walked away towards the other musicians that were arriving. Thank God, Sue didn’t stay and cause some embarrassing scene. I told Jim when he arrived what had just happened. He couldn’t believe it. “How did she know about us playing here?” Bewildered, I shook my head and through my hands up into the air, “I don’t know.”

Immediately after the gig, I called Kitty up on the phone. She confirmed what Sue had said. I profusely apologized for what had happened, explaining that she was a former girl friend, and clearly, it was over.

I asked her if she would like to come to my apartment and let me fix her dinner. I prided myself in being a rather decent cook. “Let’s face it,” I laughed out. “You either eat out all your life, eating preservatives and going broke, or stay home and starve, or gross yourself out. So, I learned to cook.” “Sounds good to me,” she giggled. “Great. Where do you live? I’ll come and get you.” And that’s just what I did.

Arriving together at my apartment, I opened the door for her and said, “Make yourself right at home,” and then quickly excused myself so to go to the bathroom. When I came out, there was Kitty with a bemused expression on her face. “Your girl friend is here.” “What!?” Leaving Kitty in the kitchen I walked through the living room and saw Sue sitting on my bed with the biggest Cheshire Cat grin. “How d’you get in here?” “Like Emma Peel” (from the hit television show, THE ADVENGERS), “I climbed up the fire escape and then shimmied the ledge and jimmied your kitchen window open.” “What are ya, out of your fucking mind? You could have fallen to your death.” “But, I didn’t,” she said, beaming.

Using all my strength not to lose it. “Just get out and leave me alone.” “No,” she matter-of-factly returned. “Get out!,” I more intensely repeated. “No,” again she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m not leaving. She is.” With that I just lost it and yanked her off the bed. She grabbed so to hold onto something. Finding the phone in her hand, she then tried to rip it out of the wall. We struggled in a tug of war, with me managing to pull the receiver and then using it to hit her fingers to make her drop the phone itself before she succeeded in pulling the wire out from its connection.

Sue was from strong German stock. Now she was using additional hysterical strength. I felt like I was wrestling a gorilla. We both fell down to the floor. Pulling her out of the bedroom, she grabbed the door frame and held on for dear life. “I’m not leaving. She is!,” She bayed.

I grabbed her by her hair and she let out a scream. Yelling back at her, “So, this is what you want,” as I dragged her through the living room, the kitchen and through the hallway out my door, tossing her on her ass. At the top of my voice, “Get out of my life!!!,” and then slammed the door.

I was shaking from all the adrenaline released in my body. Slowly walking through the hallway back to the kitchen, I saw Kitty standing in the corner. “I’m so sorry having you in the middle of this. Let me sit for awhile to regroup, and I’ll take you home.” I then went into the bedroom and sat down with my head in my hands.

I must have sat there for five to ten minutes before I realized Kitty was sitting besides me. She gently put her hand on my back and compassionately smiled at me. Almost in a whisper, I turned to her and said, D’ya mind if we go somewhere else to eat. I have to get out of here.” She quietly nodded her head, “Yes,” and we got up and left for Greenwich Village, where she lived. The entire way, outside my door, as I locked it, all the way down the five flights of stairs and finally onto the street and then to the subway, I was extremely paranoid expecting Sue to pop out of nowhere and anywhere.

To tell you the truth, I don’t remember where we ate that night, or if we even made love. I don’t think we did. I can’t imagine being able to do so, under such circumstances. We did go on to see each other for a while. She proved to be a lover as soft in touch as was her personality. However, everything that was about her, was there from the first time we met. As sweet as she was, she had no additional depth. What you saw, is what you got. She was nowhere near the intelligence of Sue, but she was secure and instinctively allowed me my needed space.

I asked my father if it would be possible for my trio to play a show out at Brighton Beach Bath Club, in Brooklyn, where he had played every summer. He said that he’d ask the manager, Hy Cohen. From Memorial Day to Labor Day, two shows, seven days a week, Dad would hold this job for ultimately twenty-seven years. I was about four when he started performing with seventeen piece bands. He was so loved, he became an institution. So many, who now found themselves enjoying my father daily, were born during his tenure and subsequently had babies themselves to continue the experience. The size of his ensembles would shrink over the years because of fiscal restraints, but the quality of his music never did. Individuals would shout out, in all languages, the titles of international favorites to Dad, who in turn would graciously perform their requests. Greek, Turkish, Russian, Latin, French, German, you name it, he played it.

For me, it was a big sand box with a Hollywood Bowl style band shell with ten thousand Adirondack style chairs of various colors out in front, and the Coney Island Boardwalk that it bordered running along the ocean. Within five years of my father giving notice that he was retiring to Florida, Brighton Beach Bath Club acreage was sold to developers who built many high-rise apartments and turned the area into what we now call Little Odessa, a modern Russian émigré ghetto.

During the final week in the season, we were allowed to perform one set. So, Jim, Alex and I, with Kitty watching from the wings, did our thing, somewhat shocking the audience who had grown so use to my father’s fare. After our allotted thirty minutes of playing, Hy gave me the signal to wrap it up, which we did. It was supposed to be a closure for what seemed an inalienable right, where I should, following in my father’s footsteps, play at one of his venues. But, the general indifference experienced in front of this audience, only left me more frustrated.

Back at E.H. Morris, the band, still without a name, needed some equipment to be bought, if it was to perform anywhere. A list was prepared and presented to Agnes for her approval. A check was cut and we went shopping down on Forty-Eighth Street, known within the business as, “Music Alley,” where there was the highest concentration of music stores in the city. A sound system, some microphones for the singers, contact microphones for the acoustic guitars and a few modest sound bending effect toys for Jim and I to process our electric instruments through, were bought and brought back to the office “Living Room,” where we set up. A series of presentations were then arranged during September, trying to stir up interest at different record companies.

I had been seeing Kitty all during this time. She had a most exquisitely soft mouth and knew how to engulf me whenever and however she used it. She offered her body in the same way. This was a sweet soul with, unfortunately, not a lot to say. I became bored and we slowly started to drift apart. Soon enough, without confrontation, we disappeared from each other’s life.

Don Pinto surprised Jim and I again with another job, this time somewhere out on Long Island where an open-air concert had been arranged. I say somewhere, because when Jim called to alert me about the gig, he said he forgot the name of the place. He went on to say, however, Don needed a drummer, and he recommended Alex. “Can Alex read?,” I asked. “I donno,” responded Jim. By the time the three of us met at the boarding area, we were so distracted by all the cutting up by the other musicians, somehow it no longer mattered where we were going. It was going to be another laughathon on the Brownie’s Revenge Magical Mystery Tour Bus as well as a nice excuse to get out of the city.

Don was so out of it, anything he said was rather incoherent. We were pretty exhausted as well, from all of our perpetual running around, and found ourselves falling asleep on the bus ride out. Once again, around thirty musicians were crammed into a bus with all the equipment and Don offering thermoses of screwdrivers laced with acid. Even with all the warnings by those of us who knew Don’s motes operandi, inevitably, some one or group would unexpectedly find themselves tripping. This time it was the two band vocalists.

As the performance began, they started to uncontrollably sob. When it came time for them to sing, they cried through their vocals. Alex tried to keep his wits about him, playing unknown charts by ear, as Jim, and I did our best cuing him along. The weeping continued through the entire show.

Shaky as it was, there were no train wrecks until the last number where the drummer had specific places to solo. It was impossible to cue Alex. He had to read, and simply couldn’t. He played where he shouldn’t and not where he should. Finally, out of exasperation, Don threw up his hands, letting the chips fall where they may.

Alex, needless to say, was humiliated and kept a low profile, disappearing among the seats of the bus during the ride home with the continual background whimpering of the vocalists. One of these girls, Chrisy Faith, would later become lovers with me on a few occasions.

Agnes came up with a name for her two little darling’s band. It would be called “SWEET BEGINNINGS.” She was very serious about having the band perform somewhere, rather than just doing showcases in the office “Living Room.” Maybe then we could land a recording contract.

With this in mind, rehearsals became all day affairs. It was clear to Jim and I that the trio with Alex would have to be put on the back burner, if not ended entirely. Gregg was now spending so much more time with us. It only seemed natural that he should replace Alex, considering the opportunities we might have to show ourselves as a specific three man entity within this ensemble, performing my material. Saying this to Alex was very difficult for us, and we didn’t feel very good about ourselves in the process. However, a push was being made by the company that was paying us our salaries and keeping the two of us out of taxi driving. That in itself was the bottom line.

By October, SWEET BEGINNINGS was really tight and had put together enough material to do a full evening presentation. Agnes managed to get us a booking at a venue in Woodstock, New York, called Joyous Lake. We would perform two sets in one evening.

But, Ginger, at the last minute, no longer wanted to be a part of the ensemble. Being a folk singer, she seemed to be overwhelmed by the rock ‘n’ roll muscle the band had evolved into. So, with no other choice, we performed without her.

In between our sets, I met a German/American waitress named Heidr Druggal. She was recently separated from her husband and seducible. Perpetually horny, and being amenable, I obliged. The next morning, her twelve years old son came home and saw me sitting at the breakfast table. He was obviously disturbed by my being there. If I had known, I wouldn’t have slept with her.

A week later, Heidr sent me the following Woodstock newspaper review, by David Walley, best describing the band’s performance.

October 18, 1973

... and at the Lake

Ah, Sweet Beginnings ... actually two or three bands, give or take a few cleff notes. The trio of bass, organ and drums (Jim Gregory, Hayden Wayne and Gregg Diamond) play under the name LION AUTUMN. They sound like a modified YES when jamming, and Hayden speaks about composing as to writing songs. Together with David Byron, guitar, and “Troy,” strictly a singer, they make fine music. They are refreshing to hear and offer quite a respite from some of the unprofessional bands which have played the Lake.

The best songs of Friday night’s set were “Fag Hag,” written by an unnamed female singer who used to be in the group but ain’t; “A Day At The Circus,” done in trio sung by Hayden Wayne; and “Queen Of The Holiday Inn,” sung by “Troy,” which sounds like an ambitious parody of Leon Russell’s, “Queen Of The Roller Derby,” - a howl.

One hopes SWEET BEGINNINGS will play more often in the future. Those who walked out on the second set missed all the fun ... such is shoe business these days, especially in Woodstock ... only in Woodstock.

Unfortunately, that was to be our only gig together. Back at the office, suddenly there didn’t seem to be a reason to rehearse anymore. We would all come in and just mull around. Agnes continued to be indifferent to me, resulting in my decision to never show her anything that I had newly written. “Why should I forfeit my publishing to a company that was going to do nothing for me or my work,” I thought.

Then word got back to Jim and I that David had insinuated that we were not going to return the equipment bought for our use; in essence, steel it. To say that I was incensed is the epitome of understatement. Coincidently going to the bathroom with Jim, I vented my outrage. “How dare that son-of-a-bitch imply we were going to steel the equipment. That little fuck. Just wait ‘till I see him.“ We, finished peeing, then left the bathroom, unaware that David had been sitting in one of the stalls taking a dump. He made a point of never showing up again in our presence, afraid I was going to do him bodily harm.

The next day at the office, Troy came right up to me and pointedly asked, “Well, are ya giving the equipment back or what?” “Who put this crap in your ears we were keeping any equipment?,” I snapped back. “David? Are ya talking about the phase shifters that were bought for me and Jim, out all this shit that’s sitting here in the Living Room that was specifically bought for him and Ginger? What’s the matter Troy, he isn’t man enough to come to me himself and ask? I’ll bring it in tomorrow, unless you’re so nervous I have to go home and bring it in now. ” Troy just stared at me while biting the inside of his cheek, and then walked away.

The player contracts, as well as my specific publishing agreement were to run out January 1st, 1974. “Sweet Beginnings” was history. I don’t know what happened to all the equipment that was bought for the band. I do know, however, that Buddy Morris was to soon sell his company to Chappell Music and retire with his young lover.

As for Jim, Gregg and I, we would go into the studio to record a demo of my latest work, “Silver Bird.” It was time to hustle again and find a new situation to affiliate with. Little did the three of us know, what was just around the corner.