yeah," said Skip, who was wrapped in a blanket from the bed. His girl was in a sheet.
Sitting on his nightstand, wrapped in tin foil, was a flat chunk of rich, dark brown Afghani hashish; it looked like a Hershey bar.
"You're going to have to come with us and the rest of the band." The cop said. As they left, the cop said to the girl: "Sorry to bother you with this, ma'am, but you'll have to finish that chocolate bar all alone."
The only real dope in the place--except him--and he missed it.
The band was hauled off to jail after the search. A judge was not available to set bail until Monday, so the boys spent the weekend in the can. Larry--who never got high--was thrown in a tank with 50 drunks and no sleeping facilities. The bust was immortalized in "My Crime," which tells the story best.
I went to Denver late last fall
I went to do my job; I didn't break any law
We worked a hippie place
Like many in our land
They couldn't bust the place, and so they got the band
'Cause the police in Denver
No they don't want long hairs hanging around
And that's the reason why
They want to tear Canned Heat's reputation down.
To a reporter at the time, The Bear said: "To sing the blues, you have to be an outlaw. Blacks are born outlaws, but we white people have to work for that distinction."
Being led away in handcuffs kicked off the band's image as the bad boys of rock; heavy-duty incorrigibles, which eventually led to our becoming a favorite band of the Hells Angels and other outlaw biker clubs.
At the moment, the band was on the downside of the outlaw life. Skip was desperate. He had a band that was far from a sure thing but was suddenly hot. Unless they could follow up, they might get cold just as quickly. Unfortunately, they couldn't play anywhere if they were looking at possible jail time.
In a gin rummy game in Los Angeles with Al Bennett, President of Liberty Records, Skip mentioned that he needed $10,000 right away for legal fees to fight the bust. Bennett, a shrewd businessman, offered him that much for the publishing rights to the band's works and Skip grabbed at it. He had no choice.
Skip hired a brilliant, connected Denver attorney who sprung the band, but at the price of publishing rights that would be worth millions in the years to come. It was the start of a chain of events that created a band that rode a powerful wave of popularity in the rock explosion of the late '60s, but was always just one gig away from being broke. It was only six months later that the "Boogie with Canned Heat" album hit the stores with "On The Road Again," which became a worldwide hit.
To this day, the band has not received a penny of the publishing rights for that song, a song that shows up regularly in TV commercials as a way of instantly creating the aura of the vanished '60s.
This was the band I was so thrilled to get a chance to join. I just didn't know, and wouldn't learn for years, that it was already a band that was crippled financially by the same offstage life that fed its music and its fame.
Shortly after being released on bail pending trial, Skip and John came to the Tomcat Club to hear me play. They'd heard about me from good reviews I got playing with Bluesberry Jam in a concert at UCLA, as well as the guys in Sot Weed Factor, who visited their office looking for a manager.
Boy, had Skip changed. The clean-cut, preppy agent in the corporate suit I met three years ago now had long hair. He was wearing a funky hippie outfit, doing drugs and managing Canned Heat. He'd come a long way from William Morris. On my break, they asked me to sit at their table.
"You do know there's something else happening besides this kind of place?" asked Skip, gesturing at the Tomcat Club. "There's a movement out there. A true musical revolution. Guys like Jimi Hendrix. You want to be part of that don't you? Canned Heat's looking for a new drummer. How would you like to play with Sot Weed Factor or Bluesberry Jam and open for Canned Heat in its next LA appearance? Then Bob, Alan and the guys can hear you play."
They arranged for Bluesberry Jam to open for Canned Heat at a little place on Ventura Boulevard in the Valley called the Magic Mushroom. We were a little uptight that night because Canned Heat was already the Los Angeles blues band and people were talking about them with respect.
It was a magical evening. There were drugged-out hippies in paisley and stripes, silk and bellbottoms, chains and headbands, flower wreaths in their hair, dancing and blowing this shiny dust in the air. There was a gang of beautiful women, called Vito's Dancers, who showed up as a group at parties and rock shows, 10 to 20 of them, wildly dressed, with Vito leading the pack. Any place they went became a party.
Bluesberry Jam opened and we played a hot set. Can't say as much for Canned Heat, which had just gotten out of that Denver jail. Throughout the years, the band has played brilliantly most of the time, with occasional off nights, when the guys were just terrible. Not bad, but terrible. Really sucked. Always black or white, never grey, that was the band's character.
Maybe it was destiny that this was one of the rotten nights. And maybe it had something to do with the pressure they were putting on Frank about his drumming. And he didn't even know that I was there auditioning for his job.
When it was Canned Heat's turn, I noticed Frank tried to play the way I played, a strong aggressive rhythm instead of his usual laid-back jazz style. That's the worst thing a musician can do, try to make an instant style change. You might be able to work at it and do it a year later, but nobody can spin on a dime and pick up a new style in a night.
When Sonja and I got home that night, we were both really excited. Around 3:30 in the morning the phone rang. It was either Skip or John, I don't remember which one, but I recall the words:
"The guys really enjoyed your playing. They'd like you to rehearse with them tomorrow, so they can make the final decision on your replacing Frank. Okay with you?"
I didn't sleep that night. I lay in bed, holding Sonja, unable to believe my luck. I was getting a shot with the best band in LA, a band with a record contract.
My friends in Mexico sarcastically told me I was trying to be a "god," but I never expected it. I thought I'd come to the States and play funky, black music with people who knew the music well, but I didn't let myself dream of becoming any sort of star. That was too unrealistic. Suddenly, it wasn't so farfetched.
Around three the next afternoon, I showed up at John Hartmann's house in Canoga Park, a ranch with horses stabled outside. (Skip and John were already starting to live the good life.) Under my arm, I'd tucked LP's by Junior Wells ad Buddy Guy, two blues masters from Chicago. I always brought records to rehearsals for the other guys to hear, to adapt arrangements from, things like that. I didn't realize the impact this simple act would have. I didn't know that Alan, The Bear, and Henry were such avid musicologists and record collectors. I didn't know they were so deep in the same music I had been possessed by since I was a kid drumming on cookie tins In a Mexico City Garage.
The Bear told me, a long time later, that as I was setting
