B005S8O7YE EBOK (20 page)

When Clear Light broke up, Danny, too, was without a gig. Since Danny and Charlie both thrived on playing live with other musicians, Danny started coming over to jam with Charlie.

“We gotta keep our chops up,” Danny said as he lugged his guitar and a Fender amp up the stairs.

Taking the amplifier from Danny, Charlie agreed.

“If we don’t have calluses, we’re not practicing enough.”

Charlie plugged Danny’s amp into an outlet in the living room, then picked up his Fender bass, which was already plugged into his Ampeg B-12 bass amp. I said, “Right on,” flashed the two-finger peace sign, then went into the kitchen to prepare the only vegetarian entrée I knew how to make: nut loaf.

At first I tried to stay out of the way when the guys jammed, but inevitably I wanted to hear a bass and guitar on one of Toni’s and my new songs. And just as inevitably, after the three of us had played the song a couple of times, it took only the utterance of names such as Otis Redding or Miles Davis to get me to play soul and jazz tunes with them. But I was less reluctant than I had been at my neighbor’s house. Playing with Charlie and Danny was not only fun, it greatly enhanced my jamming skills. As the number of licks in my kit bag went up, so did my confidence and understanding of jazz. And Kootch had a gift for exhorting other musicians to play, write, and sing beyond what they believed was the edge of their ability. During our jams Danny challenged Charlie and me to be badder (in the sense of better) by planting himself in front of us in classic Kootch stance, with a facial expression that seemed to say, “I’m the baddest mutha-fuckah around. Whatta
you
got?”

Years later, Danny told me he hadn’t been thinking that at all. It was an expression of concentration. He was simply doing what he always did when he played with other musicians: listening, learning, and figuring out what he could play that would help establish a groove, augment the tune, and not get in the way of the other players.

Seeing how much I enjoyed playing with them, Charlie and
Danny became more assertive in trying to convince me to perform. They wanted me to record an album of my songs with them as my band and then we’d take the band on the road. But I would commit no further than agreeing to go into the studio with them.

One day we were discussing possible producers when Charlie said, “You know Lou Adler. Why don’t you call him?”

I did know Lou Adler. After leaving Donnie’s employ, Lou had become one of the most successful producers, managers, and publishers in Southern California. He had founded two labels, first Dunhill, then Ode. Among the artists and titles with which Lou was associated in 1968 were
“California Dreamin’ ”
by the Mamas and the Papas,
“San Francisco”
by Scott McKenzie,
“Eve of Destruction”
by Barry McGuire, and other recordings by artists including Johnny Rivers, Shelley Fabares, and Spirit. Remembering how enthusiastic Lou had always been about Gerry’s and my demos, I got his number from Lester and reached him at his office. I told him I was in a band and invited him over to hear Charlie, Danny, and me. He said he’d be over later that afternoon.

After hearing the three of us in my small living room, Lou didn’t seem all that excited. But I took hope from his encouraging words when he left. We didn’t have long to wait. As soon as Lou got home he called to offer me a recording contract.

“Not the band,” he said. “Just you.”

This was not an unfamiliar scenario, but this time I stood up for my bandmates. I told Lou he needed to sign the entire band, and I made it clear that I was no more willing to go on the road than I had been when he was with Aldon.

“Just albums,” I said. “No promotional tours, and no club gigs.”

“No problem,” Lou said.

Lou signed the three of us to his label, Ode Records, at that time distributed by Columbia Records. With encouragement from Lou, Lester, Toni, Charlie, and Danny, I began to feel comfortable
as part of a recording band. Everyone took me at my word that I didn’t want to perform live and turned their focus wholly toward the studio. But even a recording band needed a name.

“Hmm,” mused Danny. “We’re all from New York…. Why don’t we call ourselves….” He paused, then exclaimed with as much enthusiasm as if he had just discovered penicillin, “the City!”

That’s how quickly it happened. One minute we had no name. The next, we were in the studio recording as the City. We wanted to keep the band to just the three of us, so we took Lou’s suggestion and hired Jim Gordon to play drums on the album.

The title of the City’s first and only album,
Now That Everything’s Been Said
, was the name of a song I had written with Toni. We recorded that song, a song by Margaret Allison called
“My Sweet Home,”
and ten others that I had cowritten with either Toni, Gerry, or Dave Palmer, the lead singer and principal songwriter for the now defunct Myddle Class. Gerry and I were still in transition. We were speaking but not collaborating on songs. Though Gerry wasn’t directly involved in the recording of
Now That Everything’s Been Said
, we had already cowritten six of the songs on that album:
“Snow Queen,”
“Wasn’t Born to Follow,”
“A Man Without a Dream,”
“Lady,”
“All My Time,”
and
“Hi-de-Ho (That Old Sweet Roll).”
In 1970, Blood, Sweat & Tears would release a version of “Hi-de-Ho” from their album
Blood, Sweat & Tears 3
. The BS&T version, featuring the vocal of David Clayton-Thomas and the band’s distinctive horn section, would rise to #14 in
Billboard
.

Danny wrote these liner notes thirty years later for a rerelease of the album in 1999:

It seems like a million years ago when Carole, Charlie, and I sat in the living room of Carole’s Laurel Canyon house and worked these tunes up. Even though we had a group name, this
was Carole’s record all the way. She would sing or play parts to Charlie and me, and once we got it right, we could hear how great this record was going to be.

By the time we went into Sound Recorders in Hollywood, I was pumped. This was the first album I had ever played on and I was thrilled to be working with the people at the top of their game. With Lou Adler producing and Jim Gordon on drums we went into Armin Steiner’s studio [Sound Recorders]. I soaked it up like a sponge and for me it was a learning experience of a lifetime.

The City album remains a great example of Carole’s brilliant writing skills, Lou Adler’s legendary production sensibilities, and Jim Gordon’s amazing musicality.

The seeds of the enduring classic album
Tapestry
were planted here, and I consider myself extremely lucky and proud to have been a part of it all.

We all considered ourselves extremely lucky. In fact, when the album was finished, we thought it was brilliant. Even without touring, we had no doubt that
Now That Everything’s Been Said
was destined for huge success. The next step was for Charlie, Kootch, and me to pose for album cover photos in hippie garb (i.e., our everyday attire). Columbia’s art department hired Jim Marshall to take photos in various locations around Los Angeles consistent with the theme of a city. Executives at Columbia were so enthusiastic that they flew Charlie and Jim to New York so Jim could photograph Charlie eating a hot dog next to a street vendor, and other New York–specific activities. In the late sixties, record companies were not afraid to spend whatever it took to create an artistic cover or produce a creative album. To my knowledge, none of Jim Marshall’s photos of Charlie in New York ever made it onto the album.

I was twenty-six when
Now That Everything’s Been Said
was
released in 1968. Charlie, Danny, and I expected it to zoom to the top of the charts within, at most, a few weeks. Individually and together we optimistically imagined the album’s success as if it had already happened. Danny and Charlie kept telling each other, “It’s a great album. The City is gonna be number 1 with a bullet!” The album didn’t get above 500 with an anchor. It never even charted.

Did the material fall short? Was something lacking in the presentation? Was it because I was unwilling to go on the road to promote the album? Whatever the reason, our disappointment at the failure of the album to chart would pass, but our joy at having written and recorded the City’s first and only album would endure. As would the music.

A
fter the demise of
Now That Everything’s Been Said
, Charlie told me he wanted to get a place of his own. He told me this gently as he held me and reminded me that he had gone from living with his parents to rooming with friends in New York to living with me. At twenty-two, Charlie had never lived alone.

At twenty-seven, I couldn’t argue with his logic, but it was little Carol who heard the news, and she wasn’t taking it well. All she—I—could do was hold on to him tightly, as if that would keep him with me. At last, after promising that he would always love me (a promise kept), Charlie stepped back and began to gather his things. As I watched him drive away I blamed myself, yet again, for my inability to keep two people together who loved each other.

At first we remained close. Charlie couldn’t wait to show me the room he had rented over a garage on Stanley Hills Drive. Outwardly I mirrored his enthusiasm, but I couldn’t believe that he had left the house on Wonderland Avenue (read:
me
) for such a minuscule space. I couldn’t imagine a family of mice living inside it, let alone a six-foot-tall man with an upright bass, a Fender bass, several amplifiers, and a black-and-tan German shepherd named
Schwartz. After a while I came to view the little studio as Charlie’s Declaration of Independence and stayed away.

A natural consequence of our separation was that first Charlie, then I, began to date other people. It was 1969. It was okay to love lots of people. Indeed, it was mandatory. But human nature hadn’t changed as much as the sixties had led us to believe. It was painful to think of Charlie seeing other women, and I cried every time I came home from one of my own infrequent dates. I didn’t want to date. I wanted Charlie. Letting go was proving incredibly difficult, and yet I knew it was a necessary step toward empowering little Carol to become the woman she had the potential to be. However, reaching that objective would require me to overturn my generational indoctrination that I needed a man to complete me, and achieving
that
objective would require me to find my center.

I did find my center, and a man was involved, but not in the way you might expect.

I began taking hatha yoga classes at the Integral Yoga Institute on Benda Place near the convergence of Barham Boulevard, Cahuenga Pass, and the Hollywood Freeway. In addition to hatha poses, called asanas, the classes incorporated meditation, chanting, relaxation, and breathing techniques. I found these practices so healing emotionally and physically that I signed up to teach them to others. I attended discussion groups and volunteered in the kitchen, where my knowledge of vegetarian recipes expanded from nut loaf to include two entrées, three salads, and four desserts. Only a block away from the sea of traffic on the 101, the Institute was a harbor of peace, joy, love, and learning. I looked forward to meeting its founder.

C. K. Ramaswamy Gounder was born in South India on December 22, 1914. He grew up to become a successful businessman with a wife and two sons. After his wife passed away, Ramaswamy left his sons with their grandmother and went on
a spiritual quest. He walked through jungles, forests, and caves and climbed mountains until he arrived in Rishikesh, where he found his spiritual master, Swami Sivananda. In 1949, Sivananda ordained Ramaswamy as Swami Satchidananda. The name was a compound of three Sanskrit words (
sat
,
chid
, and
ananda
) loosely meaning “truth,” “knowledge,” and “bliss.”

Satchidananda came to New York in 1966 at the invitation of the artist Peter Max and established the original Integral Yoga Institute in an Upper West Side apartment. Disciples received and disseminated Satchidananda’s wisdom with single-minded devotion. Following customs in his home country, they showed their reverence by calling their religious teacher “Gurudev,” kissing his feet, and surrounding him with flowers. Though he accepted such tributes with grace, he often reminded them that he was simply a teacher. He made no financial requests. There were no requirements for service at the Institute and no compulsory level of practice. He asked only that his students learn whatever they were ready to learn.

Gurudev’s flowing orange robes, hair, mustache, and beard were consistent with what most Americans thought a swami should look like, but the consistency stopped there. He drove a car, wore a wristwatch, and could repair anything from a camera to a carburetor. I was drawn to him because he didn’t ask me to retreat from worldly life but showed, by example, how I could bring the principles of yoga into my daily life. Gurudev asked us to look for service in everything we did, be it folding laundry, smiling at the irritating woman at the DMV, or not getting angry at the driver of the motorcycle who had just aggressively cut us off.

“Karma yoga is action,” he said. “And every action is karma yoga.”

Most people thought karma referred to good deeds that could later be withdrawn from the bank of good fortune. Gurudev
taught that every selfless action was its own reward. He also promoted interfaith pluralism. The message that every religion could lead a sincere seeker to the same goal would become the focus of Gurudev’s lectures and actions in his later years. His motto, “Truth is one, paths are many,” struck me as a beautiful way of expressing my wish for everyone to live in harmony.

With the lilt characteristic of his South Indian accent, Gurudev would speak softly at discussions.

“We are all wanting to get to the same place. If you are going one way and I am going another, let us agree that neither way is better. Let us embrace all ways together. Always together.”