Could It Be Forever? My Story (31 page)

I think reality was so painful for my father that he preferred to create his own. My father would look at a white wall and tell you that it was black and you’d have to say, ‘OK, you’re right, Dad.’ If you didn’t he would go insane, totally out of control, throwing tantrums and breaking furniture. Few knew there was a very dark side
to my father. Most of his showbiz pals never saw it, or pretended not to see it. Those of us who dealt with him intimately – my mother, Shirley, my brothers and I – instinctively tried hard to keep him happy, always tried to agree with him as much as possible, to keep that dark side from rearing its ugly head.

It was sometimes hard for me to reconcile the often difficult, mercurial man I knew with the popular, hardy fellow who everybody in Hollywood used to tell me he was.

Jack Klugman, of
Odd Couple
fame, told me how one day in 1974 he found himself riding with my father in a crowded elevator in the executive office building referred to as the Black Tower, at Universal Studios. When the elevator reached my dad’s floor, he kissed Klugman on the mouth and said, ‘You know, I’ll always love you,’ and gaily walked out, letting the elevator doors close on a startled, chagrined Klugman who was babbling to the studio executives all around him, ‘I had nothing to do with that; I don’t even know that person!’ Klugman had never been put in a spot like that in his life, but he took it as a typical Jack Cassidy gag. My dad would mess with people all the time and they would say, ‘That Jack! What a guy! What a character!’

My dad had a wonderful relationship with James Cagney. He worshipped Cagney. He spent time at his home and even called him ‘Dad’. They established this real bond, based on their shared Irish roots and showbiz interests. But my dad would spin too far out. And eventually, not
long before my father died, Cagney had to tell him, ‘I can’t see you any more. You’re out of your mind.’ He burned up people like he burned up money.

Late that year, I got a call, quite unexpectedly, from David Bowie. He was already doing pretty well as a performer; his career, it appeared, was on the verge of exploding in a big way. I liked his work, particularly his album
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.
I was intrigued that he appreciated my work. People had often said I had an androgynous look, but Bowie took the concept of androgyny to a whole other level.

He told me he wanted to produce an album – me singing songs that he and others would write. He said he envisioned an album that would give me a far more adult image. I was intrigued enough by what he said to fly to New York, where he and his entourage were encamped at the Sherry Netherland Hotel, and meet with him.

I found that he lived in a very subterranean New York, an avant-garde world of transsexuals and transvestites. It was like a carnival at his place. There were people in his rooms doing mime. He surrounded himself with people who, I guess, made life interesting for him, including some whom I couldn’t tell the gender of – and perhaps they weren’t sure either. Bowie just enjoyed feeling part of this very hip, artistic, New York scene. To me it held no fascination at all. It felt false and posed.

We were at different ends of the spectrum – one guy whose success in the pop music field was largely behind him,
the other whose success was still growing. He was very enthusiastic about the next album he had coming out and all the touring he’d be doing to promote it. The album was
Diamond Dogs
. The thought of touring again was almost repulsive to me. Even if I did make the album he had in mind, there was no way I was going to go out and do concerts to promote it, something you really need to do if you want to make an album a big hit. He really craved all of the mass adulation that I’d had enough of. My take was,
I don’t want to be where you’re headed. Been there. Done it. Thanks.

He played me a couple of songs he had in mind for the album – one that he’d written, the other written by Lou Reed. I didn’t think they were interesting enough or right for me. One was called, as I recall,
I’m All Grown Up Now
– too obvious, I thought. I said, ‘I like the idea. I just don’t know about these songs.’ The proposed album never came to be. We couldn’t even decide on
where
to record it.

Instead, I wound up signing a contract with RCA Records. I agreed to record again, but only if I could do material I believed in. I’d had enough compromises in my career and wanted to feature mostly my own material from now on, and I agreed to the contract only if I would not have to tour to promote my albums. If I toured, I knew the fans would expect me to perform the old songs from
The Partridge Family
days
.
I couldn’t stomach that thought.

Variety
had the right take when they wrote that I was dropping my ‘manufactured image’ to offer the real me. A lot of people who bought those albums have come up to me and said, ‘They were the best you ever made,’ which
I really like hearing. I was particularly proud of the first RCA album I did, a tongue-in-cheek, satirical, semi-autobiographical thing called
The Higher They Climb, the Harder They Fall
, which was
about the rise and fall of a rock and roll star. Through the songs, I tried to tell the story of this all-American kid – me, of course – who lives the American dream that goes wrong. People were shocked. They didn’t think I could make fun of myself like that. It was the most honest artistic statement I’d ever made.

Massacre at Park Bench
was a piece that I came up with with Phil Austin, of the comedy group The Firesign Theatre. Phil, who was one of the great improvisational comedians, was a friend of Henry Diltz. The Firesign Theatre had made an album which was so smart and satirical, it was just wild. I laid down on a bench in the studio and we basically improvised
Massacre at Park Bench
. I had a beginning and an end written and we just riffed through the rest of it. It took three minutes. We recorded it and listened to it and we knew it worked. I did a lot of the effects and the fading and editing myself because I wanted to make sure the story flowed.

I was into developing ideas and songs and working with a lot of people I respected in Los Angeles, people like MFQ (the Modern Folk Quartet), Gerry Beckley and Dewey Bunnell from the band America, Harry Nilsson, Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan from The Turtles, who were all great singers. They all sang on various tracks on the album. Bruce Johnston, of the Beach Boys, arranged all the background parts; he’s magnificent in that regard.

In America, RCA said, ‘There are no hits on this album.’ I told them I disagreed. I thought
Darlin
’ could be a hit and that
I Write the Songs
, written by Bruce Johnston, was a classic. I was the first person to record that song, which became a million-seller for Barry Manilow. But RCA thought the album wasn’t commercial enough.

The plan was to launch
The Higher They Climb
in the U.K. and Europe, where it did extraordinarily well. Right after it started breaking all over the world, RCA said it wouldn’t play on American radio, so they released
Get It Up for Love
as a single instead and it was banned (it was banned by the BBC as well) because, they said, it had sexual connotations. Can you imagine? ‘Get it up, get it up for love.’ I mean, come on. It’s a great song.

All of the albums I recorded for RCA were in the black financially, but they didn’t get played much on the radio in America or make the charts. A couple of the singles made the British charts that year, including
I Write the Songs.
It was released first in the U.K. and when it became an instant hit a record exec from another label, who was on a trip to England, heard it, brought it back to the U.S. and had Barry Manilow record his cover version. Not only was it a million-seller for him, it was the ‘Record of the Year’. My recording of the song went Top Five in probably 25 countries.

When it came to photographing the front cover of
The Higher They Climb
, we spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to make it look like I was reaching for a star. Henry Diltz was a genius at that kind of thing.

We shot the back cover in an alley in Venice, California. There was an abandoned purple 1960 Eldorado convertible that had probably been there for years. The alleyway was
awful. I bought an old tattered suit at the Salvation Army, I let my beard grow for a few days, greased up my hair, and smeared dirt on my face. I looked like a bum. I lay on the ground, propped up against the licence plate, with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a couple of my personal artifacts and copies of
Life
and
Rolling Stone
(with me on the cover) next to me. It looked great.

RCA saw it and said, ‘No, we can’t have you like that.’ So Gary Burton, the art director, came up with the idea of showing some smouldering saddle shoes and bobby-socks, like I had combusted and disappeared. It was good, but the original artwork was so shocking and dramatic.

The record company wanted hits. They were also in a transitional period; they didn’t really know what they were as a label in America. On the other hand, I’d had so many hits that at the time I was really just into satisfying myself. Some of what I did was misguided and some was on the money. What
was
on the money was my vision for the album.

My RCA recordings were successful enough worldwide that if I’d wanted to carry on making records I could have, but making records wasn’t doing it for me then either. I wasn’t finding satisfaction in life. I was just looking for various means of escape. I even got into gambling somewhat, which had never been my thing before (my dad was the one who’d sometimes get into trouble for gambling too much). A lot of the time, I’d simply stay in my room. I wasn’t sure I wanted to record any more, yet I kept
composing songs the public never got to hear. I felt like the square peg unable to fit in that round hole. I’ve found myself feeling that way many times in my life: that I don’t quite fit.

I
n late 1974, I got a call from my dad. He and Shirley, and a few supporting singers and dancers, were touring the northeast with their show
The Wedding Band
. He wanted Shaun, Patrick, Ryan and me to fly out and spend some time with them in Massachusetts.

Although Dad and Shirley were separated throughout 1973, they got back together again the next year. Shirley may have been the one drawing the crowds, but Dad was the one who put together the acts.
The Wedding Band: The Jack Cassidy and Shirley Jones Show
was, according to the credits, ‘conceived, written, produced and directed by Jack Cassidy’. It was inspired by their courtship, marriage,
separation and reconciliation. My dad had a good eye for what worked and what didn’t.

And he had exquisite taste. Do you know, late in his life, he decorated friends’ storefront windows just for fun? I was always impressed that he had so many talents. It was actually intimidating. He could draw, sculpt and create just about anything artistic. If Hollywood ever turned its back on him, friends would joke, he could start a new career as a set decorator.