Phil Ochs, ca. 1973

Phil Ochs was a ravaged man by the time I met him in Washington, D.C. at the legendary venue The Cellar Door. Once a vibrant activist singer/songwriter, he appeared to be bitter and frail now. He was still robust enough to out-drink Al and myself though (and we drank quite a bit). This truly was the beginning of the end for him. In less than three years Phil Ochs took his own life. I don’t recall having any pleasant conversation with him and, in fact, I remember avoiding him. I was young and, sadly, had no idea how to relate to him.

Ochs received several encores after every show. He would stagger through the backstage door and relieve himself in the toilet which had no door while the crowd downstairs stomped and shouted for more. He would stagger back down, the crowd went crazier, he would play one more, stagger back upstairs for a quick drink, stagger back down and play another. He did this every set, every night.

A cadre of homeless men milled around on the sidewalk in front of  The Cellar Door. One of these fellows reminded me of Popeye after too long a sea voyage. To get to the dressing room one had to exit the front door of the club, walk around to the uphill side of the building, turn the corner and climb the stairs to the second floor. Every time we finished our set and popped out to climb the stairs this one guy would hone in on me. He tried to engage me in conversation but I never understood a word he rattled off. He was short, muscular, anywhere from fifty to sixty years old and his one unsquinting eye shone wild blue.

Al and I had just played our first set of the last night. We stood in front of The Cellar Door in the warm spring evening talking with Ron Stone, head of A&R for Elektra in Los Angeles. Popeye loped up and began slurring something at me. I smiled, keeping it friendly, straining to decipher what he wanted. He hooked my right hand in his and we stood there in a prolonged handshake while he kept baffling me with gibberish. I kept asking him to repeat himself. He became more and more agitated, his eye glinting hotter, his hand gripping tighter. Maybe he was Popeye’s evil twin after all.

Then he reeled back still clutching my hand, swinging his left fist, slamming it into the center of my chest. As I tried to pull my hand free I saw him haul back to take another swing. He fidgeted with something in his left hand and I saw it was a switch blade knife. He was drunkenly trying to get the damned thing open. Seems his first attempt at stabbing me had failed but he was a determined guy. The two of us lurched around for a while. No one else knew what to do but watch us in our grotesque waltz. Finally I managed to fling him to the ground and break his grip on me. The police were called while somebody detained Popeye. I left in shock and went for a walk around Georgetown to clear my head of what had almost happened. Someone I did not know had just tried to stab me in the chest. Fate is a funny thing. Once I stopped shaking I walked back to the Cellar Door where we played our last set of the weekend.
Den ganzen Beitrag lesen…

Yes, we were all young once...

Not too long after my Elektra LP was released, my hometown newspaper, the Independence Examiner, ran this feature story about my burgeoning career.

Reading this article from the perspective of several decades later, I have determined that my brain was not yet fully developed.

The connective tissue between my mouth and my still callow brain had a tendency to unsnap and reknit awkwardly in those days. Occasionally, it still unravels. Especially during interviews where — in the final reading — I don’t recognize having said anything of the like. Kind of Gingrichian.

So much for the disclaimer. Once I get over the initial humiliation this tickles me. I hope it tickles you. Take a big dose of salt before reading. Check out the movies that were playing in Kansas City and Independence at the time. “Grizzly Adams” and “Stepford Wives!” Several really good ones too. Also gotta love the moustache. That’s the one I got caught between my teeth while biting into a Chunky bar. Maybe that’s how the connective tissue came undone!