That’s part of the lyric from a song called “I Am” that I co-wrote with Linda Marks and Lisa Aschmann.

Last year, I opened a great show at the beautifully restored Paramount Theater in Austin, MN with ‘I Am’ as part of the “Off 90″ Americana Music Series. The show was recorded for broadcast earlier this year on public television station KSMQ.

I am very pleased with result. I helps that the audio was mixed by my good friend Thomm Jutz, who produced “The Conjurer” with me in 2010.  So these recordings sound as good as they look.

There are a couple of tracks from the Paramount show on “Road Show,” and several more that are not on the new CD.  So I am going to release the video and  a download of some of those tracks in the weeks ahead as “updates” to this PledgeMusic campaign.

And the first offering is this video/MP3 download of “I Am.”

While I was at it, I included a download of the original studio recording of “I Am” from “Harry Truman Built A Road.”  That CD was released in 2002 but is now out of print, so some of you new fans who have never heard it might appreciate having this copy of the original track.

(Incidentally, one of the few remaining copies of “Harry Truman…” will be  included in the ‘Show Box Collection’ listed in the offers with this campaign.)

You can get all the goodies – the video and the downloads, just by following this link to my PledgeMusic campaign page.

There’s plenty more to come.  I am off today for a month-long tour of Ireland and Denmark and will be sending in plenty of updates from that ‘across the pond’ version of my continuing Road Show.

As always, I hope to see you somewhere down the road, and thanks ever so much for your support.

–Dana

In the Renaissance, families of great means like the Medici’s became famous in part for their support of the great painters, sculptors, and musicians of the day.

In the digital era, when so much has been disrupted by the advance of new media and models, it seems the arts are returning to a tried and true means of support. And systems have been devised in the past few years that put the concept of “patronage” within easy reach of almost anybody with an Internet connection and a passion for the movies, books, and music that moves them.

So I am pleased to announce that today I’ve launched my own little ‘patronage’ program through PledgeMusic.com. Watch this little video to learn more about it:

My sincere thanks to my friends Montie and Jayna Powell for all the brilliant and hard work that they put into the video.

Now, to see what all we’ve cooked up in the way of special offers, please stop by our campaign page at Pledge Music.

Dana Cooper, ca. 1974

I would rather bathe a cat than write this last chapter of the Elektra saga. I’ve procrastinated for weeks, weeding my yard, talking to the IRS, poking myself in the eye, anything to avoid writing about the demise of my record deal. Funny, it still bothers me.

Once the tour was over I retreated to sleepy Santa Barbara California where I shared an apartment in the hills with my girlfriend Mary Ann. While she worked on her Occupational Therapy internship at a local hospital I fidgeted around our little apartment and tried to figure out what had happened over the last year. Off the road I felt directionless. I wasn’t writing much. I had no gigs. Elektra was lukewarm about the prospects for my follow up album. Weeks slogged by before they issued a request that I demo some songs for their consideration. What could I do but comply?

Marlin Greene offered to produce. He scheduled a day for a demo session and I drove the two hours from Santa Barbara biting my nails all the way. It felt odd pulling into the parking lot for the first time. I never owned a car when I lived in Los Angeles. I always walked to the recording sessions. The four secretaries and one receptionist who sat at their desks surrounding the Spanish courtyard lobby always looked up from their work and gave me a friendly hello. Not today. Everyone’s eyes remained downcast as I passed through to Marlin’s office. Before I got there my presence was requested by the west coast treasurer. She proceeded to further question me about the long distance phone call confusion. Even though I assured her I had already made arrangements to settle the bill with the phone company she lambasted me for being a troublemaker.

In this environment Marlin and I set out to record my little handful of songs in hopes of reigniting Elektra’s fervor. Three songs I had already recorded in my living room, another one, “Isaac” was a track recorded for, but not included on the first album. Marlin and I recorded four new songs plus a solo version of “Isaac.” Marlin continued to believe in me and he fought to keep me on the label. He stuck his neck out for me when everyone else’s stayed stuck in their shell. It was his faith and hard work that kept me sane during this time of waiting for final word from Elektra.

Then came the long awaited Rolling Stone review of my record. I rushed out to buy a copy, and read it before I got out of the parking lot. I couldn’t budge. Stephen Holden started out comparing me to Joni Mitchell and Dion. I was excited to read more. Then I wasn’t. This wildly mixed review brought me down worse than anything so far. Some of Holden’s quotes were so good that I still use them today. My favorites are “driving acoustic rocker” which I am ( just check my odometer), and “rife with sexual ambiguity” which I ain’t. Still, my name was spelled right and it was Rolling Stone. On the cover, Paul Newman smiled in his wife beater and fedora from The Sting. Damn. And I liked that movie.

I reached for my boot straps with numb fingers. Days piled up slowly while I took long walks chasing inspiration. For fuel I drank three pots of black coffee and smoked three packs of cigarettes a day.I had no idea it would take years to find a true, comfortable voice as a writer or a performer, that the process is everything, that the more pressure I placed on myself to produce new songs the skimpier the harvest. I felt tapped out and lost as an artist. Still I kept digging. I convinced myself that the Rolling Stone review was meaningless and that the powers at Elektra would fall in love with the recent demo, allowing me time to finish new material.

One golden afternoon while deep into writing I heard the phone ring. That was unusual. Stranger than that, when I picked up the receiver I heard Al Billings on the line. Hadn’t heard from Al in weeks. We caught up on each other’s lives since the tour and discussed the disheartening Rolling Stone review. During one long pause in our conversation Al said he had something to tell me. My manager, Denny Bruce had just called Al and told him Elektra was not going to renew the option on my contract. Denny didn’t have the heart to tell me, so he asked if Al could break the news. I felt sucker punched in the solar plexus. Weird though. I felt a great relief too. It was over. I could stop wondering about it.

Al was a true ally, supportive of me and condemning of the label. I can’t imagine how difficult it was for him to make that phone call. He was being loyal and I loved him for it. When I hung up the phone all my mistakes and immature conduct of the last few months hit me. I felt sick about losing my great opportunity and even worse about disappointing all the good people at the label who had supported and believed in me.

I phoned Denny Bruce and Marlin Greene and Stan Farber to thank each one of them for all their hard work and to apologize for letting them down. They all continued to show me kindness I felt I did not deserve. Several weeks later Marlin invited me to visit him one last time at Elektra. He was also leaving the label and wanted to explain more clearly what had transpired. So, on yet another sunny California day I drove one last time to the offices on La Cienega.

Now the charming courtyard lobby felt chilled. Fewer secretaries sat sentinel. Everyone seemed smaller, worried. Even the bold, tiled centerpiece fountain bubbled less enthusiastically. The light, always muted and inviting had been ramped up, unflattering and unforgiving. A couple of women who had worked there since my first arrival gave me sad smiles. I gave them my best.

Marlin’s smile hadn’t changed a bit. He greeted me with such sincere respect and friendship that I still get teary eyed thinking about it. Nothing had changed between us. Marlin and I sat there in his office where we first met almost two years past. Now I felt I had let him down but he wasn’t having any of that. Marlin agreed that I made many mistakes along the way but he insisted there were other reasons for the collapse of my record deal. Ultimately it was purely a business decision. David Geffen was merging his Asylum Records with Warner, Elektra, and Atlantic. Geffen cut the bottom one third of the artist roster along with most of the Los Angeles office personnel. My album didn’t sell enough copies to survive the changeover.

Marlin confided in me about some of the other bizarre inner workings of Elektra. An unpleasant rivalry had always existed between the New York and Los Angeles offices of Elektra. My being signed to the label through Marlin’s efforts generated hostility with the pugnacious head of A&R in New York. You may remember her as the dame who decked a journalist at my Greenwich Village gig. She griped to Jac Holzman until it drove him crazy. This, coupled with my unwitting snub of Jac’s attentions on our first meeting, apparently set the stage for discontent.

Of all the heads lopped from shoulders and rolled onto La Cienega Boulevard, Marlin’s was not one of them. He chose to leave the fickle, fucked up company churning all around him. He already had an offer on the table from Kaye/Smith Studios in Seattle. If the deal came through he would produce record projects of his choosing and he wanted me to be one of them. Marlin gave me hope that day.

We shook hands on the promise of our future. He offered to see me to the door but I wanted to say goodbye to some people first. A handful of friends remained, some were already packed up and ready to go. Our bonds were forged in this building that none of us would enter again. Out the door we would blow in different directions. I thanked each person for all their work on my behalf. We exchanged wisecracks and  precarious smiles and the big door closed behind me. I was freed.

About one year later, while in Seattle recording a wonderful project that would regrettably never be released, I had the realization that losing my Elektra Records deal was the best thing that could have happened. Continuing down the path I was on could have quite possibly killed me. The perpetual party would never be paid for. Now I was free to grow as an artist at my  own pace, to gain valuable life experience along the way, to write and perform for the sheer joy of it.

With the benefit of hindsight I would have relaxed about the change. I would have realized that change was constant, that it led to something more, that I was not a failure. But I panicked often and drove myself to find the next path toward success. For now that path began in Seattle. I was ecstatic to work with Marlin in the studio. I stepped outside into a clear Santa Barbara morning, into that scent of orange blossoms that stirs the heart like an unexpected kiss and in that moment I felt alright.

* * * * *

As long as I’m telling you these stories, I may as well share with you some of the music that I’m telling you about.  I found the demo recordings from the final weeks of my Elektra tenure in attic recently,  just as they had been recorded back in the 70s, on quarter-inch reel-to-reel tape.

We had the tapes digitized, and the sound quality is not exactly superlative, but we did manage to salvage five tracks that I’ve added to the collection over in “The Parallel Universe of Dana Cooper” — where, with the click of your mouse, it’s suddenly 1970-something all over again.

Are we having fun yet?

The day after the accusatory dinner with the Atlanta radio program director, Roger (the promoter who maybe wasn’t doing his job…) took us for a drive up Lookout Mountain to another radio station that was spinning my record in heavy rotation. The Program Director there, a fellow named Frank, invited us to tour the station and meet some of the DJs and staff. Frank was a cross between Fog Horn Leg Horn and Colonel Sanders. He was a tall, barrel-chested man with boot black pomaded hair and a pencil thin mustache to match. He wore a seer-sucker suit with a white belt and white shoes. He spoke in a slow, booming Georgia drawl. I liked Frank even though I thought he was full of bull right from the get go. Frank gathered a couple of DJs, technicians, Al, Roger and me into his office. We all sat in a circle while he opened a big bottle of Cuervo. The bottle went round several times and tongues loosened up. Somebody mentioned their latest office party and they all sniggered in a secretive, knowing way.

Frank told a tech to break out the party photos so we could have a gander at what they all found so humorous. Frank, being the big boss man, took the first look, peeling off each glossy in the stack and sending it around our way. Everyone studied the pics for a few seconds, laughed out loud and passed them on. Roger did likewise and handed the first one to me. It was an 8×10 of a man in a suit apparently passed out on the floor surrounded by four other men in suits standing with their dicks in their hands pretending to urinate on their unconscious friend. I blinked and handed the thing to Al.

Tequila kept going around too and the laughter grew more raucous as the photos got raunchier. Two women appeared in the pics, dancers hired to entertain the revelers. I hoped they were paid generously for the humiliating acts they were bid to perform. The faces in the pictures were the same faces grinning at me now. Eventually I stopped looking and just handed the vile images over to Al as we traded unamused glances. No one seemed to notice or care, they were so caught up in hilarious reminiscence of their big party.

Well, the photos thankfully ran out and the bottle emptied. It was time to get back to town so we said our thanks and goodbyes. Frank sent us off with guffaws and back slaps. His handshake was moist and sticky, his eyes glazed from cactus juice, his voice Wagnerian in volume. He was having a good old time. I made a mental note never to party with these people again.

Our shows at the Great Southeast Music Hall in Atlanta, Georgia went well. Eric Weissberg of Deliverance soundtrack fame was the main attraction. I don’t remember so much as meeting the man but he and his bluegrass band were impressive and the house was packed every show.

Someone from the venue was putting us up. The only place they had room for guests was the unfinished attic. Al and I slept on two cots up there with no air conditioning. Soon as the sun peaked out the space became an open hearth furnace. Our last morning there someone yelled upstairs that I had a phone call from Elektra in New York. I was already sick from the sudden awakening in the suffocating heat. I had a champion hangover to boot.

I picked up the phone and was greeted by an unpleasant screaming man on the New York end of the line. This was the treasurer of Elektra Records, the man who signed all my tour support checks and he was threatening to put me in jail for fraud. I could barely get my dry sour mouth to respond, to engage with my poisoned brain. He was furious because Al and I had been charging our long distance phone calls to family and girlfriends to an Elektra Records account. The bill for the past three months added up to over one thousand dollars.

I explained that a representative of Elektra in Los Angeles told me to charge all our long distance calls to this special Elektra phone account. He called me a liar as well as a thief and demanded I give him the name of my mysterious advisor. I knew right then I could not divulge the name without that well meaning fellow getting into deep trouble too. So I refused to name him and insured the irate bean counter that I claimed full responsibility. He said I damn well better make it right immediately or he would withhold all my checks and see to it that I went to jail.

A very nice lady at Ma Bell helped me work out a reasonable payment plan. It took almost one year to pay it off but everything was ultimately taken care of. I told my friend at Elektra in LA what happened, about the stew I was in. He insisted that I misunderstood what he suggested in the first place. I was to make my calls directly from the New York office number, not charge the calls from other phones. Regardless, I felt good for not ratting my friend out. I screwed up, I took the hit.

Word spread through the company that I was not to be trusted. My manager, Denny Bruce, flew to New York to meet with Jac Holzman to straighten things out. I was there for one more hiatus before flying to our last concert in Denver. Denny and I waited in the Elektra lobby for hours. Jac never opened his office door. Eventually Jac’s secretary told us Holzman had left the building. Denny had a flight to catch back to LA so I saw him to his cab. When I went back upstairs I saw Jac duck into the executive elevator. That was the last time I saw Jac Holzman.

* * *

Leo Kottke, who was also young once (ca. 1973)

Leo Kottke jumped up and down on his guitar case. He stood grinning on the green overstuffed dressing room chair and sprung onto his guitar case with both feet. Al and I were impressed. After seeing the Student Prince reduced to splinters I thought how handy a guitar case like Leo’s would have been in that Holiday Inn parking lot. I still carried the broken headstock in my duffle bag as a sort of talisman. Kottke had had one of his guitars smashed in by an airline luggage cart. These sarcophagus like cases were designed especially for him and they seemed to do the trick.

This last adventure of our long tour was bittersweet. I felt disappointed about the ill will between my label and myself. Foolish for what I had done to contribute to the mess. Soon I would be home in California and I planned on resting, writing and losing my ten pound beer gut. Meanwhile I was opening for one of the greatest acoustic guitar players of all time, Leo Kottke. Denny Bruce managed Kottke, John Fahey and me. Of all the gigs Denny arranged this was my favorite. Sitting five feet away from Kottke backstage, feeling the force of his music right in my face was awe inspiring. I watched and listened and gleaned what nuggets I could. I had much to learn about playing and performing. Talents like Leo Kottke didn’t come into close proximity every day and I was grateful to know him.

Ebbets Field in Denver, Colorado was a music club, not a ball park. It seated around 250 people in bleacher seats, like a ball park. Get it? The seats, walls and floor were covered in orange, black and brown shag carpet. Local radio stations KDPI and KFML recorded many of the concerts. Recently I unearthed a reel to reel tape of one of Al’s and my sets in 1973. Now I just have to find a machine to play it on.

I turned my dad, George, onto Leo Kottke’s music. Now he was as big a fan as I was. When I told George I was opening for Kottke he booked himself a flight from Kansas City to Denver. I arranged a room for him at the hotel where Al and I were staying. Dad was excited to meet Leo and Kottke was most hospitable. I think the highlight for my dad though was meeting Al Billings. Dad appreciated Al’s musicianship and the fact that Al had stuck by me through the tour. Al and George spent lots of time talking and smoking cigarettes.

The low point of my performance according to dad was my fowl language. It struck me funny at the time just how shocked both my mom and dad were when they heard the live recording months later. The experiment of how to present oneself to an audience is an ongoing process. On closer inspection I agreed with my parents and began editing my stage patter to something more palatable for listeners. To this day I veer occasionally into bluer territory but I am leery of spending much time there.

The touring adventure ended in Denver. Dad flew back to Kansas City, Kottke flew to Minnesota. Al and I boarded the plane for Los Angeles and I had a sick feeling in the pit of my gut. I was excited to get back home, still hopeful that things would improve with Elektra but I had my doubts and my regrets. I would miss playing too and wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do next. I would turn to the ones who were there all along. Friends and family.

Coming Soon: Part 4: The Second Record

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.

* * *

Rolling Stone Issue #136 included a Stephen Holden review of "Dana Cooper"

While Al and I were touring, the LP started to garner some press coverage.  Most of the reviews were favorable and encouraging, in some cases mentioning me in the same sentence as Joni Mitchell and James Taylor.  It looked like my career was starting to get some air under its wings.

I don’t recall exactly how or why but for a couple of months Al and I alternated between New York City and Boston. Andy and his wife invited us to crash at their house in Marblehead part of the time. The third story was a tiny room with windows all around that was called a widow’s walk. This feature in many old homes along the coast was built so women could watch for their husbands’ ship coming in from the sea. I loved hanging out up there with my guitar. Many a song idea came to me there. I wrote one called “Our Lady Star of the Sea” inspired by a nearby church on the rocky coast and the spirits of the women who had once paced the little widow’s walk.

One sunny afternoon Andy suggested we all go to Boston for a Chick Corea concert. In preparation we consumed lots of beer and other substances. Then Andy pulled out the Quaaludes. In LA I’d been warned about taking these mega downers, especially with alcohol. I respectfully declined but Andy was his usual persistent self. I finally agreed to take just one even though he assured me he took two all the time with no problem.

A bunch of us piled into Andy’s car and drove along the coast to Boston. I didn’t notice the effects of the ‘lude until I stepped out of the car and my legs buckled. It was all I could do to walk a straight line into the club. We had to go downstairs to get into the place and I clung to the banister all the way. When I pulled a chair from our table to sit down I collapsed with the chair still clutched in my hand. I crawled to the table, shakily hoisted myself up to a near standing position and announced to my party that I had to get out of there. I was losing control of my body and it freaked me out. I literally crawled up the stairs on hands and knees holding on to the buildings when I reached the sidewalk.

Oozing along the street I remembered a nurse I had met at Passim. She gave me her phone number and it still nestled in my pocket. I found a phone booth, dialed her number and managed to make myself understood. She gave me her address and told me to take a cab right away.

I remember lying in the back seat, vision blurring, speech slurring convinced the cabbie was going to drop me at the nearest police station. Instead he delivered me to this kind woman’s apartment and helped her get me inside. She took care of me all night while I was sick over and over again. I really believe I owe her my life and I’m embarrassed I don’t even remember her name. One thing I finally learned was not to give any credence to anything Andy told me.

One last incident cooled any good feelings I had toward Andy. Al and I decided to check into a Holiday Inn for a couple of nights and Andy drove us there. We unloaded our bags and guitars carrying what we could to the check in desk leaving one bag and the Student Prince standing on the curb by the glass front doors. The clerk immediately refused to give us rooms because we were musicians. He said they had too many unpleasant experiences and damages from past musical guests and that was that.

As we walked toward the doors I saw Andy backing his car up to turn around. His rear bumper caught onto the Student Prince guitar case and when he drove forward the Prince was pulled beneath the carriage of the car. Al and I watched and listened in horror as guitar and case splintered into jagged pieces. We ran yelling through the doors for Andy to stop but he never heard us or the disintegrating guitar until he parked the car and got out.

All that remained of the Student Prince was the head stock and a few inches of neck. Goodbye sweet Prince. We scraped up the pieces and headed to the next hotel. I sat livid in the back seat. I know he felt terrible about the Prince but seeing the back side of Andy as he drove away was the best thing that had happened in a while.

* * *

Denny Bruce booked a show for me at a new club in Greenwich Village called Metro. One hot night Al and I went down to the Village to check out the club and the scene. We shuffled along with a river of people on the sidewalk. Up ahead we saw the crowd part in two then stream on again. The cause of this parting of the waves was two young black men engaged in a knife fight right in the midst of the throng. They circled and jabbed at each other panting and heedless of us passersby. I could have reached out and touched them they were so close. Then the two columns of pedestrians reunited into one and flowed on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

We met the owner of Metro, a tall gentleman in a well cut, expensive suit. He was a friendly fellow and he invited us out for drinks at a local hot spot he favored. Somehow we wound up sharing a cab with John Hammond, Jr. who was on his way to a gig of his own. A few nights later we played our show at Metro. Some Elektra folks came out including Ann, the woman who was head of A&R at the New York office. Ann was a tough, gruff cookie. By the end of the night she was belligerently drunk. To tell the truth, she scared the hell out of me.

Dave Van Ronk leaned on the bar engaged in energetic conversation with a friend. I loved Van Ronk’s music and sheepishly introduced myself. He was friendly enough and we yacked for a while. A music journalist who had written some very kind things about my record was also there. We all drank and talked until the bar closed.

I suggested that Al, Ann, the journalist and myself all share a taxi. While we waited for a yellow cab to come along Ann got pissy over something with the music writer. Next thing I knew she sucker punched the poor guy. Knocked him flat on his ass. I helped him to his feet and wiped a trickle of blood off his chin. When I asked Ann what the hell she was doing she mumbled something incoherent and walked off up the dark street without looking back. I apologized for her to the shaken scribe and hailed him a cab. This was the kind of help I did not need from a representative of my record label.

* * *

Next stop was Philadelphia for a three night stand with The Persuasions at The Main Point. We rode the train from Penn Station and caught a cab to our hotel. I stared out the window at the passing trees along a parkway. We were stopped at a light and I was just thinking how lovely the morning was. A small brown rabbit fed on the dewy green grass only a few feet from where we waited for the traffic light to change. Suddenly a hawk swooped down sinking its talons in the rabbits neck carrying it squealing off into the pine trees. Welcome to the City of Brotherly Love.

The Main Point was an intimate venue popular with listeners for the quality of performers they booked. Amazing people played there and the ticket price was always reasonable. They served great homemade food and baked goods too. The dressing room was the basement of the building. For our weekend with The Persuasions the club had cordoned off the basement with blankets hung from clothes lines. One space was for The Persuasions, the other for Al and me. We met The Persuasions when they arrived for sound check in the afternoon. They were cordial and we were in awe. We listened to them warming up on their side of the blankets. Those five guys made a lot of music with only their voices as the instruments.

After our opening set The Persuasions all filed into our space along with a friend of theirs dressed up like Superfly. He held a tea tin in his hands which he set down on our coffee table. Popping open the lid he revealed it was filled to the brim with cocaine. He silently offered us some and we accepted. One of the Persuasions passed around a bottle of booze which we also partook of. We shot the shit for a while then they headed upstairs for their first show. People went crazy. The audience stomped so vigorously on the old wooden floor that dust sifted down from the rafters. Many times during their performances I feared the whole place would collapse onto our heads.

* * *

The red headed Elektra Records promotion dude picked us up at the Atlanta airport in his fire engine red Cadillac convertible. It was August now and the humid heat pressed heavy against the chest. Al and I felt like a used up pair of socks. Each promo guy in each city chauffeured us around and took us to dinner on the company account, which was to be recouped from my record sales. Everywhere we went we heard the single “Lover, Baby, Friend” played on the radio. It was a pick hit on stations across the country like right here in Atlanta, Georgia yet many record stores still didn’t have copies of my album in stock. Roger of the red hair and Cadillac was taking care of us now.

It was interesting how similar to one another all the regional promo guys were. They each seemed to pattern themselves after the East Coast head of promotions in New York City, Johnny. Like Johnny they each had a beautiful wife or girlfriend, they each had at least one girlfriend on the side who kept showing up in embarrassing situations, they each drove extravagant cars, wore pimpy expensive clothes, wore their hair long, consumed way too many drugs, drank to excess, even used the same catch phrases and told the same jokes. They were like pod people and they were making my ass tired.

By now I understood that I paid for the party and the fun was wearing thin. Roger took us to dinner along with his wife and Bob the Program Director for one of the biggest radio stations in Atlanta. The food was great, the conversation friendly until we ordered dessert. Bob turned to me, pointed his finger at Roger and said point blank “This guy’s not doing his job for you.” Roger chuckled retorting “Hey Bob what are you talking about? I’m working Dana’s record like crazy.” Bob didn’t so much as glance at Roger but kept his finger aimed across the table. “He is not doing his job and I think you should know it. Your record is a pick hit at our station. People are phoning in requesting “Lover, Baby, Friend” all day long. We are playing the hell out of it and people can’t find it in record stores.” Roger’s face turned as red as his Cadillac. He grumbled and kept trying to make light of Bob’s accusation.

Bob finally lowered his finger when the waiter brought our desserts. I couldn’t finish mine and Roger looked like he could choke on his. I kind of wished he would. That would have been a just dessert.

Stay tuned for Part 3: The Implosion

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!

The LP is out! Just click the album cover to visit "The Parallel Universe" and listen to it.

I felt poleaxed standing in the middle of Tower Records Store on Sunset Boulevard. A thigh high block of stacked LPs, over 1,000 of them, sat fat together in prominent display, all with the same cover staring back at me and the face on the cover was mine. I wondered how many more thousands of copies were crammed into a warehouse somewhere and who outside my immediate family and friends was going to buy all those albums.

In the weeks to come, Elektra Records would  release a single to radio, distribute to record stores and I would tour the country, following the record around from town to town. I’d be opening concerts for Townes Van Zandt, Leo Kottke, the Persuasions and Phil Ochs, scheduling radio and press interviews from New York City back to Los Angeles.  There was basic tour support offered from the label but not enough for a band. I could afford to take one accompanist. I called on creative guitarist and friend Al Billings to join me on my four month tour.

Al didn’t own a worthy instrument at the time so I went to Elektra seeking an advance to buy him a guitar. This meeting led to a bit of a yelling session between the Vice President of the New York office and myself. I could have benefited from having a manager who would take on these sorts of negotiations but I was on my own. After Elektra spent tens of thousands of dollars on production of the record and were so modest in tour support a few hundred dollars for an instrument didn’t seem all that unreasonable for me to expect. Apparently I was mistaken. I paid for the guitar out of my own pocket.

The Vox "Student Prince" Guitar

Al and I also found a great little guitar in a Santa Monica junk shop. It was called The Student Prince. I first spotted the Student Prince perched on top of a five foot pile of tangled odds and ends. It seemed to sing out to me. Untangling it and brushing away some of the dust and grime we discovered it was in pretty good shape. There were a few dents and scrapes and the strings were probably thirty years old, at least, but the wood was rich and resonant. The crusty old fellow running the place had no idea what it was worth. We offered him ten bucks and the Prince was ours. Some new strings and a higher nut and we had ourselves a funky little acoustic lap slide guitar.

I believe it was Marlin Greene who referred me to a potential manager named Denny Bruce. Denny was the original drummer for the Mothers of Invention and he represented two of my guitar heroes, Leo Kotke and John Fahey. Denny invited me to his home in the Hollywood hills. He was tall and lanky with an impressively deep voice and a dry wit.  We agreed to work together with the understanding that it would be difficult for him entering into negotiations after the record contract had been signed and the album was ready for release. He would organize tour dates, travel and accommodations and do what he could to establish good relations with Elektra. In retrospect, I am amazed at what a good job he did.

Al and I rehearsed for a couple of weeks in my tiny garage apartment in a Venice alleyway. A vine grew through the kitchen wall. We ate omelets with Wolf Brand chili every morning until I got sick. Once we honed a polished set list we boarded a plane for New York City with four guitars and two duffel bags. Our green station wagon rental car was waiting for us at Kennedy airport. I drove into Manhattan for the first time tingling with excitement, quickly adjusting to the clamoring pace of city traffic. It tickled me to see vast herds of non-chalant pedestrians picking up pace and then scattering across the wide boulevards, fleeing the onslaught of taxis never once turning their heads in acknowledgment as if they possessed invisible radar.

Pulling up to our apartment building we were greeted by a bevy of black prostitutes elaborately and outrageously costumed in tube tops, skimpy skirts and impossibly high heels. Their skirts kept riding upward and their tops kept sliding downward while they half heartedly wrestled everything back into place all the while offering us grinning, enthusiastic promises of exotic pleasures. Once they got a better look at us under the street lights clutching armloads of guitars they realized the futility of their efforts and went clacking and giggling on up the dark street.

We climbed a few flights of stairs to be greeted at the door of our loaner apartment by a smiling record promo dude. He looked to be not much older than me, with shoulder length hair and a skimpy mustache. In one hand he held a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other a vial of cocaine. This was Johnny, son of a record distributor in Texas and head of record promotions for Elektra on the east coast.

He led us to the living room where two beautiful girls, one blonde one brunette, sat book-ended on the couch. Johnny sat down between the girls and introduced them to us declaring the party had already begun. We could see that well enough. There was a shortage of comfortable furniture so Al and I sat tailor style on the carpet. We passed the bottle around and jammed on our guitars while Johnny and the girls consumed most of the coke. When they finally left us alone the distinct odor of bullshit still lingered in the air. This was my introduction to the elaborately expensive party called record promotion that I would ultimately pay for.

* * *

New York in the 1970s

Al and I squatted and sat on the warm concrete curbside of a Manhattan side street waiting for our laundry to finish tumbling in a squawking coin operated dryer. We had been in the big NYC for a week and had begun to sniff test our dirty stiff socks in the morning hoping to find a less offensive pair for the days outing. This still left T-shirts and underwear of a similar questionable state for inspection. We were in a tricky spot.

Little did I appreciate how precarious our social situation was until just the day before when we were invited to lunch by a resplendent group of young women who worked in the record company art department. We were to join them at a popular Japanese restaurant. Yokel from the midwest, I had never been to such a place and I was shocked to see everyone removing their shoes at the door and sitting on cushions around the low tables. Beneath my scuffed Frye boots I wore mismatching malodorous socks with holes in the toes. I hesitated a beat too long so that our entire party zeroed in on my predicament. Trying to remain cool I popped off the boots and quickly shoved my offensive flippers under the table hoping my shabbiness would go unnoticed. Hearing the poorly suppressed titters around me, my ears flared red. For a second I thought I could see small waves of pungent aroma emanating from below. I folded my feet under my ass and sweated through lunch, which did nothing to improve my odoriferous state.

Humiliation has always had a way of motivating me. So, today we did laundry. We would be new men soon. Fit for any social occasion. Well, any occasion where boots, jeans, T-shirts and leather jackets were acceptable attire. Every sock with a hole in it was discarded. I even bought two extra miniature boxes of detergent from the machine so I could wash clothes in our bathroom sink when necessary.  Waiting for our load to finish we sipped Budweisers, smoked Marlboros and recounted the weeks adventures.

In those days my hands were rarely at rest and neither was my mouth. I chain smoked Marlboros from a hard pack, played guitar, peeled labels off beer bottles and let forth a steady stream of anecdotes, complaints, oaths and tall tales unconcerned about who I might offend, and there were more than a few. Between shows there were days and nights with not much to do. In New York Al and I struck up a friendship with a couple who lived in the same apartment building we squatted in. Tohru was a talented photographer from Japan who introduced us to Japanese food and the sights of  Manhattan. His wife Ellen was a gregarious clothing designer from a nice Jewish family in Brooklyn. It sounds odd to say now but back then I had rarely shared the company of such exotic, creative people. Discovering New York City with them as our guides was one of the highlights of the entire tour.

* * *

The Entrance to Club Passim in Cambridge, MA

Passim in Cambridge, Massachusetts, originally Club 47, remains one of the few surviving folk houses in America. In 1973 it was legendary for the cavalcade of great folksingers and songwriters who performed there. Bob and Rae Anne Donlin were the operators of Passim by the time I arrived there. They were as legendary as the place itself. Bob was a beat poet who had appeared in a couple of Kerouac novels as the character Bob Donnelly and Rae Anne was a former English major from the midwest. Bob was a bit edgy but he deeply cared for and respected songwriters. He tickled me when he introduced me as “Daner Coopa.” Rae Anne treated me with such great kindness she could have been my own mother.

I opened several shows for Townes Van Zandt at Passim over three nights. Townes was already a figure of mythological status as a songwriting poet and I was a little intimidated to open for him. I was also anxious about the New York Elektra office muckety mucks who were flying to Boston to witness my debut at Passim. Andy, the east coast record promo rep, tried calming me down by organizing a pre-show dinner at one of his favorite Cambridge eateries. He brought along his lovely wife and about twenty of their close friends and family. I tasted raw oysters for the first time. Didn’t go down too well. Andy taught me the art of eating a lobster, which I managed to take to fairly well. So did everyone else in our sizable dinner party. The bill for everyone’s lobster, bisque, oysters, Heinekens and Boston cream pie was added to my record “promotion” account.

Once the plates and bowls and schooners were cleared away Andy asked if I had ever tasted Ouzo. Well, no, I hadn’t. “You have to try it,” he said. No, I want to stay somewhat sober for the show tonight I said. I must admit, Andy was a persuasive guy. He convinced me of the benign effects of this anise – flavored aperitif. Andy’s cajoling wore me down so far that I downed two shots of Ouzo and was about to go for my third when I realized my face was going numb. I was freaked. In two hours all these people from Elektra were turning up to show their support for me and I was drunk on Greek liqueur. I quickly excused myself from the table and set out on my own to sober up and make my way back to Passim.

Wandering through the narrow, twisting streets of Cambridge I grew increasingly disoriented. The natives I encountered weren’t particularly friendly or helpful so I just trudged on. Now I was not only inebriated but beginning to feel anxious to the point of panic. Time rushed on heedless of my predicament and I feared I might not find the club at all. Ever. Blindly I turned every corner I came to then, suddenly, Passim appeared. Columns of sunlight shot through the gray Cambridge sky like guiding beacons pointing straight down onto 47 Palmer Street. I rushed downstairs, squeezed along the narrow hall and shut myself into the tiny dressing room.

There was just enough time to run over the set list with Al and meet and greet the Elektra folks. Today that night seems comical. In the moment it was one of the most excruciating experiences of my life. My nerves conquered me. For the entire forty minute set I never felt in control. My face kept flushing red, my hands trembled, my knees knocked together visibly, all my tempos were too fast. Afterward everyone graciously commended me on a good set saying it was just too bad I was so nervous. In their faces I saw how far I had fallen on this my first gig of the tour.

Townes Van Zandt

Alone backstage I slapped my face and threw my body against the wall. I was on my fifth or sixth body slam, dust sprinkling down from the ceiling, when Townes Van Zandt flung open the door stepping into the room with a horrified look on his face. The look passed quickly as I covered the few feet between us hand extended. Townes was open and personable as we introduced ourselves. Embarrassed by the impression I had made on everyone that night I slunk away leaving Townes some privacy to prepare for his show.

Jump to Part 2: From Phil Ochs to The Persuasions

(Listen to “Lover Baby Friend,” the first single from Dana Cooper’s 1973 debut LP, while reading the post that follows:

01 Lover, Baby, Friend by Dana Cooper

- – - – - – - – - – - – - -

I sit listening to my first album from 1973 and I am overwhelmed with emotions. They run all over the place. Always do. Looking back is not what  I want to spend my life doing. Yet, I do it everyday. Aren’t all our lives spent balancing amongst what we’ve done, what we are doing and what we hope to do? I am no different than you. Only our experiences vary.

The Entrance to the Elektra Records Studios in Hollywood, ca. 1973

The seventh decade of my own particular balancing act has already begun.  On the night of my 60th birthday (April 2)  I was fortunate enough to perform at Ebeltoft Kulturhus in Ebeltoft, Denmark with my talented young friends, The Sentimentals.  Fact is, I’ve always been fortunate even if I didn’t realize it at the time. I’ve been on the road since I was 19. That’s 41 years and counting. There I go again; then, now and someday.

I was young when I wrote the 10 songs I recorded for Elektra Records in 1973. The composition dates from the liner notes read 1971 and 1972. But I know some were written well before that. “Oklahoma Rodeo Queen” and “The Singer” reach back to 1968; “Grandpa” to 1969, and “Sweet City Man” 1970. The voice is mine but it too is very young. I was 21 when we recorded this album, and very grateful for the experience and serious about doing good work. Elektra granted me freedom to choose the musicians I wanted and with the help of my producer, Stan Farber, I got the best.

The list of musicians and engineers who worked on this album still amazes me. Playing live in the studio with these people was awe inspiring and I learned much about professionalism and dedication from each of them.

Leland Sklar

Russ Kunkel

Rather than choose one rhythm section over another, Stan and I decided to hire our two favorites. I wanted to play music with Leland Sklar and Russ Kunkel, who had earned a name for themselves as “The Section,” playing with such leading lights of the period as James Taylor, Jackson Browne, and Linda Ronstadt. Every thing I ever heard these guys play inspired me.  To this day whenever Jackson Browne’s “Doctor My Eyes” starts up, it’s as if I’m hearing it for the first time. The stripped down, raw energy of it still moves me.

Joe Osborn, first-call bassist for the famous session group The Wrecking Crew  had played for artists like The Mamas and the Papas and  Simon and Garfunkel. Now he was on board for my project! Jim Gordon, who was the drummer for The Everly Brothers, Derek and the Dominos,  Delaney and Bonnie, Joe Cocker, Traffic, Harry Nilsson, Frank Zappa — as well as co-writer of the anthemic “Layla” brought his enormous talent, no-holds-barred. These two powerful rhythm sections were the backbone of our project.

Al Perkins of The Flying Burrito Brothers played pedal steel guitar; the legendary Jim Horn played sax and flute; renowned producer/songwriter/musician/arranger Michael O’Martian played keyboards and accordion; Milt Holland, also of Wrecking Crew fame, whose dizzying discography includes Sinatra, The Beatles, Bernstein and The Rolling Stones, played tabla and showed me some of his mind boggling collection of percussion instruments from around the world; Gary Coleman whose many studio credits include Aretha Franklin and Marvin Gaye, played percussion; Gary Stovall (whose history I am woefully ignorant of ) played funky electric guitar on “The Singer;” Lee Holdridge, Emmy Award winning composer and orchestrator of film and television, arranged and conducted the 18 piece orchestra, none of whose names are listed. What a shame.

Engineers on the album included Bill Schnee, who had worked with Barbara Steisand and Three Dog Night and has since become a mega producer; Armin Steiner, pioneering engineer who worked with the likes of Neil Diamond and Bread;  and Bruce Morgan, engineer for fellow Elektra label mates Harry Chapin and Paul Siebel.

Looking again at the liner notes, I see a special thanks was given to Bill Barnett. This good gentleman gave me a place to stay when I arrived in Los Angeles and introduced me to Stan Farber who took me around to every record label in town and stood up for me, always looking out for my best interest. I couldn’t have made this record without these two men. Stan and I have remained in contact through the years. He is living in Austin and still singing like a pro. Bill and I have regretfully lost contact. I’d love to reconnect with him if anyone knows of his whereabouts. Most of these folks are alive and kicking and I recommend you check them all out on the internet. You will be astounded at their accomplishments, then and now.

Marlin Greene ca. 1970s

Marlin Greene was not mentioned  on the album, perhaps because he was an A&R executive working for Elektra.  I want to correct that oversight now: Marlin was the man who first heard me at Elektra and it was his dedicated effort that eventually won me my record deal. Marlin is a gifted singer songwriter and recording artist in his own right.  As a very young man he co-produced Percy Sledge’s legendary hit, “When a Man Loves a Woman” while working at the infamous Muscle Shoals Studio. Today Marlin is an accomplished photographer and web designer. He recently reissued his Elektra Records album, “Tiptoe Past the Dragon.”

During this time I lived in a garden studio apartment on Holloway just a few blocks from the Elektra studios on La Cienega. A lovely old Russian lady named Sonia owned the apartment building built by her and her husband in the 1930′s. Sonia sort of adopted me. I rented two different apartments from her over the next two years. She gave me my first glass of fresh squeezed carrot juice and shared recollections of the old, mythical Hollywood.  She was always encouraging and patient.

I walked to all the sessions from my apartment, past eucalyptus and lemon trees, entering the big wooden front doors, stepping into the spacious Spanish tiled  offices replete with a circular fountain in the middle of the entryway. We recorded over a period of several months, booking studio time whenever it was available, waiting around anxiously when it wasn’t. All the songs were performed live with the players isolated behind baffles in one big room. This way we could see one another, keeping close contact which made for tighter, more energetic performances.

Leland Sklar, Dana, Russ Kunkel - Summer 2010

I remember Russ Kunkel and Leland Sklar were particularly enthused about the work. They were often willing to stay a while after recording to listen to playbacks or to run through ideas for the next day’s sessions. Recently I met up again with Lee and Russ while opening concerts for my friend Lyle Lovett. I was pleasantly surprised that they still remember working with me all those years ago and that they are playing stronger today than ever.

Stan mentioned that Larry Carlton was available for sessions and I was floored. I knew of his phenomenal work with Steely Dan and The Crusaders so we invited him to work his magic on what seemed an appropriate track. Funny things happen in the studio and tough calls are made. In the final mix Carlton’s part was left out simply because it didn’t work with the rest of the track. Make no mistake, what he played was amazing and I hated making that decision.

I really wanted fiddle on “Old K-10 Plus Two” and Vassar Clements was the fiddler I wanted. Stan gave Vassar a call and, to my amazement, he showed up next morning fiddle in hand. He played his heart out, we chatted a while, shook hands and exchanged thanks. By the time the mixing was done, his contribution was not included either. To this day I don’t enjoy excluding anyone’s efforts from a recording. But I even do it to myself sometimes.

Jim Gordon was a consummate professional. One hell of a drummer. Yet he kept very much to himself, leaning against a wall during playbacks, sometimes muttering inaudibly with his eyes closed. One day while we took a ten minute break Jim sat at the piano and began playing the closing passage of Layla, which he wrote with Eric Clapton. I soaked up every moment of playing music with him. It is sad to know that this gifted musician, so lauded and acclaimed would one day kill his own mother at the urging of voices only he could hear. An undiagnosed schizophrenic, he would not be able to plea insanity, was convicted of second degree murder and remains in prison to this day.

Once we finished tracking with all the musicians I added some harmonies then we began the mixing process began. I had worked in recording studios a few times before but never to this extent. It was fascinating going through the painstaking process of isolating each instrument, listening for extraneous noise, equalizing and adjusting levels then putting it all back together and readjusting again until all the pieces fit sonically. When all the ears at Elektra finally heard what we had done the response was laudatory. I was proclaimed by the execs as the best singer on their label. Where they had once told me not to be concerned about releasing a single until I had recorded another album, now it was demanded of me to choose a single for radio play. We all agreed that would be “Lover, Baby, Friend” which featured a scorching sax solo by Jim Horn.

Elektra’s visual image was as unique as it’s musical one. Renowned young photographer Ed Caraeff was chosen to shoot the album cover. I went to his home in Coldwater Canyon just down the street from where he had photographed the cover for The Byrd’s “Farther Along” LP. He, his wife and their imposing Bull Terrier were quite hospitable. We talked about cover ideas, played with the dog, he shot many rolls of film outside and inside their home. It was all relaxed, loose and creative. At 15 Ed Caraeff  had  taken one of the most iconic rock photos ever of Jimi Hendrix coaxing the flames from his guitar at Monterey Pop Festival. He had photographed Jim Morrison, Tom Waits, Carly Simon, Captain Beefheart, Tim Buckley, Elton John, Leon Russell, Rod Stewart, Dolly Parton, Tina Turner, The Everly Brothers, Janis Joplin and now he was photographing me in his own home while we listened to mixes of my soon to be released album. Surreal.

The final cover was a collage of my face imposed into a mirror frame that hung in Ed’s living room. The back cover was a full shot of me sitting beneath that same mirror surrounded by all the Caraeff’s cool shit, holding a cigarette and a glass of booze. My Gibson Heritage stands in the shadows humbly while I look cocky and a bit inebriated. I look at that guy now smiling at me from the back of that fading LP jacket and he doesn’t look ready for what’s about to happen. Now I know he wasn’t.

Marlin Greene, ca. 1970-something

By Marlin Greene

Los Angeles in the 70′s – Elektra Records – the house that Jac built. I occupied a small room in that house for a couple of years. My job description was assistant to Russ Miller, A & R person for the West Coast. What that meant was that I was a nerve ending for Russ and Jac Holzman in terms of ferreting out promising candidates for an Elektra recording contract from the slush of bric-a-brac that arrived every day.

Not all of the tapes and disks came in the mail; a lot were delivered through the door by agents, cousins, lawyers, girl/boy friends and sometimes by the wanna-be’s themselves. My long-suffering secretary was my screening mechanism – if they convinced her they got to see me. If they convinced me, they might get to see Russ, etc.

Into this unfair and haphazard mechanism for gaining celebrity and becoming fodder for radio-land’s insatiable void, one spring day came Dana Cooper towed by his producer, Stan Farber. They had made it past my Brenda because Dana let Stan do the talking. Stan was a Hollywood veteran of the record biz – Dana was from Kansas.

Dana opened his guitar case to “audition” and sang two or three of his songs. They were all impressive, but the one that got my attention was “Oklahoma Rodeo Queen.” As far as I was concerned, this put Dana on the songwriter shelf next to Joni Mitchell and James Taylor. Dana also put up a nice appearance and played a mean acoustic Gibson, adding up to a pretty good candidate to impress Russ and Jac. I signed on.

After hearing Dana, Russ and Jac signed on too. Without realizing it, Dana had insured that I would not be evicted from my little room any time soon and that Elektra would make an album. However, Elektra was by this time was mostly selling units, not poety set to music. Dana had one hindrance that he would never overcome: finely burnished poetry set to music is not for everyone and doesn’t move a lot of units.

I had a dream somewhere around this time. I saw Dana clear as daylight performing in a very prestigious venue – maybe Carnegie Hall. The house lights were dim. Dana was playing solo in a spotlit center stage. Of course he was singing “Oklahoma Rodeo Queen.” I never told Dana about this. Maybe it will still happen. Maybe it already has and I got the venue wrong.

Dana, thanks for hanging in there. I always knew you were a magician who sets words to music and now I learn you are a conjurer as well.

–Marlin