Chapter Eighteen
The word “cat” as a synonym for musician originated in the world of jazz. My personal definition of a cat is a skilled musician who cares about excellence, values the integrity of the music, and plays his or her instrument with a commitment to enhance the piece. A true cat plays for the sheer joy of playing. Under my definition, orchestral players and background singers also qualify, though orchestral players might not use the word “cat” to describe themselves.
Ever since there have been traveling bands and orchestras, someone in the position of tour manager has had to deal with the inherent difficulties of trying to move a group of cats from point A to point B. Before civil rights became law in the sixties, tour managers with big bands had to contend not only with the natural propensity of cats to scatter but also with the logistics of “white” and “colored” lodging, dining, and bathroom facilities. Add female singers of whatever color into the mix and you have a logistical nightmare far beyond the challenges that faced our tour manager, Jock McLean, in 1971—not that Jock’s job was easy.
One morning we had to wake up to catch an impossibly early flight to the next city. Upon leaving our room, Charlie and I saw a couple of musicians (who shall remain nameless) whose rooms were on the same floor. Having gone to sleep barely an hour earlier after a night of drinking and heaven knows what else, they had managed to put their bags out for pickup by the bell staff and were waiting for the elevator. When it arrived, the two cats stumbled into it and we entered behind them. Both were wearing sunglasses. Each peered at the other as if he were unsure whether he was looking at the face of the other guy or his own face in the mirror. Each was probably thinking how messed up the other guy looked and hoping he didn’t look that bad. No one spoke. A full three minutes elapsed before any of us thought to look up at the lighted floor numbers. With a sudden rush of clarity, I realized that the numbers weren’t changing.
“Oh! Right!” I said, and pushed “L” for lobby.
As soon as the elevator stopped and the door opened, Charlie and I stepped into the lobby. The two cats remained in the elevator, drifting in and out of their early-morning fog. Jock was paying the group’s bill at the cashier’s desk when he noticed a familiar pair of boots inside the elevator. As the door began to close, Jock ran over and pushed the “up” button just in time. When the door reopened Jock escorted the musicians onto the bus, where they slept soundly in their seats until we arrived at the airport. After Jock had checked the rest of us in, he went back for the two cats and escorted them to the boarding gate, where they slept until it was time to get on the plane. They slept all the way to the next city, and if we hadn’t had a gig that night, they’d probably have slept until a reasonable hour for a rock musician to wake up, typically defined as midnight.
James and I both relied heavily on our cats. Even though we didn’t use all the same players, we made no distinction between his cats and mine in terms of affection and respect.*
The first show of the tour began with James’s introduction of Jo Mama. With half the audience still drifting in, the members of Jo Mama were uncertain how their set would be received, but they played with a nervous energy that the audience members who were paying attention perceived as excitement. By the end of their set, they looked and sounded confident enough to elicit a fair amount of applause. The band took an exultant bow and left the stage. The lights went up for the first intermission, and the crew began to reset the scene.
Fifteen minutes later I was waiting in the wings. I wouldn’t say I was afraid, but the butterflies in my stomach were keenly aware of the importance of my first solo appearance ever on tour. When they called “house to black,” most people were back in their seats. The spotlight found James as he walked onstage to introduce me. I entered from stage right, walked to center stage, and reached up to hug him. He reached down to return the hug, waved to the audience, then exited stage left. I walked over to the piano and sat down. It was a very big stage, and I was alone on it. As I prepared to play for thousands of people, I took a breath. Then I dove in and performed the first few songs of my set solo.
Considering how shy I had been about performing, I was surprised at how comfortable I was. During the solo part of my set I really did feel as if I were playing in a living room (albeit a large one) for a receptive audience. And rather than detracting from the intimacy, Charlie’s entrance drew them in. Later, when we played the Los Angeles Forum before an audience of twenty thousand people, I didn’t believe we could achieve a comparable level of intimacy. Just before my set that night I had peeked out from the wings and watched the streams of people walking back and forth across the various levels, buying souvenirs, getting refreshments, and going to and from the restrooms. With so many diversions for the audience, I didn’t know if I could connect with them. But as soon as I hit the first notes on the piano, I forgot how many people I was playing for. As at the Troubadour, I had the sense of playing for a familiar, collective friend.
Often I began my set with “Song of Long Ago” and played “I Feel the Earth Move” second, but sometimes I opened with “Earth Move” to get the crowd (and probably myself) going. On future tours with drums and an electric band I would perform it much later in my set. A full band would allow me to indulge in another of my favorite ways of connecting with an audience—a full-on rock performance with me up front and a cat playing my piano part. I love leading my band and the audience in a rock concert experience in which every musician is giving his or her all with peak energy and volume, yet with professional awareness and control. I love to watch an audience become caught up in the sizzle of the groove and the heat of the beat, clapping and dancing, up on their feet.
Gloria Steinem once called me the first woman to give a downbeat. Though I’ve given many downbeats, I’m not sure I was the first, but my experience has always been that gender doesn’t matter to cats as long as they respect the bandleader as a fellow cat. Being a sideman taught me that nothing makes a cat happier than having a good song to play and a leader who recognizes a cat’s ability to play it.
Such was the case for every cat on tour in 1971. The fact that I was one of a close-knit group of musicians having a fantastic time performing onstage sustained me for a while. But the grind of touring affected each of us. It hit me one morning toward the end of our second week, when I woke up depressed. I was tired of being on the road. I didn’t know that few touring bands enjoyed the amenities we did, or that many bands slept on a bus and rarely made use of hotels, airports, or comfortable hygienic facilities. I should have been thankful that our travel included a nightly hotel room with a clean, comfortable bed and a hot shower. But I was weary of going from airport to hotel, with little time to do more than fumble around in my suitcase for toiletries and something to wear the next day. Every night I grabbed a shower and a few hours’ sleep, then rose to the jarring ring of a wake-up call the next morning, followed by “bags out” and a quick breakfast before boarding the bus to the airport. We flew, landed, got on a bus to the venue, where we did a soundcheck, played the gig, then got back on the bus and went to the hotel, and so on. Most of the time we were booked to play three nights in a row followed by a night off. Every night off was a welcome respite. It was also a night of vocal rest as long as I didn’t go out with the band to a restaurant or a smoky club in which I had to shout to be heard by someone sitting across the table. The monotony of the routine, the constant travel, and living out of a suitcase were wearing me down. I missed being home, I missed my daughters, and hearing on the phone how much they missed me only made me feel worse. But I wasn’t the only musician to succumb.
After performing in Philadelphia, we had a night off before hitting the road again. When Charlie offered to take me out to dinner, just the two of us, the prospect alone lifted my spirits. I spent the afternoon walking, shopping on Philly’s cobbled streets, and looking forward to a lovely evening with my husband. We were just leaving the hotel when one of the band members came in. We exchanged waves and went on our way, unaware that our friend was nursing a bad case of the blues. It was his birthday, his loved ones were far away, and he was lonely. No one on the tour knew it was his birthday, so no one thought to look in on him. Returning to the hotel a few hours later, we learned that our friend had caused quite a commotion. The cat with whom he roomed had brought home a couple of bottles of liquor from Hospitality. After waving to us, our guy had gone up to his room, drunk as much as his body could absorb, and proceeded to destroy the television and toss several lamps, chairs, and other pieces of furniture out the window.
Wow! I thought. This is the kind of thing people do in movies about rock bands. At first my inner adolescent thought, Groovy! But then my outer rational adult understood that our friend had acted out what I’d been feeling earlier. It was the blues run amok, and it wasn’t groovy at all. There was some good news: no one had been hurt by the projectile furniture, and our friend hadn’t thrown himself out the window.
The next morning our bandmate was appropriately contrite. Not surprisingly, he was also extremely hungover. While the rest of us checked out, Jock, on behalf of James and Peter, apologized to the hotel manager and paid for the damage. Then everyone got on the bus. From that point on, we did whatever Jock told us to do. Unload. Stand here and wait as a group while I check you in. Okay, here are your boarding passes. Go directly to Gate 39 and wait until I join you. We’ll board the plane as a group. Do not leave the boarding area for any reason whatsoever.
And so it went: airport, hotel, soundcheck, gig, hotel. No wonder our companion melted down. Soon the first segment of the tour would be over and we’d all get to go home for the break. All we had to do was get through the next few days. Our friend probably would have had to work for free for the rest of the tour to pay off his debt, except that James and Peter never asked him to pay it back. Not one penny.