Heaven and Hell: My Life in the Eagles by Wendy Holden, Don Felder
Authors: Wendy Holden, Don Felder
Tags: music, Humor & Entertainment, Biographies & Memoirs, Memoirs, Arts & Photography, Pop Culture, Composers & Musicians, Rock, popular, Arts & Literature, Musical Genres, Entertainers, Theory; Composition & Performance
Ads: Link
Dodge van and drove north. Bob Dylan’s backup group, the Band, had relocated to a modern pink house in West Saugerties in the Catskills and recorded their first album, Music from the Big Pink. The house we found wasn’t pink. It was white, stood on three hundred fifty acres, and looked like something out of Gone with the Wind. It cost us $150 a month—far less than the price of our crummy New York apartment.
The house was huge. It had four white-painted Doric columns at the door, which opened onto an impressive hallway and grand staircase. There were a library, five fireplaces, and a butler’s pantry. The attic had been converted into a ballroom, complete with bandstand, for parties. Much of the land had been left wild, although some must have been used to grow market produce at one time, because all that grew on it now, in great abundance, was zucchini. Impoverished and permanently hungry, we had scrambled zucchini for breakfast, zucchini sandwiches for lunch, and baked zucchini with cheese for supper.
We lived in that house for eighteen months, becoming poorer and poorer by the month. Our gigs in New York declined sharply, and half the time the rest of the band couldn’t be bothered to make the three-hour round trip to the city for a lousy hundred bucks. We were often without transportation. If someone took the van to go and score some drugs or see a girlfriend, the rest of us would be stranded.
One day, Chuck Newcomb and I were in the house when the van was gone, and we ran out of tobacco. Both heavy smokers, we had no choice but to walk into town to buy some. We set off for Dover Plains, not even bothering to hitchhike, because we knew from experience that few people in the neighborhood would pick up a couple of long-haired hippies with beards. The local sheriff drove past Chuck and me as we strolled into town, stopped his patrol car, reversed, and picked us up. We were arrested and charged with walking on the wrong side of the road. The fine was twenty-five dollars.
The sheriff eventually drove us back to the house, where our surprised fellow band members saw the patrol car pull up in the driveway and quickly ran round and hid all the drugs. John Winter came wandering out of the house with a flute in his hand. “What’s going on?” he asked.
The sheriff gave little explanation before he and his officers undertook a painstaking search of the house. It took some time, and when he emerged, his face was a picture of disappointment that he hadn’t found bathtubs full of LSD. Trying to defuse the situation, which was now uncomfortably tense, I turned to John and said, “Hey, why don’t you play something for the officer to send him on his way.”
“Huh?” John asked, looking decidedly nonplussed.
“Your flute,” I said, pointing to the instrument in his hand. “Why don’t you play something to show there are no hard feelings?”
John shook his head. “No, not now. My lips don’t feel right, man. I can’t play a thing.”
“Oh, come on,” I urged, sensing his reluctance and the sheriff’s unhappiness. “Just a few notes.”
“Yeah, come on,” the sheriff encouraged him. “You claim you’re musicians. Let’s hear you play.”
John stood his ground. “No,” he said, firmly. “I’m sorry. I’m not in the mood.”
By the time the sheriff and his men left, Chuck and I were exhausted and upset from our day’s exertions. All we had to look forward to was a zucchini omelet and a miserable night emptying the ashtrays for butts. Irritable, I bumped into John in the hallway and turned on him. “If you’d played your damn flute for the sheriff, none of this might have happened,” I said.
John shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t, man,” he explained, pointing to a wad of something in the end of it. “That’s where we shoved all the dope.”
SIX
In August 1969, we heard through the hippie network that a big music festival
The house was huge. It had four white-painted Doric columns at the door, which opened onto an impressive hallway and grand staircase. There were a library, five fireplaces, and a butler’s pantry. The attic had been converted into a ballroom, complete with bandstand, for parties. Much of the land had been left wild, although some must have been used to grow market produce at one time, because all that grew on it now, in great abundance, was zucchini. Impoverished and permanently hungry, we had scrambled zucchini for breakfast, zucchini sandwiches for lunch, and baked zucchini with cheese for supper.
We lived in that house for eighteen months, becoming poorer and poorer by the month. Our gigs in New York declined sharply, and half the time the rest of the band couldn’t be bothered to make the three-hour round trip to the city for a lousy hundred bucks. We were often without transportation. If someone took the van to go and score some drugs or see a girlfriend, the rest of us would be stranded.
One day, Chuck Newcomb and I were in the house when the van was gone, and we ran out of tobacco. Both heavy smokers, we had no choice but to walk into town to buy some. We set off for Dover Plains, not even bothering to hitchhike, because we knew from experience that few people in the neighborhood would pick up a couple of long-haired hippies with beards. The local sheriff drove past Chuck and me as we strolled into town, stopped his patrol car, reversed, and picked us up. We were arrested and charged with walking on the wrong side of the road. The fine was twenty-five dollars.
The sheriff eventually drove us back to the house, where our surprised fellow band members saw the patrol car pull up in the driveway and quickly ran round and hid all the drugs. John Winter came wandering out of the house with a flute in his hand. “What’s going on?” he asked.
The sheriff gave little explanation before he and his officers undertook a painstaking search of the house. It took some time, and when he emerged, his face was a picture of disappointment that he hadn’t found bathtubs full of LSD. Trying to defuse the situation, which was now uncomfortably tense, I turned to John and said, “Hey, why don’t you play something for the officer to send him on his way.”
“Huh?” John asked, looking decidedly nonplussed.
“Your flute,” I said, pointing to the instrument in his hand. “Why don’t you play something to show there are no hard feelings?”
John shook his head. “No, not now. My lips don’t feel right, man. I can’t play a thing.”
“Oh, come on,” I urged, sensing his reluctance and the sheriff’s unhappiness. “Just a few notes.”
“Yeah, come on,” the sheriff encouraged him. “You claim you’re musicians. Let’s hear you play.”
John stood his ground. “No,” he said, firmly. “I’m sorry. I’m not in the mood.”
By the time the sheriff and his men left, Chuck and I were exhausted and upset from our day’s exertions. All we had to look forward to was a zucchini omelet and a miserable night emptying the ashtrays for butts. Irritable, I bumped into John in the hallway and turned on him. “If you’d played your damn flute for the sheriff, none of this might have happened,” I said.
John shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t, man,” he explained, pointing to a wad of something in the end of it. “That’s where we shoved all the dope.”
SIX
In August 1969, we heard through the hippie network that a big music festival
Similar Books
