Meeting Lowell George

I’m held to the faith

That the future unfolds

Like a conversation not always understood

It’s architecture and intent revealed a little at a time

(lyrics from Eden’s Wall-Little Feat c.d. Under The Radar)

In late spring of 1969 I took a drive from Isla Vista, a community hosting students going to UCSB just north of Santa Barbara, to Los Angeles that was to change my life forever. The atmosphere surrounding that drive was one of hope, fear, and desperation. I was not fond of L.A., but I felt my destiny tied to the plastic city of smog, deceit, palm trees, movie stars, the music biz, and the home of Frank Zappa. I was so nervous, once I made it to the L.A. county line, I hugged the right hand side of the freeway for dear life, going about 50 miles per hour. I wanted to make sure I made it to my destination. I felt it was my biggest chance to break into rock and roll, and could very well be my last. I was on my was to meet with Lowell George, recently released from the Mothers Of Invention.

A few weeks prior, using a phony credit card, I had placed a call to Bizarre Records, Frank Zappa’s label, in Burbank. I told her I played piano and organ and that music was my life. I wanted to join Frank’s band, the Mothers Of Invention. Frank and the boys were heading to Europe, however, she said, and it would not be possible to meet with him at that time. She must not only have heard the anxiousness in my voice, but somehow accepted the fact I had the talent to be given a chance. She gently steered me in the direction of the band Eureka, on Frank’s other label, Straight Records. A few days later, I met with Eureka’s leader Jeffrey Simmons at the Tropicana, a seedy rock and roll hotel, on Santa Monica Blvd. The meeting was unsuccessful-in addition to playing guitar, Jeffrey also played keyboards and was not looking for any outside competition. Returning to Isla Vista, I placed yet another call to my contact at Bizarre Records telling her of the outcome with Jeffrey.

She asked me if I had heard of Lowell George.

I hadn’t.

Lowell, she said, had played guitar and sang with the Mothers on two albums, Uncle Meat and Weasels Ripped My Flesh (which also happens to be the first Neon Park cover I had the pleasure of seeing), and that Frank had asked him to form his own band. I was given Lowell’s number and gave him a call. I would make the drive to Los Angeles in a few days to meet with him.

Thirty one years later I marvel at how it all came together. In 1968, I had been going to junior college in Santa Maria (in central California), completely unfocused on school work. I spent another half semester in Ventura, a few hours down the coast, where I had grown up, but I knew it was a lost cause before I took my first class. I wanted to join a band and start a career in music. The question was where and how. In December of 1968, I dropped out of school, risking the draft and being sent to Vietnam. Life is filled with choices. My choice: music, led me to living on the streets for the next six months or so in search of the right musical environment.

The first half of the year 1969 I slept in my car, slept on a few beaches in and around Santa Barbara, hitchhiked to Texas to visit a friend of mine in San Antonio (that trip took well over a week), I had my long hair put up inside a cowboy hat I wore to keep from being beaten up-not many people, particularly Texans, took to hippies with long hair in those days. I also made several trips to San Francisco to survey the musical landscape. My home base, where, on occasion, I stayed with friends in various apartments, was Isla Vista. The late sixties was not without fun, keeping in mind, there was the “sexual revolution” going on. All in all, though, those months were chaotic, dismal, and a period of uncertainty I would not have wished on anyone. My sanity was tied to my friends and my music (sneaking on the UCSB campus to practice on their pianos). I had my dreams, talent, and little else to guide me, unfortunately.

On one of my excursions to San Francisco, some former band mates of mine from Santa Maria had a three piece band called the Wedge. They wanted me to join, but with one condition. I was told I had to live on the streets first. I had been living on the streets! I knew it was bullshit, but my warped sense of humor prevailed and I took the test, knowing that when I passed the audition in a couple of weeks or so, (which I did, playing at a Hell’s Angels party with them) I would tell the Wedge to go screw themselves. Which I also did. I was fast developing a raw nerved cynicism, deftly tied to a strong survival instinct. But the pull of San Francisco was very intense.

In looking back, I was searching for nothing less than the center of the musical universe. In the twenties, it was Paris. I thought it resided in San Francisco at the end of the sixties. Why? As a high school student, a couple of years earlier, I had driven up from Santa Maria many times to hear music at the Fillmore on Geary Street and the Avalon Ballroom over on Sutter and Van Ness. In terms of live music, it did not get any better than this. Bill Graham hosted the gigs at the Fillmore and brought in an eclectic mix of blues, folk, jazz, and local bands: Grateful Dead, Quick Silver Messenger Service, Moby Grape, Janice Joplin with Big Brother and the Holding Company, and The Sons Of Champlin. On the blues side, Howlin’ Wolf, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Muddy Waters to name just a few. Charles Loyd quintet with Keith Jarrett crawling around inside the piano, are carved into my memory regarding jazz. Unbelievably great music! The center of the universe was surely here in this sensuous and liberal city. I was heart broken to find I was wrong, or perhaps in the long run I had made a choice that preempted any chance I might have had of finding out whether it was or not.

I was given an opportunity to join a band (that shall remain nameless) in Marin County, shortly after the fiasco with the Wedge. They were nice folks, a beautiful house, I had my own room with a fire place, any musical gear I could ever want, jammed one night with the Sons Of Champlin. Wonderful. But in the end I told them I couldn’t join the group.

Doors slamming in my face

caught in the river the current took me away

to a wilderness of reverence

left me hanging by a thread (Eden’s Wall)

I now found myself with a car that would barely run; I had just told my good friends in the Wedge to go @#$#@ themselves; I had turned down a group that had everything but talent, and I was without a clue as to what to do next. My refusal to compromise in the area of good music led me back to sleeping in a freezing car at night hoping the dawn of the next day would bring something worth pursuing. I was cold, lonely, and scared that I wouldn’t being able to come out of the bleak downward spiral I was being consumed by.

A sign from the Gods. The album, Uncle Meat, by Frank Zappa and the Mothers, was released that spring and I fell in love with it. I had been a huge fan of the Mothers since junior high. (Help!!! I’m a Rock!!!) Uncle Meat had elements of jazz, theater, warped doo wop rock and roll, instrumentals that took you on a roller coaster ride; the record was visually, (an amazing cover with bones and teeth) musically and lyrically completely whacked out. I knew in my heart and bones that that was the music I should be playing. I was back in Isla Vista, the weather was warming up-it was shaping up to be a very hot summer. I was ready to make my move. I placed the fateful call to Bizarre records.

I wandered down from nowhere

was a long time ago

with my images and dreams

my hopes for the best

giving nothing away

nothing yet lost (Eden’s Wall)

As I drove up to Lowell’s house I felt as if I had finally come to a place of refuge. He lived in a small rustic home, shaded by trees, in the Los Feliz area of Los Angeles. The door was wide open, and as I walked up to peer inside I saw a very pretty girl with short blonde hair sitting cross legged in the middle of his living room reading, the sounds of Eric Satie floating out through the door.

I introduced myself and she said Lowell would be back in a few hours, come in and relax.

In his small library and I noticed books of poetry by Carl Sandburg, Dylan Thomas, and Allen Ginsburg. His record collection was graced by the likes of the Fugs, Howlin’ Wolf, The Band, Bob Dylan, The Holly Modal Rounders, and, of course, The Mothers. I didn’t know who Lowell George was, but I admired his taste in women, books, and music.

Hours later when he returned home, I felt I shared a kindred spirit with Lowell. His low key charisma made me feel even more welcomed and at ease than I already was. We talked for hours that night about every subject under the sun. A spinet piano (his mom’s) was against the wall, and we traded musical quotes at each other, he on acoustic guitar, myself on the piano. What struck me most was his humor, his intelligence, and his innate ability to draw connections between disparate topics, musically, or otherwise.

I left the next day with an invitation from Lowell to come back the following week. Frank and the Mothers would be back from Europe in a couple of weeks and he would make the introductions. In the meantime, we could continue getting to know each other and try writing some songs.

I had found safe harbor.

Lowell George, who passed away June 29, 1979, was to become my mentor over the next few critical years, helping me adjust to the vagaries of living in Los Angeles, in particular, the insanities of the music business, and making the initial introductions for me to become a session player.

Lowell’s kind invitation for me to come back to L.A. led to my joining the band Little Feat: who are still carrying on the traditions of performing, writing, trusting the instincts of exploration, conviction, searching for balance and momentum, that, in part, shape an artist and the attendant career, with the twin conditions of seriousness and fun.

In 1986, while playing keyboards with Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band at the Los Angeles Forum, as part of a hundred date tour, I had the opportunity to thank the secretary from Bizarre records who took the time to take my calls, introduce me to Lowell, and gave me the chance I so desperately needed that spring of 1969.

Bill Payne

Los Angeles, February 2000

 

 

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