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John and Michelle and I went to St. Thomas for a little R&R - paradise. Then, back to New York. Freezing. Hop. Back to St Thomas, with ten hippie fellow-travelers, motorcycles, tents, instruments, cats, dogs and kids. Acid, surf, sun and sand, "rum and coca cola" - then ... Oops - American Express card cut in two for lack of payment. So, John gets us a gig playing in a place called The Duffy's of St. Thomas in Creeque Alley where he finally got a better idea! "Dennis, we've got to go electric or we're going to die." Great idea, John. |
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Now, Duffy's was a hotel, until John talked him into turning it into a nightclub. So, we gutted the place,
nailed burlap to every flat surface in sight and were rehearsing in the sail loft for the grand reopening
of Duffy's and our rock and roll debut. Island-sized flat rock, except... Under normal - I emphasize normal - circumstances I would never have considered going after my best friend's wife - it would be in terribly bad taste but . . . endless acid-filled days . . . splashing together in the surf with very few clothes on . . . the azure blue waters of the Caribbean lapping over her nubile young body . . . a stolen kiss and . . . |
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Cass showed up and unlike what it says in the song, nobody "knew she'd come eventually". She just appeared.
With a vial of acid in her bag and a gigantic smile on her face - ready to join the group - but John said her
voice wasn't high enough for his arrangements and, "Dennis, her eyes are too close together." "What"? It couldn't
have had anything to do with the fact that she weighed three hundred pounds. So, comes opening night of Duffy's. Cass is waiting tables and singing along in a voice that's so loud you can hear her from the stage. And she sounded great.
And John says: "Yeah, she sounds great now, that's because she's got those three extra notes on the top of her range
since she got hit on the head that time." "What?" And, maybe after that John might have let her sing along, but we'll never know because Duffy's was closed down opening night. Well, it seems the Fire Marshall thought that the eight hundred yards of burlap we'd nailed up with the lovely little candles we had burning on the tables equated to something close to napalm. So, Cass left the islands thinking John wouldn't hire her and I wouldn't fight for her. But it didn't matter, in a couple of weeks the Governor of the island told us all to be off by sundown anyway. But Cass was the only one with the foresight to buy a round trip ticket. She got back to New York and kept right on going to LA. |
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We couldn't leave. We were broke. So, we had to sell the ten hippie fellow-travelers, motorcycles, tents,
instruments, cats, dogs and kids. OK, not the kids, but we did sell everything which gave us enough cash to get
us to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Chanson, Chanson, Chanson By the time we got back to New York the city was empty. Everybody we knew had gone west and most of them had records on the charts. We got a U drive, a '61 Cadillac limo that needed to be delivered to San Francisco. We had seven days to do the drive. We made it in three - eating speed like candy the whole way. Mitch and I in the front seat playing footsies ... John's in the back writing Straight Shooter |
Next - Cass to the rescue . . . . | |