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The Bandit of Kabul. Jerry Beisler
Читать онлайн.Название The Bandit of Kabul
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isbn 9781587902659
Автор произведения Jerry Beisler
Издательство Ingram
On our second morning in Varanasi we were awakened by the incredible stench of death wafting into our room from the street. As I craned my neck to peer out the window I discovered what the horrible smell was — a corpse lying below our window. I notified the hotel manager who said he would bring in the “corpse brigade” as quickly as possible to remedy the situation. And in fact, it wasn’t too long until a cart with other corpses arrived below our window. We watched the scene, unable to pull ourselves away. The men tried to throw the corpse on top of the pile on an overloaded cart. There were already so many corpses piled on the cart that ours rolled off – twice. Ah, here now we witness the unique style of Indian problem solving. Ingeniously, a fresh corpse was removed from the cart and left under our window making room for the decaying one that was taken away. A clever solution, it was explained, since the one that was left behind was fresh and wouldn’t smell so bad. “Our” corpse found its place on the top of the stack and the cart rumbled off, over the cobblestones, on its way to the burning ghats. Our gawking presence at the window looking down on the drama was acknowledged by the brigade leader with a wave of his hand and a promise for their quick return to collect the new corpse and deliver it to the burning ghats, “this very night” … and so they did.
Aside from the strange attraction of the death trade in Varanasi, another attraction was that cannabis shops were legal in the city. Plenty of hippies were hanging around, smoking chillums and wandering down to the burning ghats to listen to the skulls pop.
Hindu Varanasi embraces a highly spiritual Buddhist corner. We visited Sarnath, home of Deer Park where the Dharma was first preached by Buddha to five monks. We visited the Sadhu parks and watched the chillums constantly passed among the mendicants. Rickshaw was the only form of transportation available. A quarter of a million drivers had official operator’s licenses. Our driver guided us to shops offering masala chai, tasty curries and cool, refreshing lassis, the traditional yogurt drink made more interesting by the addition of an edible form of cannabis and known as bhang – one sip was much too foreign to our western taste buds.
I began hiring a boat, daily, and we were rowed across the mile-wide Ganges. We’d stop and I’d take a brief swim in the middle of the river where the water was clear and green. After crossing we would have a picnic on the remarkably barren shore considering the overpopulated crowded city on the opposite side. As we ate and relaxed it was with great pleasure that we listened to the resonant gongs, lilting bells and hypnotic chants drifting across the holy waters from a multitude of spiritual temples. Our simple, inexpensive pleasure came to an abrupt halt when I swam into a corpse.
Chapter Four
“We have found these clothes, this time and place, this personality. If we go toward the light and praise others, it comes pouring back.”
RUMI
CALIFORNIA, SUMMER OF 1971
My journey with Rebecca to Asia started with a reconnection to a musician I’d gotten to know in Chicago. Jelly Roll Troy was a bass player who had been on the road making a living as a musician since he was 14 years old. Jelly Roll played with a teenage sensation, one-hit-wonder group called the Kallaen Twins. The handsome brothers, riding their good looks and radio airplay, appeared on “Dick Clark’s Cavalcade of Stars Tours” with Chuck Berry, Johnny Rivers and the Rhonettes. Now in his early twenties, Jelly Roll had relocated to the San Francisco Bay Area to be part of Mike Bloomfield’s blues band. Bloomfield was creating his solo band in the wake of his artistic fame with Bob Dylan and the Paul Butterfield Blues Band.
I caught up with Jelly on his way to jam with Jerry Garcia and Howard Wales at the Matrix Club one Monday night in San Francisco. The set was loosey-goosey but innovative and accomplished. Roger Troy, his birth name, sang a namesake blues cover, “Jelly Jelly,” in a powerful yet angelic gospel-flavored, white blues voice. He used his voice as an instrument displaying the broad range the blues needs to be emotionally flavored just right. The song received a standing ovation from the crowded club. Wales was making his musical living as a member of a relocated-from-the-midwest blues band known as A.B. Skhy. They had big money and promotion behind them. Because of that, A.B. Skhy had appeared on a number of desirable big-time gigs. For me it meant backstage passes for the seminal British stars, The Who, at the Fillmore. Unfortunately for A.B. Skhy, they attempted to leave their blues roots for psychedelic experimentation on their first big budget, major label album. It was instantly unsuccessful musically and financially.
Howard Wales was the keyboard player in A.B. Skhy and put together a small budget for a solo album to be the first release by a new label known as Douglas Records. Jelly Roll Troy invited me to check out a session. The other players setting up their instruments when we got there were Curly Cook on guitar, Jerry Garcia from the Grateful Dead on lead guitar and a guy who was introduced to me as Bill Vitt, on drums. All these connections led me to enjoy being on the fringe of what came to be called the “Wales/ Garcia” album. I started hanging around, enjoying the artistic process as it unfolded, whenever I could.
The financial underpinnings of the project came from some truly gourmet marijuana that was shipped into the United States in ham tins. When opened, the tins emitted the hiss of a sealed container and out wafted the beautiful bouquet of the colitas inside.
Wales and Garcia were pushing the musical envelope in each session. It was thrilling to hear the collaborative, artistic stretch into electronica, fusion, blues and even Stockhausen. The limited budget, unfortunately, did not allow for a continuous roll of recording tape so many magical and spontaneous moments were lost.
It was also fascinating to hear Jelly Roll’s tales from the road, working for a family organization, like the Kallaen Twins were, and have those tales overlapped and intertwined by Garcia’s fascinating stories. Garcia had also been on the road at fifteen with a family outfit, some cousins who played bluegrass. Howard Wales, too, was a road veteran and had played behind some Motown acts. Howard had also played a memorable organ part on what was the Dead’s signature tune, “Truckin’.” Wales added his off-beat and acerbic wit to the road stories.
The deal and musical direction were Wales’ idea and Garcia praised him, on more than one occasion, for his tones and abilities. In turn, Wales would chide Garcia about the quality of his sidemen and mock the Grateful Dead’s occasionally out-of-tune musical renditions. A number of times I heard him pointedly wonder if the Dead’s rhythm guitarist, Bobby Weir, could perform anything other than “chinca, chinca.” The concept of the album was loose and free-form with a lot of tokin’, jokin’ and frequent-food-breaks kind of musical fun for the engineers, roadies and happy fringe few.
One afternoon, the art for their album cover, created by Abdul Mati, was brought to the studio. Abdul Mati had done a dramatic LP cover for the Eric Clapton/Stevie Winwood English super group called Blind Faith featuring a naked, young girl holding a model airplane. Mati had created a naked young girl, holding nothing, for the Wales/Garcia album.
Everybody in attendance wondered aloud if the representation was too young, as the model for the art work appeared to be, as Wales said, “Only about twelve years old.”
Garcia liked the artistic effort if not the concept or the subject.
The road-hardened and Americana expert, Jelly Roll said, “In the southern U.S. they call that young stuff … ‘hooter roll.’ Which led to a recording-free afternoon of tales, jokes and tokes.
“Hooteroll” stuck as the album’s title.
The first desire of all musical groups is a problem-free sound system and dependable transportation. Rabid Rakow was so-called because of his ultra-wired high energy and his big deal-a-minute business propositions. He constantly worked on both and snapped photos of the musicians in between the proposals. Rakow’s main, grand scheme was to have the Grateful Dead own a corporate-style fleet of cars. The plan was to have one car for each player, manager and the sound crew. Rakow found a used car lot full of old Hertz rental cars and bought six. Five were for the Dead and one was for himself for putting the deal