After decades of loving Dion Di Mucci, I was invited by his manager to see him reunite with the Belmonts at Radio City Music Hall in ‘87. As a card-carrying member of Dion’s fan club, back in 1961, I’d hustle home from Northridge Jr. High to catch his suave glory on American Bandstand. I gave him a copy of my first book, and he was as kind and charming as humanly possible. I got to hang out with him for awhile, and I still never miss Dion play. I went all the way to New Jersey last fall, and wept through my favorite song, Love Came to Me just like it was 1961 all over again. I’ve also made the Dion pilgrimage, walking the hallowed streets of the Bronx. It took 40 years, but I did finally meet Paul McCartney. After I handed him my first book, he raised those oh so famous eyebrows and asked nervously, “We haven’t met before, have we?” I'd met John Lennon, Keith Moon introduced us, in the middle of his Lost Weekend, and it turned into “Pamela John, John Pamela,” staring at me like he was not very interested. I met the flirtatious Mr. George Harrison three times, but as much as I enjoyed his seductive attention, I’ve always left married men alone.
I attended a bash to celebrate Dylan’s 50th year on the planet, along with a few of his friends, including all of the Traveling Wilburys. That glorious Malibu afternoon turned out to be right up there as one of the best days in my life. At one point, Patti d'Arbanville and I were sitting under an umbrella with Bob and George Harrison when the quiet Beatle asked Dylan if he‘d read my book I’m With the Band, adding, “I’m not in it – unfortunately…” In that British accent! If that wasn’t enough, George introduced me the mechanic fellow he’d brought along to the party, “He works with engines the way you and I work with words.” you and I?! Great God Almighty! Call me an old flowerchild, but I believe we are all someone’s hero at one time or another – even if it’s just for one day. We recognize ourselves in our heroes, and by adoring our them, we’re adoring ourselves.
A little later, Bob Dylan motioned me over to him, took a little piece of paper from his wallet and asked for my phone number, “Maybe we could write together on something. A screenplay maybe.” How does one respond to such an unexpected offer? “Sure, that would be swell.” A few weeks later, I was invited backstage after Dylan’s gig, a rare occurrence indeed. He opened his arms wide as I walked in, exclaiming “I read your book cover-to-cover, and you’re a good writer!” I’ve said many times that I could have died happily at that moment. It’s a cliché but I swear to Buddha, all the clocks in the world stopped ticking. Dylan is my favorite musical hero.
The Earl Carroll Theater in 1967 across from the Hollywood Palladium was where I climbed a rickety ladder to a dark and dusty loft above the Doors stage where I made out wildly with Jim Morrison. And it involved a dangerous short-lived drug called Trimar. When Jim Morrison suggested the Trimar stuff might “hurt our heads,” I paid attention and that’s probably why my gray matter still functions. I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. One of God's greatest gifts to rock and roll was that guy's face. He was so gorgeous, everything about him was just perfect. The 60s was a very special time. All of a sudden women could express themselves sexually, freely. Much more than now. I had never kissed anyone while high before and it was a revelation, it felt like we melted into each other! Later we drove all around Hollywood and on our way to Tiny Naylor's on La Brea, Jim Morrison grabbed my bottle of Trimar, and threw it out the window into a yard full of overgrown ivy. 'Now we won't be tempted,' he said. We had nut bread and fresh orange juice while the sun came up. He told me the persona he put forward onstage was an elaborate act, and he really wanted to be noticed as a poet. After some heavy necking, he climbed from behind the wheel and said, 'I really want to see you again, darling, come here and see me or call anytime.'
That was the only time I had my hands on Jim Morrison. I never went all the way with him, although I know we would have if Pamela wouldn't have interrupted us. He turned out to be very much a one-woman man. As far as I know, he spent the rest of his life with Pamela Courson, and their relationship was of the stormy nature, but I guess he loved her madly. I didn't dare return to his house on Laurel Canyon after Pamela ordered me out. The last time I saw him was right before he left for Paris. I was walking down La Cienega. Jim was on the other side of the street, driving a convertible, and he turned left into the Benihana parking lot, stopping me dead in my tracks. He told me how nice it was to see me again and how pretty I looked. He took my hand and kissed it; then he backed into the honking traffic and careened down the street." —"I'm with the Band: Confessions of a Groupie" (2005) by Pamela Des Barres
-Tony Funches (Jim Morrison’s bodyguard): Keep him out of trouble? Yes. Drinking too much? Generally no. He wasn’t so constantly wasted that he couldn’t stick up for himself. There were times I observed some hoity-toity schmuck (male or female) observe, “Oh! Jim Morrison! Do something weird, Jim” as in “thrill me you fool!” He would then ‘read’ them and regurgitate back to them that which they uniquely feared the most about themselves. He was truly a magnificent guy, really. They took him for a lightweight because of the image, press coverage and such. They should have looked closer and witnessed the genius. I did and I’m no Rhodes Scholar. I never saw the guy start any trouble with anybody. But in terms of everyday activities, he was extremely polite to everyone, soft spoken, shy, and incredibly generous. The man tipped service extravagantly, even very rude service. I witnessed this numerous times, especially on a road trip from LA to San Francisco. We encountered a rude, bitter old waitress who didn’t approve of hippies or blacks. When Jim left a $50 tip, she came running out of the restaurant, demanding to know why. Jim replied, “For such great service.” You should see that woman's face expression, it was priceless.
-Tony Funches: The power brokers and radio jocks set him off with their bullshit, but he was the nicest guy on the planet with the faceless crowd. It would really take a book to tell that part. Has he been portrayed accurately by the media? Fuck, no! That Lizard King bullshit was dreamed up by some marketing idiot. Jim never really subscribed to it but did allow others to see it that way if they wished. Again, much of that sex-god image was contrived by others and Jim went along because they babbled that it was good for the band and record sales, etc. He couldn’t have given a shit about all that crap.
-Frank Lisciandro: What about his relationship with Pamela?
-Tony Funches: Jim didn’t really feel close to any other living human being, maybe with the exception of Pamela. She passed for whatever closeness his kind of loner could connect with. He knew she really cared for the real person. As much as his intellect could fathom that recognition, he loved her. The rest of the band usually had their wives along on the tours, but we all dreaded Pamela attempting to show up. Like fingernails on the blackboard. She drove Jim up the wall and consequently the rest of us as well. She was definitely high maintenance and could be very critical of Jim as performer. Jim wasn’t a clotheshorse, and I’m pretty sure Pam bought whatever clothes he carted around with him.
-Frank Lisciandro: Did he ever discuss how he felt about being famous? Was he comfortable with having a rock star image or is it true he was more interested in pursuing poetry/film?
-Tony Funches: The latter is true. He could not stand the media circus and phony assholes populating that hemisphere of indulgence.
-Frank Lisciandro: Do you think his problem with alcoholism escalated because he had a hard time dealing with his success?
-Tony Funches: Yes. Again, I repeat many of the assholes that crawled out from under the slime would cause extreme reactions from anyone! That Jim’s genius allowed him to tolerate them is testament to how irritating they were in the first place. —"Jim Morrison: Friends Gathered Together" (2014) by Frank Lisciandro
-Steve Katz: When I first met Lou Reed, he was doing epic amounts of speed. His drug of choice was methamphetamine hydrochloride, the brand name Desoxyn. He was losing weight and his shaking hands got worse, he shook like a leaf. I was curious as to what Desoxyn felt like. One day, I asked Lou to leave me a pill before he left. Taking a break from my daily weed regimen, I swallowed half of it. I couldn’t get to sleep nor could I properly form a chord on my guitar or press the play button on my tape deck. My wife had to change the channels on the TV. I was a zombie. My first thought was, “How does he do this shit?” Lou was probably too intelligent for his own good, but he could be one of the funniest people I had ever known, a refreshing change from the studio guys in boring old Blood, Sweat & Tears. Lou respected that I was a musician and that we had a shared history in the New York underground, even if the Blues Project had been abjectly terrified of the Velvet Underground. During the summer of 1973, Lou and I started spending more time together. Most of the time, I was able to see beyond the arrogance and the drugs and I learned that much of what Lou did was an act. His questionable bisexuality during this period also lent him a mystique that he himself helped foster, but I knew that when you took that much speed, you probably couldn’t even get an erection. In a perverse way, it probably caused his relationships to be less threatening, but the illusion certainly fed his fans and critics alike. —Blood, Sweat, and My Rock 'n' Roll Years (2015) by Steve Katz
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