3 Remembrances of Long John Baldry
I’d like to share three loving remembrances of John. Here they are chronologically:
Somewhere in the immediate neighborhood of 1976 my then-close friend, Ren Patterson, had become involved in some film project. When I saw him he was raving about the talent, Long John Baldry. I had heard of John’s name and reputation, specifically from that Rolling Stones circus film of something, but I hadn’t heard him sing. Ren took out his albums — vinyl then — and we played them all night. Realizing his talent, and the talent he had found and nurtured, I snaked my way to his management team and cut a deal. An aspiring writer, we agreed that in exchange for several in-depth interviews with John during a week of a Canadian tour, I would aggressively pursue the local media and PR folk.
I flew to Toronto and his managers picked me up, as well as a new drummer, Chris, I think. It was slightly after Keith and Anita were arrested supposedly staggering off a plane. It was all we could talk about. We drove to some town in Ontario and checked in to some motel.
About a week later, my last night, in Windsor, above Detroit. The club was jammed. The media had shown up. The opening act was finishing and I was outside, behind the club with John and his band — I think Allen was the guitar player and arranger, there was a bass player whose accent I could not understand, the drummer and two singers (one absolutely gorgeous. The other one palled around with me. She said she grew up with jewish people and felt comfortable around them). The band went on first to warm up the crowd, who needed no warming up. I stood behind a speaker, stage right.
John came on, charmed and cajoled, sang and strummed, finally dismissing the band and putting down his guitar, and then the mike. Placing his heel firmly he established a steady beat. Looking inward he began, Oh Rosie, oh girl. Everyone once in a while you’re lucky enough to be at a performance that sends chills. That was one.
Several years later, John was playing the legendary Bottom Line in Greenwich Village. Aside from a few letters, John and I were pretty much out of touch (how do you stay in touch with a touring musician?). I was waiting in line (there was ALWAYS a line at the Bottom Line) in the cold with my friends when a voice rose over the din — Scott-EY HornSTINE. I looked around, then looked up, and there was John about to give me a hug. He invited me and my date backstage after the show. I was, for a moment, a minor celebrity. This was not lost on my date.
After the show, I started backstage and was immediately belly-bumped by a large bouncer. Before I could say “John” he had me turned around and was frog marching me out. Again, a voice rose over the din — “Oh, Scott-EY’s OK”. We were ushered in where John was recovering and Oswald was pouring white wine. John, ever the gentleman, said, “Scott-EY, I’d like you to meet Steven. Steven, Scott” I shook hands with a curly-haired fellow, slight and slightly shorter than me. We turned and his photographer snapped our picture. Then Steven went over to John, they smiled with an arm around each other, shook hands and their picture was taken. Then Steven and his photographer disappeared. That was Cat Stevens and number two.
Now many years have passed and I am a suit working for The Columbia Record and Tape Club. It’s late at night and I am returning with 2 older colleagues from some trip or another, each of us in our tan trench coat, our bodies lost in fatigue and minds trying to get us the hell out of LaGuardia airport. One of the guys I was with played splinter for the Raiders in his prime. His fingers stuck out in all crazy angles. The other was trying on alcoholism as a career move. When we spoke, music was never a topic.
We were coming down a long empty hallway when an impossibly loud, deep, alistair cooke voice said — “Scott-EY?” “Scott-EY Horn-STINE?”
So here we are, three drab business guys with briefcases and suiters, dragging our beige asses. Then here is John, in cowboy boots, leather pants, a suede jacket and colored shirt, long hair, beard and a hat with a feather that is dusting the ceiling. Next to his is Oswald, who defies description on his calmer days. This was not one of his calmer days. And that was number three.
