A Deadhead comrade, knowing my interest in Robert Greenfield (see my Tim Leary, Bear, co-John Perry Barlow and Dark Star GR takes; I'll seek out STP's reissue Stones Touring Party), recommended this epic bio, prepared just prior to Bill Graham's sudden death. It's brash, bold, astoundingly vivid.
It's Bill himself, interspersed with his family, friends, colleagues, and even a few of the inevitable enemies he picked up in his peripatetic career. Of course, his childhood escape by Kindertransport is foregrounded, but the blur rather than precision he can conjure up only highlights the tragedy he and his kinfolk suffered before, during, and after the Shoah.
His stint in the displaced Jewish children's camp as if in a pet shop awaiting adoption in upstate NY is poignant; his foster parents and brother emerge gradually as sympathetic; his Korean war horror fades; his waiter's manic shifts in the Catskills spark his penchant for Latin dance, affairs, clandestine meal service for gamblers and sailors: an innate talent for giving hungry night owls noisy satisfaction while making an honest, solid profit. Hard-nosed businessmen aren't sexy, necessary not always evil.
Interesting that the bicoastal business rush entered his mad routine early. Driving between NYC and California from his first delivery of a car and golf clubs for Buddy Hackett. Bill in his savvy knew how to cash in connections from serving celebrities, while remaining a "mensch" deaf to fawning or begging; San Francisco ties, through a survivor sister, established in the Fifties continental itineraries, in advance of louche beats let alone stoned rich kids. His energy for more than one kind of mad drive makes me wonder when he slept. He didn't find his muse, revenue + longevity, into his mid-thirties.
It took him until 1965 to grab his groundbreaking chance. His looks stymied his acting ambition. His lucrative waiter job in Beverly Hills clashed with his East Coast personality. SF Mime Troupe's prissy political pretense grated. After successful fundraisers for trustafarian thespians, he perceived how cash could be spewed by doe-eyed, eager recruits to the counterculture: his sly hippie enlightenment.
He managed to fend off Acid Test excesses, instill hard-nosed NY control over West Coast naivete, and to impose commonsense rather than addled babble about communal anarchy. Irritating the sour ilk of Ken Kesey, yet it's likely nobody else could have run the Fillmore and perpetuated a profitable market. And to set up a system (pre-Clear Channel Live Nation) divvying up revenue, ensuring "classic" rock.
As rivals from Family Dog/ Diggers/ Avalon venue and pal Pete Townshend agree, Graham's hustling, streetwise innovations for hosting concerts rewarded fans with quality, rather than Murray the K's tired cavalcade of R+B, blues, and pop acts. Bill's discipline fended off freeloaders. His cocky eagle eye watched how flush ticket buyers might part with higher admission fees in exchange for enjoyment. Bill enabled endurance of a genre long after the 1965-67 explosion and drug-blamed implosion in SF.
He's compassionate about Janis Joplin's loneliness, charitable about funding worthy causes (well, with a few radical chic exceptions cynically manipulating white liberal guilt, in my opinion), and decent about keeping his side of bargains with his clients. Capitalist, but no socialist could have sustained the nascent "electric ballroom" otherwise prey to unscrupulous promoters or chemically altered radicals.
Installing house sound, filling barrels with free apples while skimping on Coke cups to ice ratios, one-dollar Tuesdays, the Fillmore East: Graham's relentless pursuit of perfection models in these details his genius. Considering his drug intake stayed wisely low, adrenaline must have sustained his knack.
Admittedly this narrative's about triple what I anticipated, albeit granted that the subject's engrossing for me. (I started grade school during the fading Summer of Love, so my perspective's always skewed tardy and peripheral.) I avoid rosy-tinted romanticizations, but '60s idealism, naivete, and clashes of reality with fantasy engineered by (as debutante instigator Grace Slick chortles) well-off (she should talk) mostly and "well-educated" coteries snags. Which leaves Graham's blunt credibility a mitzvah.
Second half, after Woodstock and Altamont harsh the mellow, pivot to the corporate mentality as Bill and competitors circle the talent pool, swim with major label sharks, and nab easy prey in the seats. I didn't find this stretch as charming, but it's naturally necessary to chart the rise of what we endure today as the iron grip upon the stage curtain, the scalpers, the surcharges, the merch, the megatours.
Rather than a scrappy Dead or Allman Brothers, it's too soon jetset Stones '72, and a chilling assault by Peter Grant, John Bonham, and Led Zep's thugs hammering the blows against peace. Fillmores and later Winterland succumb to the suits when sponsorships shove aside stickball schemers. A coddled caliber of CSN+Y, say, learned mornings after if Bill's booking, they'd grab a thinner cut. That margin afforded a nice ambiance, enticing crowds, so payoff went into his pocket, if ultimately pleasing '70s frenzied arena audiences. Graham's ego matched these stoned superstars: barbed words exchanged, making for fun anecdotes, tall tales, and mobster banter, if unfit for sensitive non-Bronx-reared ears.
"All my life, I've felt that musicians and artists have looked at me with an attitude. Which is that they get up every day and create and I am not like them. I am someone who uses creative people to my own ends. Whereas all I am ever trying to do is create on my own by putting what they have created out there for others to hear and see and enjoy." If Bill hadn't helmed the endless U.S. tour era, who else?
Yet his relentless push for this success detracted from his marriages. AWOL for births of his two boys. I was curious if Bill could step off the bandwagon, or juggernaut, he commanded. Hypertension by his forties over the Last Waltz, Apocalypse Now, and baseball parks supplanting grim "concrete factories" (auditorium, rink, convention center) took a toll. Didn't he have a downshift gear? Perpetual motion...
Superdomes for the 80's Stones, as football's complexes and t-shirt royalties follow, but homespun humbled Janis or sexy Otis Redding's hard-earned tricks to reward fans are missed in this logo-busy shuffle of hundreds of thousands of boogie fever mobs and coke-headed heavies. Graham's at the top of the pack, yet the massive planning and nationwide logistics distance us and him from Borscht Belt straight-talk, as Jagger's pomposity mirrors a craven mendacity far surpassing Graham's satisfaction.
Eerily as he protests (I borrow the Ramones') "Bonzo Goes to Bitburg" and then hears arsonists have immolated his SF office and memorabilia, one senses a 1985 premonition of his 1991 fate, as violence and erasure pursue him, still a refugee, among those who boast of antisemitism, at peak performance.
He deserves a shout-out. Live-Aid, Amnesty Intl efforts worked ok. And the Soviet Peace Committee, dubious though it sounds. One for NYC crack addicts didn't, another for the fiftieth anniversary of the Golden Gate Bridge never launched. However, Sting, Springsteen, Peter Gabriel, or Carlos Santana by the MTV generation can't generate the same inherent attraction as their feckless, spacy predecessors.
Verdict? I can't fault the project. Greenfield rarely enters the proceedings. He lets the gabby garrulous primed movers and shimmy shakers strut. It's arguably overkill in its stomp, but crucial in archiving this Aquarian paradigm, Apollonian apogee, and its Dionysian hangover which hasn't worn off for us.