“Tex [Watson] guided the Ford up steep Cielo Drive, passing housing scattered at short intervals along the way. Besides its narrow width and tight curves, there was the additional pressure of keeping a wary eye for deer that ventured out to graze after dark. At the very top of the hill Tex stopped in front of the closed electronic gate and told the women to wait. From that vantage point, none of them could actually see the house or the guest cottage behind it. Grabbing the bolt cutters as Charlie [Manson] had instructed, Tex nimbly climbed a telephone pole and snipped the wires connecting to the main house and guest cottage. Then he backed the car down the hill, a tricky maneuver he managed without a hitch, and led the women back up on foot. Tex tucked the .22 in his pants and slung a coil of three-ply white rope over his shoulder…”
- Jeff Guinn, Manson: The Life and Times of Charles Manson
The late 60s – you might have heard – were a rather tumultuous time in American history. A controversial president held office, while an unpopular war raged in Vietnam. There was racial upheaval and mass demonstrations, riots in the streets and National Guardsmen on college campuses. As Americans dropped bombs in Southeast Asia, other Americans planted bombs in courthouses and federal buildings. In this fraught period where violence lingered in the very air, a counterculture promoting peace through sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll sprang up in California, drawing idealists, the curious, and the lost.
It was in this context that Charles Manson, a nobody from nowhere, who’d spent much of his life in various correctional institutions, arrived in Los Angeles with dreams of becoming a rock star. As Jeff Guinn succinctly notes in his Manson: The Life and Times of Charles Manson, Charlie was “the wrong man in the right place at the right time.” A penny-ante philosopher with overhyped charisma, Manson was able to gather a group of followers – called “the Family” – who raided dumpsters for food, regularly used LSD to expand their minds, engaged in orchestrated orgies, and believed in a coming race war. Living on an old western movie lot called the Spahn Ranch, they were smalltime criminals mostly dealing in stolen automobiles.
Then, over the course of two nights – August 8-9, 1969 – members of the Family brutally murdered seven people, including the actress Sharon Tate and coffee heiress Abigail Folger. Thanks in part to an ambitious prosecutor – who played up the wildest aspects of the event – the slayings became one of the most infamous crimes in American history.
With such over-the-top material, it helps to have a no-nonsense guide such as Guinn. His Manson is a sturdy, studiously old-fashioned biography, with no frills or flourishes. Aside from a brief opening chapter that has Charlie clubbing with three Hollywood friends, this is a strictly chronological tale, one that begins with Charlie’s birth, and ends with him firmly ensconced in a well-deserved prison cell (this was published in 2013, before Manson’s death). As is typical in Guinn’s other books, Manson is deeply researched – with extremely enlightening explanatory notes – and is based in part on his own interviews with willing participants. Unfortunately, Charlie himself refused to discuss the book with Guinn, though as Guinn rightly notes, he probably would not have added much.
Because Charlie was such an unexceptional person, the early going of this book is rather slow (which is a typical shortcoming of the chronological approach, where you sacrifice momentum for methodical thoroughness). Guinn dutifully lays out his background, including sketches of his hyper-religious grandmother and his ne’er-do-well mother, who was clearly rebelling against that hyper-religiosity. From an early age, Charlie proved to be a low-grade problem child, manipulative and glib. As he grew older, he gradually ratcheted up his felonious instincts, though he was such a hapless outlaw that he was invariably caught quite quickly no matter the escapade.
Manson really clicks into gear when Charlie is released from a California prison and wanders into the hippie scene, where he immediately began preying on the vulnerable seekers – many from solid middle-class homes – who were looking for an answer to a question they had not fully formed.
Guinn has carved himself a pretty good career detailing the lives of charismatic criminals with a demythologizing rigor. Recently, I read his book on Jim Jones, The Road to Jonestown, which detailed the sad arc of the Peoples Temple from a church fighting for civil rights, to a broken community in Guyana downing cups of Flavor Aid dosed with cyanide. As I read Manson, I found it impossible not to see the parallels between the two men (who might both be titled “cult leaders”). While Jones – unlike Charlie – started with good intentions before veering off the rails, both provided a refuge to vulnerable men and women looking to belong. In an often unfriendly and unwelcoming world, both the Peoples Temple and the Family provided an attractive axis in which to orient one’s life, imbuing members with meaning and purpose. The fact that Manson’s core belief was insane – in particular, his theory of “Helter Skelter,” an apocalyptic race war in which the Family was going to survive by finding a special hole in the desert – is almost beside the point.
Perhaps the most interesting aspect of Manson is Guinn’s attention to Charlie’s rock star dreams. After Charlie’s notoriously homicidal turn, many of his LA acquaintances made pointed efforts to distance themselves from him. However, as Guinn shows, Charlie had an extremely close relationship with Beach Boys member Dennis Wilson. During the course of this “friendship,” Charlie showed Wilson his songs, got studio time, and even auditioned for successful producer Terry Melcher (who at one point rented the house at Cielo Drive in which Tate eventually was murdered). By the time Charlie ordered the Family to venture forth and kill, those musical ambitions had been dashed once and for all, and Charlie’s hold on the Family was loosening. In Guinn’s telling, cult leaders are like sharks in that they have to keep moving or die. Having made a bunch of bold, unfulfilled promises – including that he was about to become as famous as The Beatles – Charlie’s grip was loosening. Seen in this light, the Tate-LaBianca murders become less about igniting a war between blacks and whites, and more about re-exerting his authority.
My hardcover version of Mansion checks in at exactly 399-pages of text. Approximately forty percent of that length is devoted to the Tate-LaBianca murders, the ensuing investigation, and the trial of five members of the Family: Charles “Tex” Watson; Patricia Krenwinkel; Leslie Van Houten; Susan Atkins; and Charlie himself. Frankly, while Guinn does a fine job streamlining this material, this simply can’t compare to Prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi’s insider account, Helter Skelter. Despite having its own problems, Helter Skelter is extremely thorough, extremely detailed, and one of the bestselling true crime books of all time. Guinn cannot hope to compare, and rightly, does not really make the attempt.
The true value of Manson is in putting Charlie in proper perspective. For all his attributes as a lawyer – and he was a good one – Bugliosi’s decision to play up the “Helter Skelter” angle in Charlie’s trial assured him a lasting place in the criminal pantheon. Bugliosi essentially based the entire conspiracy on the notion that Charlie could control and direct the wills of his followers. In doing so, Bugliosi imbued Charlie with near-mystical attributes. He might as well have built a marble statue of the guy. Because of Bugliosi – who attempted to parlay his fame into elected office – Charles Manson achieved an unfortunate immortality.
While Bugliosi and Helter Skelter turned Charlie into a monster for the ages, Guinn’s Manson does just the opposite. By methodically detailing the arc of Charlie’s life, we see that he was not especially smart, or clever, or talented, or special. He was a blunt object, a destroyer, who managed to exploit a very particular moment in American life. It may be that we will always remember Charles Manson, but Guinn helpfully reminds us that in a better world, we would forget he ever existed at all.