Chapter Four

RKO Theater, New York, NY

Six months earlier – March 26, 1967, about 3:00 AM

Sitting backstage, I was mesmerized as The Who’s Keith Moon jackhammered his drums as if he was possessed. Pete Townshend slashed at guitar strings like the Demon Barber of Fleet Street with a guitar pick in hand in place of a straight razor. Seconds later, Townshend spun the guitar in the air before driving it into the stage floor like a logger wielding an axe. The audience was bombed, either blitzed on booze or stoned on weed, reveling in the havoc taking place on stage before them. John Entwistle plucked bazooka charges on the bass, and Roger Daltrey screamed like a banshee set afire. Security rushed the stage. Didn’t know what to do. The Who ignored them. And the band played on, running amok, their unchoreographed mayhem continuing unbridled. I’d never seen The Who play live—to date, no one in America had seen the British band in the flesh. Seeing them up close, I felt lightning bolts of electricity coursing through my veins.

Exhausted and still panting minutes later, Townshend took one last glimpse at the shimmering silver backdrop curtain before reluctantly heading offstage. The audience was still lit and on fire, chanting, “More! More! More!” It killed Townshend to leave them wanting, but the group had been told in no uncertain terms to play the set list and clear the stage for the next act. The card was full, not full but jampacked. Murray the K’s Music in the Fifth Dimension Extravaganzawas sold out and featured well-known names as well as rising stars, The Who, Cream, Simon and Garfunkel, Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels, the Rascals, Blues Project, and the Blues Magoos.

John Dazzle, the stage manager, had just handed me Eric Clapton’s guitar to be tuned for Cream’s performance when he saw Townshend hesitating as he crossed the backstage area on his way to the dressing rooms. “Take good care of it, Sonny,” Dazzle said. “I hear this Clapton fella is a real fanatic.” His eyes were still following Townshend, who stopped and looked as if he was about to call out to his bandmates before they disappeared from sight. Dazzle knew what was coming, and his job was to put the kibosh on Townshend’s plan, stop that shit dead cold before the band stole back onstage. He could see that The Who’s lead guitarist was aching for an encore to give the fans more of the music they were dying to hear.

“Leave ‘em hungry,” Dazzle said with a heavy hand on Townshend’s shoulder. Dazzle was a dapper-looking gent with coiffed gray hair and a deep tan. He wore a checkered sports coat he likely swiped from a used car salesman. “Seven top acts, five shows a day for nine days…believe you me, young Mr. Townshend, the fans will get their money’s worth and then some. Murray will make sure they do.”

Townshend was tall and lanky with long brown hair. He leaned in, embarrassed to be overheard. “It’s our first gig stateside, mate. We need to show ’em everything we’ve got.”

“Oh? And you think recreating the Battle of the Bulge didn’t leave an impression? I’m surprised you didn’t roll a cruiser tank on stage.”

“Is it really gonna kill you to let us do one more quick little number?”

“Murray was clear about that. No encores. No extras. No nothing. You and your bandmates are alright enough, but some of these established acts make a hell of a lot of demands: the size of their dressing rooms and how the bar is stocked. It goes on and on. They want their asses kissed, powdered, and pampered before they’ll ever consider performing, and they don’t want to be upstaged by a bunch of kids out of…?” His thought derailed, and he angled his head, directing Townshend’s gaze toward a group of go-go dancers, lined up in a row and ready to take the stage. The troop leader’s eyes were on the DJ as he dropped the needle on a spinning 45 and the intro to “These Boots Are Made for Walking” roared over the PA system. Nancy Sinatra’s voice filled the auditorium as the mini-skirted showgirls took the stage. Heels thundering, the house lights bounced off their white patent leather go-go boots with enough intensity to cause snow blindness.

“Now, that’s hot,” Townshend said. “That lead dancer in particular.”

“Avert your eyes, lad,” Dazzle said. “That’s Murray’s wife, Jackie, heading up that chorus line, and he’s insanely jealous. He catches you eyeballing his lady, and your set time will get cut in half. Those gals don’t get pushed back for nobody.”

“Uncool, man. I’m not stupid. Jackie of Jackie and the K Girls is the big boss’s bird. Message received. What’s K stand for anyway, king? He’s running this bleeding event like a damn tyrant.”

“It stands for Kaufman,” Dazzle said. “Her name is Jackie Hayes, but she goes by Jackie the K.” He cloaked his mouth. “Between you and me, king is more appropriate than Kaufman. In the world of rock ‘n roll, Murray and Jackie are royalty, and you’d be smart not to forget it.”

“He’s treating us like we’re all indentured servants,” Townshend said. “He don’t even let us leave the theater between sets. We’re all going stark raving mad. It’s absolute chaos backstage. Everyone pulling pranks on one another just to cut the boredom.”

“No shit. Tell your drummer if he flushes another M-80 down the john, I’m gonna drag him all the way to the airport and kick his lily-white ass back across the pond.”

“My mate’s just having a little fun. If we wanted to be barked at by a drill sergeant, we would’ve joined the bleedin’ British Army.”

“England still got an army back in…where did you tell me you were from anyway?” he asked, his earlier thought careening back onto the rails.

“Shepherd’s Bush, mate, and yeah, we’ve still got an army, a goddamn good one. What’s so bleedin’ hard to remember?”

“Townshend, you get to my age and things don’t stick the first time around. Maybe not even the second. I need to hear things a few times before I remember them, so don’t take it personally. Now, your name? That’s easy because I know what you look like. Townshend, I think, that’s the tall skinny Brit with the big schnoz.”

Townshend’s middle finger sprang erect like a loose plank stepped on at the wrong end.

“Anyway, that’s in London, right? Shepherd’s Bush?”

Townshend nodded.

“Like I said, I’m sorry, kid, but everyone wants the stage, and if I let you back out there, I’ll have to let everyone do an encore, and we’ll be here until the 4th of July.”

Townshend shrugged. “What’s the 4th of July, the day after the 3rd of July?”

Dazzle shook his head. “Cut the cheeky shit, Townshend. You fucking Brits—suck it up for God’s sake. You lost, we won, and Independence Day marks the day we showed your puny nation the door. End of story. Anyway, five shows a day, you’ll get plenty of face time with the audience. Take a well-earned rest and save some energy for the chickadees.”

“Don’t you worry, mate. I’ve had more than my fair share of lusty birds.”

“Trust me, limey, you haven’t been laid until you’ve bumped uglies with an eighteen-year-old Bronx chick. They’re a whole ’nother species. Ten minutes and you’ll swear off every girl in Shepherd’s Pie.”

“That’s Bush.” “Say what?”

“Bush. Shepherd’s Bush.” Angry, Townshend shook his head, then abruptly dropped on one knee and clasped his hands dramatically. “One song. Come on, one bloody song. Three minutes and we’re off. Who’s up next, anyway?”

“Cream just arrived, finally. Travel delays. They’ve been in the air all night.” Townshend’s plea died a sudden death. “Fuck me—Clapton’s up?”

“Came straight here from JFK. You should see how he’s dressed, shiny pink checkered pants, permed hair—very sedate.”

“That’s Eric, changes his look as often as his socks.”

Dazzle chuckled. “Says the man wearing a tailored British flag after smashing a Telecaster on stage. You buy guitars in bulk or something? Isn’t an instrument supposed to be a work of art? Something to be cherished. I mean—”

Townshend cut his eyes at Dazzle. “It’s rock and roll, man. Image is everything. The fans want aggressive, I give them aggressive. They want art they can pony up their hard-earned money and buy tickets to the Philharmonic.”

“Yeah, but pink pants? He afraid he won’t be noticed?”

“Trust me, Eric Clapton doesn’t have to be seen to be noticed. He can stand backstage behind the curtain, and everyone will know it’s him. No one can cover his licks because he never plays anything the same way twice. He’s a genuine improvisational genius. Once he starts wailing on his—” Townshend glanced around the backstage area to see if he could spot his friend. “What’s he playing tonight?”

Dazzle looked around and pointed to me. “See that baby-faced guitar technician, sitting on a drummer’s stool with his ear to the neck of a black Gibson Les Paul?” Dazzle’s comment didn’t bother me. If it wasn’t for my long sideburns, I’d look as if I hadn’t reached puberty.

Townshend zeroed in on me. “Should’ve recognized it—I love that fucking guitar.” “That one gonna get smashed to bits too?” Dazzle asked.

“No, man, that’s my thing, not Eric’s. He doesn’t have to. Are you telling me you’ve never heard him play?”

“I’ve heard some of The Yardbirds tracks, but they change guitarists as often as I change my jockey shorts. I’m never sure who’s playing lead.”

“Never heard Cream before they appeared on the lineup tonight?”

“Their cover of Willie Dixon’s ‘Spoonful’ is pretty tasty. I dig it and all, but I can’t say I lose my mind over it.”

“Dig it? That’s Eric playing with both hands tied behind his back. If he leaves it all out on the stage tonight you’re going to see girl’s white knickers sailing through the air like a flock of bleedin’ seagulls.”

“Yeah? Look, I’m from Missouri.”

Townshend smirked. “Where the hell is that?”

Dazzle flashed a playful backhand. “Get the hell out of here, will ya? Clapton’s drummer has a monster double-bass kit, and we’ve got to swap his for Moon’s before they can go on, Marshall and Fender stacks too. All you Brit rockers lug them big ass amps around with you, or just the ones from Shepherd’s Bush?”

Townshend shook his head and trudged off.

“Don’t take it personally,” Dazzle said, “That’s the music biz—take it or leave it.”

Chapter Five

As he walked backstage, Townshend couldn’t help but stop to check out the black Les Paul he so admired. I was still tuning it, playing subtle licks at low volume and paused to adjust the tune. He listened to me play a sweet riff and smiled at the soulful and beautifully sustained notes. He applauded softly, then turned up the volume knob on the Fender amp.

“Holy shit, you’re—” I said.

“A rocker, mate, just like you.”

“I was told to keep the amp turned down.”

The thunder of the audience stomping their feet was building as they waited for Cream to take the stage. “No worries, mate,” Townshend said. “You’ve got an entire music-starved auditorium just dying for rock and roll. Once all those high-kicking girlies are off the stage, no one’s gonna bitch about some sweet notes sailing through the air. And that riff you just played, that was magic. Nothing like I’d play but juicy all the same. You’re playing the blues, but your sense of timing, it sounds Latin, and I don’t hear a lot of vibrato. That kind of music move you, mate?”

I nodded and tapped my heart. “Duende,” I said.

Townshend was given pause, then his eyes gleamed knowingly. “Ahh. I get it. It touches you. Is that it?”

“Exactly. The passion. I feel it.”

“You do any gigging?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a band, but they’re back home in Florida. I came here—”

“Because New York is the scene,” Townshend said, “and Florida is where the early bird special is the high point of the day.”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Play something else. Give me some more of those smoldering Latin trills.”

Pausing to compose my thoughts, I switched gears and launched into an incendiary rant that sent Townshend back on his heels. I fired notes off the guitar like boulders from a medieval catapult, hitting grace tones, hammering up to higher notes, then back down the scale.

“Now that’s me,” Townshend said. “That’s fucking me. Trying to impress me, are you?” He reached for the guitar, rested his foot on a stool, and played with the Gibson resting on the meaty portion of his leg. He mimicked what I just played, stripping out some of the Latin flavor and adding power chords, bright and brassy.

“Hey, that’s—”

“Familiar? Yeah, mate, I bloody-well hope so.” Townshend said, his glance taunting me.

Recognizing the chord, I nodded. Townshend’s signature lick was immediately familiar.

“I use it a lot. Been fooling around with it as an intro to something I’m fiddling around with, a song about a blind kid playing pinball, if you can believe it. Got a long way to go on it yet.” Townshend rolled his neck. “The point being you can hear the difference. What you played was great, fresh, bold. But I just made it my own. Thanks, lad,” he said with a sly wink.

“Hey, are you ripping me off?”

“That’s how it works, m’boy—you hear something, give it a tweak, and bang it out for all it’s worth. Besides, if I play your guitar riff on stage…Well, young sir, you should be damn well honored.” He smiled warmly. “Say, mate, you got a name?” Townshend asked.

“Sonny,” I said, beyond thrilled to be acknowledged by the British rock star. “Sonny Rojas.”

Chapter Six

Two hours later

Standing in the wings, I was awestruck. The electricity banging out of the amps ran right through my body, setting it ablaze. Hearing Cream live was like the first time a girl let me go all the way. Their music was raw, frenzied, insane, and culminated in an explosive finale. The volume blasting from the amplifier stacks was deafening, and each song featured an extended guitar solo. It was nothing like the two-minute songs I heard on the radio. Hearing Cream on vinyl was great, but live…? It was like rock and roll on steroids, orgasmic, and I couldn’t get enough. Ginger Baker pounded the drum kit like King Kong beating his chest after snatching a fighter plane out of the air from atop the Empire State Building. And while Jack Bruce plucked bass notes with the ferocity of an artillery gunner, Clapton launched into one frenzied guitar solo after another. He was fast, fast as hell, but it wasn’t about the speed. It was the melodies he peeled off, one riff transitioning into the next, then the next, then the next, effortlessly, seamlessly…endlessly, not one bad note, not one. It was as if he was channeling the blues straight from heaven, his Gibson guitar the antenna pulling harmonies out of the air. They played seven songs with extended jams and opened with a soon-to-be-released single they called “Sunshine of Your Love.” I’d never heard anything like it before. Bruce’s raw vocals, Baker’s tribal beats, and Clapton’s volatile guitar—standing offstage, I realized I was about twenty feet from heaven. Nothing I’d ever heard before was as awesome or inspiring.

They finished with “Toad,” which was nothing more than a thinly veiled vehicle for Ginger Baker’s drum solo. The man was a force of nature, a wild man with each hand and foot moving independently, hammering out rhythms with the accuracy of a Swiss watch while somehow tethering Bruce and Clapton to the beat, rooting the song forward from beginning to end. I was emotionally spent by the time they walked off the stage. Clapton handed me the Gibson as he walked by. He was about three strides past me when he turned around.

“Say, is your name Sonny?” Clapton asked with a distinctive British accent. He was dripping sweat, his shirt soaked through and through, yet had no difficulty managing a warm smile.

I nodded, like a puppy eager for a treat. He extended his hand. Holy shit. Holy-fucking-shit. This was Eric Clapton after all, who had been the lead guitarist for The Yardbirds and John Mayall’s Blues Breakers before joining Bruce and Baker to form Cream. He was the guitarist British fans were calling God, a man idolized by every rock-and-roll fan around the globe. And he’s about to shake my hand.

“Pete Townshend said you’re good. So good he nicked one of your riffs. Is that right?”

All I could do was shrug. I mean, who was I to rat out Pete Townshend, me, a nineteen-year-old kid from Florida who had to bum a ride off a traveling vacuum salesman to get from Florida to New York? I had thirty-six dollars in my wallet, an all-time high. “I guess.”

“He does it all the time,” Clapton said. “We all do to some extent. You nick a riff here, a riff there, and spin it in a way that’s a bit different. You know, change the tempo, break off into a different scale. It all comes from the same place, southern blues, guys like Muddy Waters and ‘Big’ Bill Broonzy, Robert Johnson, and T-Bone Walker. One day you’ll do the same thing.” I could see that he was tired, but he remained good-natured. “We’re going to breakfast, then up to my place to jam for a bit. Care to join us?”

Me, have breakfast with him? I was so excited I practically peed myself. I’d just been invited to breakfast by Eric-fucking-Clapton. At that moment, someone left through the backstage door, and I could see it was already growing light outside. “S-sure. You mean…now?”

“Yeah, mate. I’m going to hit the loo first and have a bit of a wash up, but yeah. I’ve got a loft nearby. Do you wanna come over and jam? I’ve got amplifiers up there, a nice bit of equipment.”

I’m gonna jam with Clapton? Oh my God, somebody snap a Polaroid. “Shoot, I don’t have my guitar.”

He smiled ear-to-ear. “You’re not intimidated, are you?” 

“Uh-yeah. I mean—”

“You’re not auditioning for the Royal Academy of Music, Sonny,” he said in a fatherly tone. “Just a bunch of guys playing music. I’ve got a Gibson SG at my place you can use. Bring the Les Paul.” Placing his hand on my shoulder, he said, “This is the way it works, Sonny. We spot talent, and we bring it into the fold.” He checked his watch. “You good, then?”

“Yeah, I’m great.”

“Be back in a tick,” he said. “We’ll stop along the way and pick up Jimi.” 

He turned, leaving me with a blank stare on my face.

Jimmy, I thought. Who’s Jimmy?