Red - My Uncensored Life In Rock Part 2

4.

MONTROSE.

Twelve o'clock in the afternoon, in a full-blown David Bowie outfit-high heels, makeup, glitter, nine yards-I drove over to Sausalito in my beat-up Chevy van with my Les Paul to meet Ronnie Montrose.

I'd first seen the flashy guitarist only a week or so before, when I went to catch the Edgar Winter Band at Winterland in San Francisco in spring 1973 with the rest of the guys from the Justice Brothers, who were there to see Tower of Power, also on the bill. It was a rare night off from the Wharf Rat, and I was all glittered up. I wanted to see Edgar Winter, because he was glitter rock. That was all I needed to know. I didn't know who Ronnie Montrose was, even though he'd already been recording with Van Morrison, but I'd seen him on TV and I dug his moves. He had this little thing where he crouched down with his Les Paul and he spun in a circle, leaning on one foot. He went around and around. He didn't get tangled up in his cord. It was a pretty good move. I was impressed.

The next day I'd started hammering the guys in the band, telling them that's the kind of guitar player we should have. We already weren't getting along that good, but everybody wanted to keep the steady job. I'd talked about it with John Blakeley, one of the few guys around town I knew from Riverside, who was in a band called Stoneground, but I didn't even know Winter's guitarist's name.

"That's Ronnie Montrose," Blakeley said. "He lives in Sausalito. That was his last show with Edgar Winter. He's looking for a singer."

And so that was how I ended up knocking on Montrose's door wearing a silver suit and boots. I brought four songs I had written that the Justice Brothers wouldn't do. He plugged me into this little amp he had and I played him "Bad Motor Scooter," "Make It Last," "I Don't Want It," and "One Thing on My Mind." He played me the riff to "Rock the Nation"-that's all he really had. I showed him the lyrics to "s.p.a.ce Station Number 5" and he started playing that riff. We wrote the song together that day.

I thought he was rich. From where I stood, he seemed like he was in the biggest band in the world. They'd sold out arenas and had got a number-one alb.u.m. What did I know? I didn't know the house was a rental. I saw his car outside, a '63 Ford four-door. I thought he was driving a pretty beat-up car, but that didn't faze me. All I knew was that he had just banked an $8,000 royalty check-a fortune, in my eyes.

When Ronnie came to see me at the Wharf Rat, the Justice Brothers were p.i.s.sed off, but they kissed his a.s.s. He walked in all rock-starred-out in a crushed-velvet jacket, big rings on his fingers. After the set, we went outside and he said, "Let's start a band." I quit the Justice Brothers that night. One week later, Nicholson was wearing my exact outfit. He got Betsy to make him the clothes. He's wearing the glitter, the makeup, my whole getup. He's doing my act.

Ronnie asked if I knew any drummers. A while back, I'd sung on a demo tape by this band, Thunderstick. They were very much like Free, totally Paul Rodgers, not very Northern Californiasounding at all. They were very English glitter-rock, but they didn't look it. They were all in jeans and T-s.h.i.+rts. I had the look. They wanted me bad. They didn't have a record deal but they had a record-company guy who was interested but didn't like their singer. I did some demos with them and I was thinking I might go with them, but n.o.body in the Justice Brothers wanted to lose that Wharf Rat gig, not even me. Then I saw Edgar Winter at Winterland. Denny Carma.s.si was the Thunderstick drummer. Denny got the gig, even though we tried out the great British rock drummer Aynsley Dunbar. Ronnie didn't want any compet.i.tion. Ronnie wanted control, so he wanted guys like me, who didn't know anything. We sat down at Studio Instrument Rentals and auditioned a number of ba.s.sists, including Andy Fraser of Free, who turned out to be a complete junkie and never even showed up. We tried Ross Valory, before he joined Journey, and Pete Sears of Jefferson Stars.h.i.+p. Ronnie knew Bill Church from the Van Morrison band and, before that, a little blip of a band, called Sawbuck, that played on some Fillmore bills. Edgar Winter's drummer, Chuck Ruff, also belonged to Sawbuck. Church sat there the whole time, watching us try out all these guys. I kept telling Ronnie I liked Church.

"Yeah, but the guy's kind of an a.s.shole," he said.

I thought he was great. Every time we'd take a break, Church and I would go outside. "Ronnie's such an a.s.shole," he said. "He knows I can play. He knows I should be in this band." Ronnie didn't want to use Church, because they had f.u.c.ked around on each other's old ladies or something like that. Of course, we ended up with him. But Ronnie tortured him for about a week, auditioning other guys.

Ronnie knew Ted Templeman of Warner Bros. Records through Van Morrison. Ted came up and saw us. We rehea.r.s.ed at Studio Instrument Rental maybe three or four times and we had the whole first alb.u.m written. We wanted to be Deep Purple or Led Zeppelin.

"Rock Candy" was the last song we wrote. We had nine songs, one called "Drugs" and another one called "We're Flying," which weren't very good, and we threw those out. Templeman told us we needed one more good song. Denny just started playing that drum beat when Ted was in the room. Ronnie came up with the riff and I just started singing, "You're rock candy, baby." The song just came together. That was the only song that was a band song. All the rest of the songs, either Ronnie or I wrote.

Ted signed us. We went straight into the studio with him and engineer Donn Landee. Everything happened so fast. We moved into the Sheraton Burbank, near the Warner Bros. lot, where all the acts stayed. We had no money. They gave us a $50,000 advance, but we spent $25,000 on equipment. We each took five grand. We kept five grand in the bank. We didn't have a manager. Ronnie was totally in charge.

I got my $5,000. I rented a house for $80 a month in Mill Valley, 37 Montford Street, and I bought a car. Not just any car, of course, but a Citroen Deux Chaveux, the most uncool car on the planet-a French car that looks like a sardine can. I thought it had cla.s.s. I sold my VW to a guy for fifty bucks. The van was so bad that, when I sold it to somebody, it couldn't make it out of the driveway. It was too steep. The guy had to back up in the dirt and get a running start, because it couldn't make it. It was that powerless. The Citroen cost almost three grand. I rented the house and had, like, $1,200 in the bank. I was rich. We made a little session pay making the alb.u.m. I now had a phone. I got my first credit card. I knew the alb.u.m was going to come out and I had written those songs. One cool thing Ronnie did for me was that he had our lawyer set up my own publis.h.i.+ng company, Big Bang Music, so that I could control my publis.h.i.+ng rights.

We were going on tour, so we started interviewing managers. We met with the guys who handled Loggins & Messina. When we met Shep Gordon, who managed Alice Cooper, he was wearing a sarong and sandals and a ratty old T-s.h.i.+rt. At the time, Alice Cooper was a really big star, but, as it turned out, hadn't made a lot of money. Shep explained all this to us. They spent their money making Alice a big star. All the promotion, all the hype, all the marketing.

"Do you guys want to be rich or famous?" he said. "You've kind of got to sacrifice. If you want to be famous like Alice Cooper, you've got to spend a lot of your money on things-big production, big publicists, the big image thing. On the other hand, take a big band like the Doobie Brothers-they're so much richer than Alice Cooper, it's ridiculous."

I'd been in Ted's office and seen an $800,000 royalty check for the Doobie Brothers, who had "Listen to the Music" at that time, which put me on the f.u.c.king moon. Ronnie didn't like Shep. He was too loose and weird for Ronnie, plus he had too many of his own ideas.

Ronnie wanted Dee Anthony, because he handled the J. Geils Band, and Ronnie had toured with them back in the Edgar Winter days. So Dee Anthony became our manager. That was big-time, because he had J. Geils; Humble Pie; Spooky Tooth; Emerson, Lake and Palmer; Joe c.o.c.ker. He had the roster. So we just went out to tour and basically never came home.

Every night we were opening for either Humble Pie, J. Geils, or Peter Frampton-all Dee Anthony acts-and then Black Oak Arkansas and Foghat. We'd get in a station wagon and drive ourselves. We didn't have a tour manager, so Ronnie had put us on $150 a week salary when we started to tour, $10 per diem on the road. He was the one to check us into hotels, and he was a great band leader, at the start.

A lot of the time, we opened for Humble Pie. We didn't go over that great, but we were working or traveling seven nights a week. Sometimes we'd even do a club the same night. We'd open for Humble Pie at the arena, then run over and do an eleven o'clock show at the club to make a little extra money. We had two roadies. They drove the truck with the equipment, and when they got to the place, they'd set it up. Then, during the show, one guy was our lighting guy and the other guy was our stage manager.

We played Detroit, like, every month. We opened for everybody and their dog. About the twelfth time we were playing Detroit, we were opening for Aerosmith at Cobo Hall. They were big there, but nowhere else. It was right after their first alb.u.m. We got a huge encore. Montrose was really starting to get big in Detroit, and we came back to do "Helter Skelter," the Beatles song. It was one of two or three encores we used on our first tour. We would go out and play the first Montrose alb.u.m, come back and play a cover. "Helter Skelter" was one of them. We came offstage, go back to the dressing room, can't wait for these guys we've never heard before go on. Denny and I ran out to the side of the stage. They went out and opened with "Helter Skelter." They didn't know we'd done it.

Opening for all these different bands was a crash course in touring. Humble Pie spent every penny they made on tour. They'd fly Lear jets. Steve Marriott, their lead singer, would come off tour with nothing. They were selling out arenas everywhere. But they lived so high, they were always broke. Steve was such a f.u.c.kup. I loved the guy. He and Peter Wolf from J. Geils were guys that I watched every night when I opened for them. They taught me how to be a front man. I remember one time in Chattanooga, Tennessee. We were sitting in the hotel room of tour accountant Jerry Berg, picking up our $10 per diems on Monday morning, first in line for the weekly payout. Jerry was filling out the paper, sign here, when Steve came busting into his room, f.u.c.ked up in the middle of the day. He'd been up all night doing blow and drinking.

"How much f.u.c.king money we got, mate?" he said.

Jerry started to close his briefcase and Steve punched him in the mouth, grabbed the briefcase, and dashed out the door. Carma.s.si and I just sat there, stunned that we didn't get our per diems. Jerry was bleeding. Steve was gone. He had a limo parked out front.

Berg got on the phone with Dee Anthony, who wanted to know how much money was taken. When Berg told him forty thousand dollars and change, Anthony went nuts, chewing him out. As far as he was concerned, it was all Berg's fault. Marriott didn't show up for the concert that night. We had to cancel and now we were stuck in Tennessee. The next day, pulling into the Holiday Inn parking lot, here comes f.u.c.king Dee Anthony, rolling in like the president, practically with little flags on the car. He gets out, grabs Jerry by the neck, throws him against the wall, and gives him another pounding.

They found Steve in jail. He was arrested with a bunch of drugs, hanging out with some black dudes. He was a soulful little white British boy who wanted to be black and sang like it. They got him out of jail and the tour continued.

About a month later, Steve came up to me in a hotel lobby and said, "Hey, mate, let me borrow your ca.s.sette player." I had a little bulls.h.i.+t ca.s.sette player and headphones and used to walk around with it. Everybody did.

"Uh, no, not really, man," I said. He invited me up to his room anyway.

I went to his room. He's got a suite. He's got a framed picture sitting on his table, covered with a road map of cocaine. At least an ounce. Half of it gone, big chunks missing. He's got a couple of chicks and a couple of other guys hanging out.

"Put your tape recorder down," he said. "Let's f.u.c.king play some music." He pulled out a blues ca.s.sette, John Lee Hooker, something like that. I did a couple of b.u.mps. I'd done c.o.ke twice in my life. The first time, I didn't even realize I'd done it. I didn't feel anything. I didn't realize I was f.u.c.king numb, that my whole face was numb. The s.h.i.+t was that good.

"Hey, man, you got like a hundred-dollar bill or something?" he said.

I pulled a five-dollar bill out of my pocket. He rolled it up, did his blow. I did mine. I see my five bucks sitting there and I'm thinking, "Before I leave, I got to get that." That was the first time I'd ever hung with Steve. He was cool. He didn't give a f.u.c.k. He was completely on the moon all the time. He'd stay up until he pa.s.sed out. He'd do blow until he ran out. He'd spend all of his money, and when he was broke, he'd go earn some more. He'd just live like that, really a reckless guy, but cool. Before long, I had to go. I couldn't take the crazy c.o.ke thing. I had to get my tape recorder and my five bucks and get the f.u.c.k out.

I took the five bucks, unrolled it, and stuck it in my pocket. I went to grab the tape recorder and Steve piped up, "Oh, no, man, you've got to leave the tape recorder," he said. I knew if I left my tape recorder, I'll never see the thing again. But sure enough, I left it. I actually did get it back, like, a week or two later, from some equipment guy who cleaned out his room, but that was the last time I partied with Steve. It just didn't feel good in there.

One night we were off in Atlanta. Montrose used to play this club, Poor Richard's, but this time they had a blues band with Willie Dixon, the guy that wrote all those Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf songs. Steve had a limo. I waited for him to get offstage. We jumped in his limo and he poured me a Courvoisier and handed me a quaalude. I didn't drink and I didn't do drugs, but off we go to the club. Steve wanted to jam. We walked in, sat down at a table. I started getting dizzy. I was f.u.c.ked up. Steve went up and talked to the band. They said okay and he looked at me. "Come on, man," he said.

He jumped up onstage. Richard's had a stage that was about two feet high, right about knee level. I went walking up. I walked right into the f.u.c.king stage and fell flat on my face and pa.s.sed out. Next thing I know, I woke up in my hotel room, going, "What the f.u.c.k happened?"

THESE WERE DAYS of growth and learning for me. I was searching in life. I was reading the Alan Watts book of growth and learning for me. I was searching in life. I was reading the Alan Watts book This Is It This Is It. I was reading books by the mystic mathematician Ouspensky-A New Model of the Universe, The Fourth Way, and and Tertium Organum Tertium Organum. I was reading Einstein's Theory of Relativity. I was totally uneducated. I was in a rock-and-roll band, one of the lowest things on the planet, but I had these great big ideas. I wanted something and I couldn't help thinking about it.

One night I freaked out Ronnie. Very seldom did Ronnie and I share a room. This night we found ourselves in the same hotel room in Atlanta, Georgia, and Ronnie was anxious about the band. "This isn't really working for us," he said. "We're not making it. We're in the hole. We're losing money. I don't know what we're going to do. What's your idea? What do you want to do?"

I laid the whole thing on him that I laid on Nicholson and the boys. I was glittered up in Montrose. I was s.h.i.+ny. I was satin, velvet, rhinestones, and platform boots. Betsy was still tightening me up with my clothes, making really nice things.

"I think we need to really step it up," I said. I told him we should get really s.h.i.+ny, put on a big show. "Let's get some backing from Dee Anthony or Warner Bros., and throw this big production together. Like Alice Cooper-let's put on a show. Then when we go out and open for these bands, we'll blow them off the stage and we'll make it."

I went on for probably an hour, and then I heard a click, click, the light went out. He didn't even respond. I'd laid the whole thing on him, stuff that I'd been thinking about for months. And he turned out the light. The next day, everything had changed. It was over. He wouldn't even include me in the conversations with the other band members. the light went out. He didn't even respond. I'd laid the whole thing on him, stuff that I'd been thinking about for months. And he turned out the light. The next day, everything had changed. It was over. He wouldn't even include me in the conversations with the other band members.

Ronnie wanted to be a rough-and-tough jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt guy, don't talk to the audience, never smile. He had a lot of anger inside of him. He could have been in Metallica or something like that today. He shut me out. I started feeling real insecure. At sound check, he would play with Denny and not be concerned about what I wanted to do. He was hurting my feelings.

The first Montrose record never made the charts. It made Bubbling Under one week, but it never graduated to the actual Billboard Billboard alb.u.m charts. By the time the tour was over, we had sold eighty thousand records. I went into Dee Anthony's office in New York and said, "Hey, Dee, Ted Templeman told me we've sold eighty thousand records." He picked up the phone and calls up the booking agency-I'm sitting there, watching him do this-and he said, "Frank, these guys sold eighty thousand records. Let's start asking for seven-fifty, maybe a thousand dollars." alb.u.m charts. By the time the tour was over, we had sold eighty thousand records. I went into Dee Anthony's office in New York and said, "Hey, Dee, Ted Templeman told me we've sold eighty thousand records." He picked up the phone and calls up the booking agency-I'm sitting there, watching him do this-and he said, "Frank, these guys sold eighty thousand records. Let's start asking for seven-fifty, maybe a thousand dollars."

It just sold slowly, but it sold. We didn't have a big Top 40 hit when we came out, but FM was picking up "s.p.a.ce Station" and "Rock Candy." It's still never been on the charts, but the first Montrose alb.u.m has sold more than 4 million records over the years. "Rock Candy" is like a standard for bands like Def Leppard or the Cult. Over the years, anybody who wants to jam with me wants to jam "Rock Candy"-Chad Smith, Joe Satriani, Matt Sorum, Slash. Lemmy from Motorhead came up to me at a show in England, and what did Lemmy say? "f.u.c.king 'Rock Candy,' mate."

It is in the bible-it's scripture.

By the time we came off that tour, we had all sorts of money issues. About a month into the tour, all that per diem stuff became sporadic, and when we came out of the first tour, we were owed ten weeks' back pay. Dee Anthony had helped us out a little bit, but not much. We ran out of money on the road. We got stranded in a Holiday Inn in Little Rock, Arkansas, and we couldn't get out because Ronnie's card was maxed. They called the cops and made us sit in the f.u.c.king hotel. We called Dee Anthony and he finally gave them a credit card over the phone.

We were making $500 a night and it was costing about $600 a night to tour. We were dying. Without getting paid, my home phone was shut off. Betsy was back on Montfort Street in Mill Valley with Aaron, sitting there freaking out, not able to talk to me. It had made the latter part of the tour miserable.

When we came off the road to do a second record, Denny and I went into this little studio I had in the bas.e.m.e.nt and wrote a bunch of songs. I wrote "Call My Name," "Someone Out There," and a handful of songs that ended up on my first solo alb.u.m, Nine on a Ten Scale Nine on a Ten Scale. I wrote them for Montrose, but Ronnie didn't want to even hear them. He wanted producer Templeman to find outside material. We cowrote three songs. "Paper Money" was some of my best lyrics yet, a little political commentary on consumer society. Even Templeman wondered what Ronnie was doing. He insisted on being named coproducer with Templeman and he was in the booth, saying he wanted things to sound this way and that way.

After that conversation in Atlanta, he totally shut me out, held me back, and pushed me down. He did not want me taking over that band. I didn't want to run his band, but I was looking to make it. I thought I had a great idea for that band. It might not have been the right idea. I can't say Ronnie was totally wrong. But he got so insecure about it that he broke up a great writing relations.h.i.+p. He could have nurtured me. Those were my first songs.

Looking back at my life, I can't call anything a mistake. I've had nothing but great success, and really in a nice chronological pacing that brought me to where I am today. If I'd experienced huge success in Montrose, I wouldn't be here today, doing this. It's all been little steps that have kept opening my mind. I would have stopped growing a long time ago if it hadn't been for Ronnie and guys like him. Knowing that makes it hard to be p.i.s.sed at him now. But, at the time, I was going, "That motherf.u.c.ker."

While all this was going on with Montrose, my marriage was really on the rocks. My wife, Betsy, was losing it. In spite of her breakdown after Aaron's birth, I didn't realize just how serious her psychological problems were. She was incredibly needy and I liked the way that made me feel. The first time I'd smoked dope around her, she couldn't handle it, but I'd held her and felt very compa.s.sionate, like I could help this person. That made me feel very manly. But then, when I was on the road, Betsy would not let me get off the phone until she fell asleep. I'd have to sit there for hours after a show. She'd say things like "I took Aaron over to Lori's house. I had to take Aaron over there because I'm depressed and I'm freaking out and I'm afraid." I thought she might kill herself.

Lori was Denny Carma.s.si's wife. They didn't have kids, but Lori was a real solid lady, very strong. I dealt with this every night. I would be on the phone. I would spend every penny I had on hotel phone bills. I cared about her. I was concerned about my kid. But I was focused elsewhere. I was determined that I was going to stay in that band. I was going to make it happen. That was very tough for me. She made life hard for me.

I sent Betsy down to stay with my sister Bobbi, who'd helped her after Aaron was born. My sister practically raised Aaron, because Betsy was always depressed and crying. She would get to the point where she couldn't get out of bed. When I came home, she'd be happy, but soon she would be accusing me of f.u.c.king around, and start her "When are you going to get out of this business?" line of questioning. I told her when I have a hundred thousand dollars in the bank, I'll quit, enough money to start another business.

When the band started doing a little better, I told her she could come out on the road with me. Ronnie had a firm rule against wives on tour, but I told him I didn't have a choice. The first time we went to England, she borrowed money from her parents and flew to England on her own. Aaron stayed with my sister Bobbi. Betsy traveled by train and met up with me in hotels and didn't even go to the gigs. She busted her a.s.s to be with me. She was insanely jealous. A girl would look at me and she'd turn beet-red and attack her. For such a humble, meek little mouse, she could be very aggressive. If a good-looking woman walked in front of me with Betsy, I'd have to look down. She'd watch my eyes, everything I did. My childhood sweetheart, my virgin bride, who I never gave reason to worry. Not at first, anyway.

It was rough, because Montrose basically went out for two and a half years and never came back. We would come home for a couple of days or a week, then head down to L.A. into the recording studio, and then back out on the road.

That's when that whole promiscuity thing with me started, and it just got worse and worse through my time with Montrose. I was trying to be good to Betsy. I'd feel guilty if I was with a chick. I wouldn't sleep with them overnight. Mostly I would just let them give me a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b. I didn't think that was cheating. I thought that as long as I didn't f.u.c.k them, that's not having an affair. Then I decided as long as I don't f.u.c.k them twice, it's not an affair.

I had all these little rules and I was trying to be a good guy. I was probably the best guy in the world for about two years. In those days, at every gig, outside of the hotel, hanging around backstage, in the dressing room, on the side of the stage, everywhere you went in our little world, there were groupies. They were dolled up and they were there for the band. Whatever you want. You want to get your d.i.c.k sucked? You want to see them eat each other's p.u.s.s.y? You want to f.u.c.k them? You want to take them on tour? That's what they were there for. Some of them good-looking, some of them not, but always dressed up to the t.i.ts with a lot of makeup. They s.h.i.+ned themselves up good.

It was so available. I'm a s.e.xual person, so coming off a stage, being up there, playing the rock star for thirty-five minutes, if I saw a woman that really tweaked me, I couldn't resist. It was not an easy thing for me to deal with. I think it destroyed my marriage more than anything. I had to lie so much and I'm not a liar. I'd rather tell you the truth and deal with it. Otherwise you wind up with so many things to deal with that when you see that person coming, your stomach starts churning.

The Warner Bros. Music Tour was the beginning of the end. Montrose, Bonnaroo, Little Feat, Graham Central Station, the Doobie Brothers, and Tower of Power-three bands each night, two nights in every city, all across Europe in February 1975. We went by train and we played everywhere. Denny Carma.s.si and I had never been out of the country.

One of Don Pruitt's buddies used to tell me, "Motherf.u.c.kers don't wear clothes on the beach in Europe," and I would always tell Denny this story. So when we finally arrived, we get off the plane and check into our Holiday Inn in Munich, and we go, "Let's go down to the pool." We wanted to see the naked chicks. The hotel had a spa, with an indoor/outdoor pool and a restaurant above. We went in the men's locker room, dropped our drawers, grabbed our towels, wrapped them around us, and headed out for the pool. We went through the turnstile, unwrapped the towels, and went to jump in. We're naked. Both of us. Some German guy started yelling, "Nein! Nein! Nein!" "Nein! Nein! Nein!" We were walking, buck naked, turned around and looked up. People having lunch in the restaurant were looking down at us. They ran us out of there hard. The guy chewed us out in German. We didn't know what the f.u.c.k he was saying, but he was definitely going off on us. I felt like the dumbest a.s.shole that ever lived. I went back to my room and wouldn't leave. We were walking, buck naked, turned around and looked up. People having lunch in the restaurant were looking down at us. They ran us out of there hard. The guy chewed us out in German. We didn't know what the f.u.c.k he was saying, but he was definitely going off on us. I felt like the dumbest a.s.shole that ever lived. I went back to my room and wouldn't leave.

In Europe, Ronnie wouldn't talk to me. Montrose headlined some shows. Other nights, we would open for the other bands, like the Doobie Brothers. We opened for Little Feat in Amsterdam and got booed off the stage by the third song. People started whistling in the middle of our songs. That really destroyed Ronnie. He decided it was over. I could see it in his head. He wanted to break up the band. I knew it. I heard him talking to Denny.

"Heavy metal's done," he said. "We're in the wrong kind of band. We need to get out of this."

Warner Bros. was paying us, like, $250 a week and all expenses. I was making more money than I'd ever made yet in Montrose. I got this great review in Belgium. It had a picture of me in the newspaper the next morning. It was in Dutch, but it was a positive review about me, what a great front man, a new star, and all that bulls.h.i.+t. That was it for Ronnie.

We went to Paris the next day. On the trip, I got food poisoning from some mussels I ate in Belgium and was violently sick, puking and s.h.i.+tting. We had sold out two nights at the Olympia Theater-Montrose was big in France-and it was the last tango in Paris, the final night of the Warner Bros. Music Tour. We pulled up outside the theater. An old pal from the Humble Pie road crew, Mick Brigden, was driving us. Ronnie was in the front seat. I was sitting in back with Denny and Alan Fitzgerald, our second ba.s.s player, because Ronnie had fired Church before the second alb.u.m. Ronnie turned around to talk to me.

"After tonight, I'm quitting the band. What are you going to do?" he said.

I was sick, edgy, and ready to punch the guy in the face. "I'm going to start another f.u.c.king band. What the f.u.c.k do you think I'm going to do?"

He reached back and shook my hand. "Okay, good luck," he said. He didn't even look at me onstage. I was sick. I couldn't sing. I was weak. It was a horrible ending.

The next day, on the plane on the way home, I talked to Denny about starting another band. A week later, Ronnie called him and the other guys and told them he was going to keep Montrose together and get a new singer. It was totally premeditated. He had it all figured out. Our record deal was up, and he had already told Ted Templeman that he wanted to renew the record contract and that he was getting a new singer. They were going to re-sign for a lot more money.

I got home from that tour with nothing in my pocket, no money in the bank. My wife was freaking out and I had nothing going on, nothing coming up. I didn't think I could make my next month's rent. But almost immediately, a publis.h.i.+ng royalty check from the first Montrose alb.u.m, for $5,100, showed up in the mail. I had no record deal. I had no way to make a living, except for playing music. I knew I was going to be okay, but I didn't have it set in stone. So I went out and I bought a $5,000 Porsche.

5.

THE RED ROCKER.

As soon as I got home from being fired, I walked into my sister's house and went straight to the phone. Betsy had come over to Europe again and Bobbi had been taking care of Aaron. I went straight from the airport to her house. I picked up the phone and called Dee Anthony and told him Ronnie fired me. "Hold on," he said. "Don't be dropping no bomb on me. I've got to look into this. You guys owe me a lot of money." I never heard from Dee again.

Jerry Berg, who was Dee Anthony's tour manager, always liked me. When I told him I needed a manager, he quit his job to manage me. He was a first-cla.s.s guy, smart, always well dressed. He handled the money and I thought he had his business down. He seemed like a good business guy, but he really didn't know what he was doing managing a band. Dee Anthony had been doing everything and keeping Jerry in the dark.

I was on my last nickel. I went over and stood in line and started collecting unemployment again. I was considering going back on welfare, too, because I had a baby. My house rent in Mill Valley was more than $200 a month, which, in those days, was a lot of money-way more than I was able to make in a month. I was f.u.c.king down and out, brother. People in San Francisco thought I was a big star. They figured these guys headlined Winterland. I would have thought we'd made it, too. But I didn't have any money.

I took an old mattress that I picked up off the side of the road and put it up against the wall in my bas.e.m.e.nt for soundproofing. I started writing. Went down there with a guitar and an amp and a little ca.s.sette recorder, and I just f.u.c.king recorded. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Bill Church was immediately on board, because he hated Ronnie for firing him from Montrose. When Denny couldn't come over anymore, I started getting his little brother, Billy Carma.s.si. I had this slide player, Glenn Campbell, from a band called Juicy Lucy. He'd played around Riverside before moving to England, and was fresh off the Mad Dogs and Englishmen Tour with Joe c.o.c.ker and Leon Russell.

All I knew how to do in those days was what I'd done with Montrose. That was the start of my solo years. I just knew how to be Montrose without Ronnie. I was playing guitar and singing. I was really driven to write my own songs and go out and tour until I made it. I didn't think about hits.

The first guy I called was Ted Templeman. The Warner Bros. staff producer, who made the two Montrose alb.u.ms, was the only person I knew in the record business. He declined to sign me as a solo artist, but Ted did give me a couple of thousand dollars to demo out some songs. I went into Wally Heider's Studio and cut "Silver Lights," a couple of other songs that I'd written for Montrose, and a couple of the new songs. Jerry and I went down to KSAN, the San Francisco FM rock radio station, and thank G.o.d for radio stations like that in those days. They played my five-song demo-put it right on the air. I didn't even have the songs copyrighted, but it didn't matter anyway. John Carter was out there somewhere and heard it.

Carter, known universally by his last name only, was a San Franciscobased A&R man for Capitol Records, who had written "Incense and Peppermints" and "That Acapulco Gold" and a couple of other goofy songs, but I don't think he had produced anything at that point. He called and said he wanted to sign me to Capitol Records. About the same time, he signed Bob Seger. That's when Carter went through the roof at Capitol. He went on to do the Tina Turner comeback, Private Dancer, Private Dancer, and then signed the Motels. Carter had some really interesting ideas. The fact that he signed me, and that I've had such a long career, shows his insight, because I never actually had any success on Capitol. and then signed the Motels. Carter had some really interesting ideas. The fact that he signed me, and that I've had such a long career, shows his insight, because I never actually had any success on Capitol.

We cut the first alb.u.m at the Record Plant in Sausalito. One day I saw Bill Wyman of the Rolling Stones recording stuff for his Monkey Grip Monkey Grip solo alb.u.m. I'm f.u.c.king starstruck. I went up and introduced myself. solo alb.u.m. I'm f.u.c.king starstruck. I went up and introduced myself.

"I'm from Montrose," I told him. "We did one of your songs, 'Connection.'"

"Brilliant, mate," he said and walked off.

The Plant was a crazy scene. I was coming in at ten o'clock at night and working until six or seven in the morning-the cheapest time I could get. There were so many drugs around there, it was unbelievable. One night I walked in and the guy at the front desk was doing nitrous oxide. The engineer that Carter hired was also doing nitrous while he mixed the alb.u.m. He took one song called "All American" and, while I was gone, had everybody overdub. He doubled everything. He doubled the ba.s.s, doubled the drums. He put two twenty-four-tracks together. He played it for me the next day. It was out of sync and wobbled. As if the nitrous weren't enough, these guys had been on a two-day c.o.ke/weed run. I threw it out.

One day I was heading out of the studio when I heard someone buzzing at the door. The receptionist on nitrous was nowhere to be found, so I buzzed the guy at the door in. It was Van Morrison.

"f.u.c.king drug addicts," he muttered as he walked past the reception area. I chased after him.

"Van, I'm Sammy Hagar," I said. "I'm doing a record with John Carter"-he knew Carter-"do you have any songs?"

"Like what?" he said.

"Like 'Into the Mystic,'" I said. It was my favorite Van song.

"Follow me," he said.

He picked an acoustic guitar and we went into a little tiny room. He played me "Flamingoes Fly." Giving it up-not like going through the motions. Eyes closed, singing the f.u.c.k out of it. I'm goose-b.u.mped. This guy's my hero, my favorite songwriter at the time-him and John Lennon, they were the guys I wanted to write like.

He told me he would come back the next day and make a recording of the song for me. I was jacked out of my brain. When I told Carter, he went nuts.

When Van Morrison came back the next day, he was in a different mood. He went in, without a click track, sat down at a microphone, played acoustic guitar, and sang the song for a demo. This time, he couldn't have cared less. He knocked it off and split. But Carter gets a bright idea. We have Jimmy Hodder from Steely Dan overdub drums, Bill Church overdub the ba.s.s (he'd played with Van before), and me singing, and put together this track like it's a duet with me and Van Morrison.