Chapter Eight 7 страница

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I packed all my stuff up at the Wick when Ronnie Wood emigrated for tax reasons to America that year, 1976. We couldn't go back to Cheyne Walk because of the twenty-four-hour patrols and the "Oh hello, Keith." If we stayed there, it was with windows closed and curtains closed, a hermetic existence, a real siege, drawn into ourselves. We were just trying to stay alive and stay one step ahead of the law all the time. Always traveling, a phone call in front, can you get needles there? Mundane fucking junkie shit. It was a prison of my own making. We lived for a while at the Ritz Hotel in London until we were forced to flee on account of our room being in need of refurbishment courtesy of Anita. Marlon began going to school for the first time properly, to Hill House, a school where they wore orange uniforms and seemed to spend much time walking in crocodile lines through the streets of London. The boys of Hill House were a London institution, like the Chelsea pensioners. Marlon, needless to say, found this a profound shock, or what he terms in retrospect a "bloody nightmare." At this moment John Phillips, of the disbanded Mamas and Papas, was living in London. He and his new wife, the actress Genevieve Waite, and his small child, Tamerlane, had a house in Glebe Place, Chelsea. And we took refuge there for a time. We moved in. There were already plans to work together, for Rolling Stones Records to produce John's solo album, with Ronnie, Mick, Mick Taylor and me playing on it. Ahmet Ertegun was funding it from Atlantic Records. Good idea too--on paper. John was a great guy, really funny and interesting to work with (although he was nuts). He'd written almost all those songs for the Mamas and others that defined a certain period, some with his ex-wife Michelle Phillips--"California Dreamin'," "Monday, Monday," "San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair)."Phillips was amazing. I've never known anybody to be so hooked on dope so quick, and I had something to do with it. The night Ronnie was leaving the Wick, John had called up and said, I've got a bottle of this stuff called Merck. And he said, does anybody have some use for it? I don't do that stuff. I said I would drop by on my way out of Ronnie's. I left the Wick and went straight to John's joint. We were playing and everything, and he'd shown me the bottle. We were there two or three hours and I said, John, can I use your john? I've got to take a hit. So I went in the john, shot up. I mean, I didn't want to pull it in front of the family or anything like that. And when I came out, John said, what was that you were doing? I said, John, it's called smack. And I did the thing I never, or very rarely, did. I think it was the only time. You don't turn other people on; you keep it to yourself. He'd just given me this cocaine, and I felt, well, you want to know what I'm doing? Here we go. So I shot him up. Just in the muscle. I always felt responsible for John because I turned him on to smack. Within a week, he's got a pharmacy under control and he's become a dealer. I’ve never seen a guy become a junkie that quick. Usually it takes months, sometimes years, for a guy to get hooked hooked hooked. But John, ten days later, he’s running the show. It changed his life. He moved back to New York, and so did I, the following year, when even greater madness took place, but more of that later. The music we played together with Mick and others was released after John's death in 2001, with the title

Pay Pack & Follow.

Anita, Marlon and I moved around. We stayed in Blakes Hotel. We didn't last long there either, so we moved into a rented house in Old Church Streetin Chelsea, recently vacated by Donald Sutherland. It was here, in this house, where Anita really lost it with me. She had become delusional, very paranoid. It was one of her darkest periods and it developed with the dope. Wherever we went, she was convinced that someone had left a stash before doing a runner. She'd take the whole place apart looking for it. The bathroom at the Ritz, sofas, wallpaper, paneling. I remember once I took her in the car and told her to concentrate on the number plates, something mundane to try and calm her, connect her to reality. We made a pact, at her request, that I would never take her to the nuthouse. I like a high-spirited woman. And with Anita, you knew you were taking on a Valkyrie--she who decides who dies in battle. But she went right off the rails, became lethal. Anita had rage whether there was dope or not, but if there was no dope she'd go crazy. Marlon and I used to live in fear of her sometimes, of what she would do to herself, let alone to us. I used to take him downstairs to the kitchen and we'd hunker down and say, wait for Mum to get over it. She was slinging shit about, which might have hit the kid. You'd come back to the house, and the walls were covered in blood or wine. You didn't know what was going to happen next. We would be there just hoping that she'd stay asleep and not wake up in one of her screaming fits, raging at the top of the stairs like Bette Davis, throwing glass objects at you. She was a tough bitch. No, there wasn't a lot of fun for a while with Anita in the middle '70s. She became unbearable. She was a real bitch to me, a bitch to Marlon, she was a bitch to herself. And she knows it, and I'm writing it here in this book. Basically I was looking at how the hell do I get out of there without screwing it up with the kids. I loved her dearly. I don't get that involved with women if I don’t love them dearly. I always feel it's my failure if it doesn't work, if I can't pull it together and make it all right. But with Anita I couldn't make it right. She was unstoppably self-destructive. She was like Hitler; she wanted to take everything down with her. I tried to clean up loads of times, but not Anita. She would go the other way. Any suggestion of it and she would go into rebellion mode and if anything take more. Domestic duties, at this point, were not something she took on gladly. I said, what the fuck am I doing? OK, she's the mother of my children. Swallow it. I loved the woman; I'd do anything. She's got a problem? I'll take over. I'll help out. "Unscrupulous" is not a bad word for her. I don't mind flinging it in her face right now, and she knows it. It's up to her to live with. I just did what I had to do. Anita will still have to wonder how the hell she screwed up. I'd still be with her right now! I'm never one to change, especially with the kids. Anita and I can now sit around at Christmastime with our grandchildren and give each other a bemused smile; hey, you silly old cow, how you doing? Anita is in good shape. She's become a benign spirit. She's a marvelous granny. She's survived. But things could have been better, baby. I sealed myself off much of the time from Anita, or she didn't care to join us in the studio at the top of the house. She spent most of her time in the Donald Sutherland memorial bedroom, which had massive chains hanging from the wall, purely decorative but giving an overall S&M feel to the room. The regulars came by--Stash, Robert Fraser. I was seeing a lot of the Monty Python people at the time, particularly Eric Idle, who used to come up and hang.

It was in this Church Street period that I achieved my longest feat of Merck-assisted wakefulness--a nine-day epic of no sleep. I was still going on the ninth day. I may have had a couple of snoozes, but no more than twenty minutes. I was busy doing my sounds, transferring this to that, making notes, writing songs, and I'd become manic, basically a hermit. But over the nine days lots of people came to visit the cave. Everybody I knew in London at the time dropped by day by day, but to me it was just one long day. They'd been doing other things, whatever they had to do. They'd slept and brushed their teeth and shit, and I'm up there writing songs, reorganizing my sounds and making double copies of everything. This was all on cassette in those days. And then I would get into artistically decorating the labels. The reggae one had a beautiful Lion of Judah. It was into the ninth day and I was still, as far as I was concerned, in fine form. I remember I was going to copy one cassette onto another. I'd got it all down, noted which track, boom, pushed play. I turned around and fell asleep on my feet for three-tenths of a second, then I fell forward and hit the JBL speaker. Which woke me up, but worse than that, I couldn't see a thing. It was just a curtain of blood. There were three steps, I still remember them now, and I managed to miss every one, and I rolled over and fell asleep on the floor. I woke up with an encrusted face, maybe a day later. Eight full days, and on the ninth day, he fell.

The band was waiting for me in Toronto early in 1977. I put off going for many days. They sent me telegrams: "Where are you?" We had a gig at the El Mocambo, which would provide more tracks for our Love You Live album. We needed some days of rehearsal. I couldn't, apparently, extract myself from the rituals of Old Church Street. And I had to get Anita on the road too, which was just as difficult. But finally we flew there on February 24. The gigs--two nights at the club--were scheduled for ten days later. I took a hit on the airplane and somehow the spoon ended up in Anita's pocket. They found nothing on me at the airport, but they found the spoon on Anita and busted her. Then they bided their time. They went to great effort to prepare the big bust of me in the Harbour Castle Hotel, knowing that they'd find something-- just follow the junkies. They had intercepted a package of stuff I'd sent ahead. Alan Dunn, the longest-serving Stones man, the logistics and transport supremo, discovered later that the regular personnel who worked in the hotel suddenly found themselves working alongside many extra people, who had been hired mostly as telephone and television engineers. The police were setting it up: massive resources against one guitar player. The hotel manager would have known, but of course nobody tipped us off. To save money, Peter Rudge, the tour manager, had taken any personnel off the floor. So the police came straight to the room. Marlon would not normally have let in any policemen, but they were dressed as waiters. They couldn't wake me up. By law you have to be conscious to be arrested. It took them forty-five minutes--I'd been up for five days and I'd had a heavy-duty shot and I was out. This was my last rehearsal day, and I'd been asleep for about two hours. My memory of it is waking up and them going slap slap, two Mounties dragging me about the room slapping me. Trying to get me "conscious."

Bang bang bang bang bang.

Who are you? What's your name? Do you know where you are and do you know why we're here? "My name's Keith Richards, and I'm in the Harbour Hotel. What you’re doing here I have no idea." Meanwhile they'd found my stash. And it was about an ounce. Quite a lot. No more than a man needs. I mean, it wouldn’t feed the city. But obviously they knew their shit, like I knew my shit, and it was clearly not the Canada smack. It had come from England. I'd put it in the flight case. So they arrest me, take me to this Mountie police station, and it's really not my time of day. They put me through the books and everything. And because of the amount they found, they decided to charge me with trafficking, which is an automatic jail sentence for a very long time, in Canada. I said, OK, fine. Give me a gram back. "Oh, we can't do that." I said, so what are you going to do now? You know I need it and that I'm going to have to get it. What are you going to do? Follow me and bust me again? Is that your game? How are you going to play this? Give me some back till I figure this out. "Oh no, no." And that was when Bill Wyman came through. Bill was the first one to come around and say, is there anything I can do? And I said quite honestly, I'm out of shit and I need some shit. And of course that's not Bill's area, but he said, I'll see what I can do. And he found somebody. We'd been working at the El Mocambo club, so we had local connections. Bill came through and got some shit to get me off the hook, over the hill. And that was a big risk for Bill, considering the attention I was getting. That was about the closest emotional thing that I can remember with Bill. The Mounties never did try to bust me again. I was quoted as saying, "What is on trial is the same thing that's always been on trial. Dear old

them and us. I find this all a bit weary. I've done my stint in the fucking dock. Why don't they pick on the Sex Pistols?" Yet again someone was seriously after my ass, and the situation was further complicated by Margaret Trudeau, the wife of Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau, moving into the hotel as a Stones appendage, offering a double-big tabloid story. The prime minister's young wife with the Stones, and you throw in drugs, you're looking at a three-month run. In the end it may have played in my favor, but at the time it was the worst combination of circumstances. Margaret Trudeau was twenty-two and Trudeau was fifty-one when they got married. It was a bit like Sinatra and Mia Farrow--the power and the flower child. And now Trudeau's bride--and this was exactly their sixth wedding anniversary--was seen walking in our corridors in a bathrobe. So then the story was that she had left him. She had, in fact, moved into the room next to Ronnie, and they were hitting it off really well, or, as Ronnie put it so nicely in his memoirs, "We shared something special for that short time." She flew to New York to escape the publicity, but Mick flew to New York as well, so it was assumed they too were an item. Worse and worse. She was a groupie, that's all she was, pure and simple. Nothing wrong with that. But you shouldn't be a prime minister's wife if you want to be a groupie. I'm out on a bond of many dollars, but they took my passport and I'm released only to the hotel. So I'm trapped. And I'm still waiting to see if they're going to jail me. They're shooting fish in a barrel. At another hearing they added a charge of cocaine possession and revoked bail, but we got off that on a technicality. I would have loved to have dared them to put me in jail. It was all bullshit. They didn't have the balls. They weren't feeling confident. The rest of the band left Canada out of caution, and quite wisely so. I was the first one to say, you fuckers get out of here; they're only going to involve you. Let me take the heat. It's my heat. It was quite likely that jail time was on the cards. I was facing a probable two years, according to my lawyers. It was Stu who suggested that I should use the waiting time to put down some tracks of my own--put something down to remember the man by. He hired a studio, a beautiful piano and a microphone. The result has been doing the circuit for a while--KR's Toronto Bootleg. We just did all the country songs, nothing different from what I do any other night, but there was a certain poignancy about it because at that moment things looked a bit grim. I played the George Jones, Hoagy Carmichael, Fats Domino songs I'd played with Gram. Merle Haggard's "Sing Me Back Home" is pretty poignant anyway. The warden is taking the prisoner down the hall to his execution.

Sing me back home with a song I used to hear...

Sing me back home before I die.

Once again it was Bill Carter who came to my rescue. Carter's problem was that in 1975 he had assured the visa-issuing authorities that there were no problems with drugs. Now I'm busted in Toronto for drug trafficking.

Carter had flown straight to Washington. Not to visit his friends in the State Department or Immigration, who had told him that I would never be allowed into America again. To the White House. First he had assured the Canadian court when he posted my bond that I had a medical problem and that I needed to be cured of my heroin addiction. He made the same case to his contacts in the White House, where Jimmy Carter was president, using all the political muscle he could work, talking to one counsel there who was Carter's drug policy man, fortunately charged, at the time, with finding solutions more effective than punishment. He told them that his client had fallen off the wagon, had a medical problem, and Bill was asking their mercy to grant me a special visa to come to the United States. Why the United States and not Borneo? Well, there was only one woman who could cure me and she was called Meg Patterson and she did a "black box cure" with electric vibrations. She was in Hong Kong and needed a sponsor doctor in the United States. These were the lengths Bill Carter went to. And it worked. Miraculously, his White House contacts instructed Immigration to grant me a visa, and he got permission from the Canadian court for me to fly to the United States. We were allowed to rent a house in Philadelphia, where Meg Patterson would treat me every day for three weeks. From there, after her prescribed cure, we moved to Cherry Hill, New Jersey. I was not allowed to move outside a twenty-five-mile radius from Philadelphia, which included Cherry Hill. A deal worked out between the doctors and lawyers and the immigration department. This wasn't so great for Marlon, however.

Marlon:

They let him in to clean up, which is when we went to New Jersey. And I lived with this doctor's family, this very religious family. That was actually the most traumatic thing, moving from this hotel with all the Stones and everyone into this house in New Jersey with a right-wing Christian American family, a white picket fence and skateboards, and I started going to an American school where you had to say prayers every day. That was really shocking. And I would go and visit Keith and Anita, who were down the road, every few days. I couldn't wait to get out of there. I was a right brat, I think. This family thought I was wild. I had long hair, I didn't wear shoes, I barely ever wore clothes, I used the worst language you can imagine for a seven-year-old, and I think they were just very pitying of me. It was a bit pathetic. I didn't like that family at all; they were trying to turn me into a good little American boy. And I'd never been to America. I still thought America was full of bloody Indians, loads of buffalo wandering around, and suddenly I was in New Jersey. I thought, oh my God, I'm gonna be scalped if I go outside.

Although I was getting clean under Meg Patterson's care, a cure imposed by the authorities lacks conviction in the heart. Meg's method was supposed to be the painless way out. Electrodes attached to your ear released endorphins, which, theoretically, canceled the pain. Meg also believed in alcohol--in my case Jack Daniel's, which is a strong brew--as a substitute, a diversion, let's say. So I drank heartily under Meg's maternal guidance. I was quite interested in Patterson's method. It did certainly help, but it was still no fun. After it was finished, in a matter of two weeks or so, Immigration announced that they'd have to monitor me for another month. I'm clean, all right? And I'm getting antsy and restless, stuck in this nice suburb. I felt like I was in jail and I just got sick of it. Meg Patterson made her report to the State Department and Immigration that I was following the medical treatment, and, to cut a long story short, I got reinstated: as far as Immigration was concerned, the slate was wiped clean. No offenses appeared on my record. Times were different then. There was more of a belief in rehabilitation than there is now. The visa, which was originally a medical visa, overrode everything. It was extended from three to six months, from single to multiple entries. There were waivers for touring and working on the grounds that I was confirmed as clean and curing myself. As you clean up, you go up another level and another until you get to full clean status, according to my understanding of it. And I've always been very grateful to the US government for allowing me to come to America to get help to come off the stuff. So we sprung Marlon and moved out of New Jersey to a rented house in South Salem, New York, called Frog Hollow--a classic Colonial-style wooden house, although haunted, according to an increasingly haunted Anita, who saw the ghosts of Mohican Indians patrolling the hilltop. It was down the road from George C. Scott. He used to crash regularly into our white wooden fence, pissed out of his brain, driving at ninety miles an hour. But that's where we ended up--near Mount Kisco, in Westchester County. It was at this time that Jane Rose, who is now my manager, started unofficially looking after me. Jane was working mostly for Mick, but Mick had asked Jane to stay in Toronto and help me when everybody left. And she's still here, my secret weapon thirty years later. I have to say that during the bust in Toronto, in fact during all busts, Mick looked after me with great sweetness, never complaining. He ran things; he did the work and marshaled the forces that saved me. Mick looked after me like a brother. Jane described herself at this time as the meat in the sandwich--between Mick and me. She witnessed the first sign of a rift between us when I came out of the junk fog and the mental fog that accompanies it and started to want to take care of business, at least musical business. Mick would come up to Cherry Hill and hear my selection of tracks for Love You Live, which we'd been working on all this time sporadically. And he'd go back and bitch to Jane about them. Collaboration was giving way to struggle and disagreement. It's a two-disc album, and the result is that one disc was Mick's and the other was mine. I started talking about things, about business, things we had to settle, which I imagine for Mick was unfamiliar, shocking. I'd kind of risen from the dead after the will had been read. But this was a skirmish, a sign only of what was to come in later years. It took nineteen months from the bust in March 1977 in Toronto to the trial in October 1978. But at least now I was living in striking distance of New York. The visas were of course not without conditions. I had to travel back and forth to Toronto for various hearings. I had to prove that I'd cleaned up and had been following a steady course of rehab. And I was obliged to attend psychiatric evaluation and treatment in New York. I had this doctor in New York City who would say, "Oh, thank God you're here. I've been dealing with other people's brains all day." She would open the drawer and pull out a bottle of vodka. She’d say, "Let's sit here for half an hour and have a drink. You look all right." I'd say, "I'm feeling pretty good." But she helped me. She was doing her job. She made sure the program worked. John Phillips called me one day when I was in South Salem and said, "I've got one. Get your ass down here and I'll show you, proof positive, I've got one!" He was into the coke bugs. I thought, I'll drive down, give my friend a hand, you know, if he's got one. People had been calling him mad for weeks because he was convinced that he was infected by bugs. So I went down there, and he pulled out a napkin, a Kleenex with a little bloody hole in it. "See? I’ve got one." John, are you serious? You'll have to reconsider, baby. And I'd driven an hour and a half down there to see. He'd picked himself to bits. Mean, he was covered in scabs. But this time he was convinced he'd got one. He looked at the Kleenex and said, "Oh shit, it got away!" John had taken over a pharmacy. Who didn't in those days? Freddie Sessler used to own drugstores. And John was in a state. In the bedroom he had a medical bed, one of those bendy beds; only half of it worked. His mirror in the john was held together with gaffer tape. It was a shattered image any way you looked at it. Needles were stuck in the wall where he'd used them as darts. But we'd play, never starting before midnight, sometimes not until two a.m., with other musicians. I survived that without smack. John's solo project was stopped by Ahmet Ertegun because John was in no condition to go on.

The sessions for Some Girls always had a following wind from the moment we started rehearsing in the strangely shaped Pathe Marconi studios in Paris. It was a rejuvenation, surprisingly for such a dark moment, when it was possible that I would go to jail and the Stones would dissolve. But maybe that was part of it. Let's get something down before it happens. It had an echo of Beggars Banquet about it--a long period of silence and then coming back with a bang, and a new sound. You can't argue with seven million copies and two top ten singles out of it, "Miss You" and "Beast of Burden." Nothing was prepared before we got there. Everything was written in the studio day by day. So it was like the earlier times, at RCA in Los Angeles in the mid-'60s--songs pouring out. Another big difference from recent albums was that we had no other musicians in with us--no horns, no Billy Preston. Extra stuff was dubbed later. If anything the buildup of sidemen had taken us down a different path in the '70s, away from our best instincts on some occasions. So the record was down to us, and it being Ronnie Wood's first album with us, down to our guitar weaving on tracks like "Beast of Burden." We were more focused and we had to work harder. The sound we got had a lot to do with Chris Kimsey, the engineer and producer who we were working with for the first time. We knew him from his apprenticeship at Olympic Studios, and so he knew our stuff backwards. And he would, on the basis of this experiment, engineer or co produce eight albums for us. We had to pull something out--not make another Stones-in-the-doldrums album. He wanted to get a live sound back and move away from the clean and clinical-sounding recordings we'd slipped into. We were in the Pathe Marconi studios because they were owned by EMI, with whom we’d just made a big deal. This one was way on the outskirts of town in Boulogne-Billancourt, near the Renault factory; nothing around like restaurants or bars. It was a car ride, and I remember that I was listening to Jackson Browne's Running on Empty on a daily commuter basis. At first, we'd booked into this enormous rehearsal studio like a soundstage, with a tiny control room that fitted barely two people and with a primitive 1960s console and a basic sixteen-track. The shape was odd because the console faced the window and a wall, which held the speakers, but the wall went off at an angle, so one speaker was always farther away from you than the other during playbacks. The adjoining studio had a much bigger desk and generally more sophisticated equipment, but for the moment we got playing in this warehouse, sitting around in a semicircle, fencing off space with screens. We hardly went into the control room for the first few days--there wasn't enough space. Kimsey spotted immediately that this studio had truly great sound properties. Because it was a rehearsal room, we'd rented it cheap, which was lucky because we spent a long time on this record and never moved into the proper studio next door. The primitive mixing desk turned out to be the same kind of soundboard designed by EMI for Abbey Road Studios--very humble and simple, with barely more than a treble and bass button but with a phenomenal sound, which Kimsey fell in love with. Uprooted relics of these desks are apparently muso collectors' items. The sound it got had clarity but dirtiness, a real funky, club feel to it that suited what we were doing. It was a great room to play in. So, despite Mick doing his usual "Let's move to a proper studio," that's where we stayed, because in a recording session, especially with this kind of music, everything has to feel good. There's no swimming upstream; you're not salmon. We're looking to glide, and if you've got problems with the room, you start to lose confidence in what's going to be captured by the microphones and you start shifting things about. You know it's a good room when a band is smiling. What a lot of Some Girls was down to was this little green box I used, this MXR pedal, a reverb-echo. For most of the songs on there I'm using that, and it elevated the band and it gave it a different sound. In a way, it came down to a little bit of technology. It was kind of like "Satisfaction," a little box.

On Some Girls I just found a way of making that thing work, at least through all of the fast songs. And Charlie was on with it, and Bill Wyman too, I've got to say. There was a certain sense of renewal. A lot of it was, we've got to out-punk the punks. Because they can't play, and we can. All they can do is be punks. Yes, that might have been a certain thorn in the side. The Johnny Rottens, "these fucking kids." I love every band that comes along. That's why I'm here, to encourage guys to play and get bands together. But when they're not playing anything, they're just spitting on people, now come on, we can do better than that. There was also an extra urgency because of this grim prospect of the trial and also because after all the palaver, the bust, the noise, the cleaning up, I needed to prove that there was something behind all this--some purpose to this kind of suffering. And it came together very nicely. Because we hadn't been together for a while, we needed to get back our old form of writing and collaborating--doing it all on the day, there and then, composing from scratch or semi-scratch. We jumped straight in, back to our old ways with remarkable results. "Before They Make Me Run" and "Beast of Burden" were basically collaborations. "When the Whip Comes Down" I did the riff. Mick wrote it and I looked around and said, shit, he's finally written a rock-and-roll song. By himself! "Some Girls" was Mick. "Lies" too. Basically he'd say, I've got a song, and then I'd say, what if we do it this way or that way? We didn't think much of "Miss You" when we were doing it. It was "Aah, Mick's been to the disco and has come out humming some other song." It's a result of all the nights Mick spent at Studio 54 and coming up with that beat, that four on the floor. And he said, add the melody to the beat. We just thought we’d put our oar in on Mick wanting to do some disco shit, keep the man happy. But as we got into it, it became quite an interesting beat. And we realized, maybe we've got a quintessential disco thing here. And out of it we got a huge hit. The rest of the album doesn't sound anything like "Miss You." Then we had trouble with the cover, from Lucille Ball, of all people, who didn't want to be included, and there were loads of lawsuits going on. On the original cover you could pull out and change the faces with one of those cards. There was every famous woman in the world in there, everybody we fancied. Lucille Ball? You don't like it? Fine! The feminists didn't like it either. We always like to piss them off. Where would you be without us? And there is the offending line "Black girls just wanna get fucked all night" from "Some Girls." Well, we've been on the road with a lot of black chicks for many years, and there's quite a few that do. It could have been yellow girls or white girls. I made a damn good attempt at cleaning up in 1977 with my black box and Meg Patterson and the rest, but for a brief time it didn't stick. While working on

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