I am working on a memoir of some fifty years of bipolarity, this to be published in the autumn of 2009. As a youngster I played a lot of music around the Hudson Valley and NYC, after having studied with Gary Davis. As well, I recorded with Pete Seeger for Folkways in the mid seventies. Anyway, a small slice of the manuscript in progress deals a bit with Phil Ochs, and I thought some folks here might have an interest. So, here goes. All best, - Ed Renehan,
http://edrenehan.com***********************
May 9th, 1974, nearly 18 years of age, New York City:
I sat backstage at the Felt Forum in Madison Square Garden. Roadies and sound-men hustled about, pulling wires and shouting directions to each other. The event was a benefit/protest concert organized by Phil Ochs after the United States sponsored overthrow of Salvador Allende's democratically-elected Marxist government in Chile. The coup had occurred in September of 1973. "An Evening with Salvador Allende" was to feature an all-star cast: Pete, Arlo Guthrie, Dave Van Ronk, Dennis Hopper, The Living Theater, Beach Boys Mike Love and Dennis Wilson, Melanie, Harry Chapin, and Bob Dylan. Pete was to go on first, since he and I had another gig to get to that same evening. I was not to play at the Forum show, however. The plan was for Pete to duet with Arlo, who in turn would stay on, do some solo stuff, and finally sing together with Dylan on Woody's "Deportee."
Backstage, before the program started, artists tuned while Ochs and the impresario Ron Delsener went over details of the program. I detected distance between Pete and Ochs, the latter walking around with a drink in his hand. Ochs seemed super-agitated: excited in dangerously positive way – euphoric. In fact, he appeared to be a bit out of control – especially given the booze that was never far away from him. Of course, the frowning puritan Pete was all about control, self-restraint, seriousness. Perhaps that is why he did not introduce me to Ochs; I'm not sure. He was obviously barely speaking to the man himself.
When Dylan came into the dressing room, gig bag slung over his shoulder, he made a bee-line for Pete, whom he approached and greeted with a quick hug before sitting down near him. Arlo and Dylan exchanged nods, and then Pete introduced me to Dylan as "a great young picker and singer." Dylan shook my hand, saying only: "Well, alright." This sent me soaring higher than I'd been already. Soon my euphoria – though not outwardly demonstrated – matched that of Ochs.
Pete and Dylan chatted for a few minutes. From their talk, I could tell they had not seen each other in quite some time. I remember that Dylan was deferential, and Pete friendly, receptive, interested in the various things the younger man had to say.
Later on, I saw Dylan and Ochs hanging out, clearly enjoying each other's company. I've subsequently heard lots of stories about tension between the two, but on this evening and one other to be described shortly, they appeared to be on good terms, sharing wine and laughing. Pete told me that ticket sales for the concert had been abysmal up to shortly before the show, with Ochs standing to lose a substantial amount of money he had personally put up to reserve the hall, not to mention enduring the embarrassment of the failure. Dylan, hearing that Ochs was looking at a problem, had come to town specifically to lend his name and sell the place out – which is what happened rather quickly after Ochs announced Dylan's participation during an interview on WBAI.
A few days after the Felt Forum event, Dylan called Pete at the house in Beacon while I was there. Dylan told Pete that he and Ochs were going to do a tour to raise money for charity – he wasn't quite clear on what charity – and they wanted Pete to join them. Pete and Dylan talked for a long time. I remember Pete telling Dylan that Ochs was unreliable and needed "help," and that he – Pete – would rather not participate if Ochs was to be a part of the equation. The Dylan/Ochs tour never came off. A year and a half later, when Dylan mounted the Rolling Thunder Review with Ramblin' Jack Elliott, Joan Baez, and other folkies, he and Phil reportedly agreed that Phil should not be a part of the proceedings.
I officially "met" Phil when I came to Manhattan from the Hudson Valley to attend a surprise birthday party for Mike Porco in November of 1975. Porco owned Gerdes Folk City, where Dylan and so many others had gotten their start. I believe it was Porco who introduced me to Ochs.
Ochs was friendly, courteous – but also seedy and downright dirty, with hair that needed a washing and clothes so wrinkled it looked as though he'd been sleeping in them for a week. Phil got very drunk very early in the party, but then so did I. I'd already been stoned when I showed up. I then proceeded to engage in an unannounced race with Ochs, to see who could down the most wine in the shortest time. He won, but it was close.
I'd lately been doing a great deal of this sort of thing. Booze – especially booze combined with reefer or pills (any kind of pills, but preferably cold or allergy medication, as well as Alprazolam – only recently on the market, and now known more commonly by the brand name Xanax – if I could get my hands on it) gave me a floating buzz that brought me up and up and up. I was now to the point where the mere association with famous people, or the focus of an attentive audience, could no longer do the job on their own. Combos of pharmaceuticals and liquor were more reliable for me and, I gather, for Ochs. But I had it all over the 35-year-old Ochs. At 19, I was way ahead of the curve when it came to substance abuse.
I'd heard through channels that Ochs had only recently come off a severe and protracted manic – in fact, psychotic – episode that had lasted many months. During that time he'd changed his name to "John Train," announced that Train had murdered Phil Ochs, and threatened violence to anyone who called him by any other name but Train. At the start of this period, Train had performed a drunken, dispirited and embarrassing "Phil Ochs Farewell Performance" at Gerdes. Not long after, he opened a bar on Broome Street called Che – after the revolutionary – which quickly went bust, costing Ochs the last of his life savings. Train – Ochs's "Mr. Hyde" – did not seem to care about that, or any other misfortune that might befall the dead folksinger. The delusional Train planned myriad illusory projects. "Train [said] he was going to produce a movie version of Billy the Kid better than all the other versions combined. Elvis Presley was set to play Pat Garrett; Bobby Dylan, Billy the Kid," writes Ochs biographer Marc Eliot. In the final scene, Elvis would gun-down Dylan.
Soon Train, penniless, was banned from the Village apartments of Ochs's old pals, including Dave Van Ronk, who thought him downright dangerous. Van Ronk was right. At one point, Train physically attacked another friend of Ochs's, Wendy Winstead. Train beat her in the head with a telephone and then picked her up and threw her against a refrigerator.
Train spent nights sleeping in alleys and days trying to find bars where he was still welcome. He'd embarrassed himself and caused trouble in so many that doors were closed nearly everywhere. Porco would let him in, but Train – wielding a hammer – nearly ruined that when he said he'd kill the proprietor after Porco mixed a purposely light drink for the ill-tempered alcoholic.
At one point, Jerry Rubin convinced Train to place himself in a mental hospital. Train departed the place in less than 24-hours and spent a night sleeping in the boiler room of the Chelsea Hotel. After eventually making it to L.A., Train walked around for a time in the all gold, sequined suit Ochs had worn to further outrage folkies at his electric Carnegie Hall show in March of 1970. The suit was stained with vomit. Once again, Train was homeless. He showed up at Peter Asher's house in Beverly Hills and managed to bum a hundred dollars.
On the coast, Train continued to concoct fantasies and believe them. He told all those who would listen that he was a member of the CIA. He also said he'd recently spent a night in a Los Vegas jail-cell with Howard Hughes and the dead Bobby Kennedy. Amid this, he was planning a "Save New York City" concert that would feature not only Bobby Dylan but Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and Leonard Bernstein with the New York Philharmonic – all on a marvelous rotating stage at Shea Stadium.
Train was dead by the time Phil showed up at Porco's party. Ochs was Ochs once more. Just as pathetic, weary, overweight and ill – but Ochs, hanging with Bobby Neuwirth, David Blue, Joan Baez and Dylan – every one of them but Ochs a part of the newly formed Rolling Thunder enterprise. A film crew followed Dylan around, shooting some moments that would eventually find their way into Renaldo and Clara. I was already fairly fuzzy when I went up to Dylan. I reminded him we'd met before, and where. He said "Sure, I remember. How's Pete?" After a few words of my muddled response, Dylan patted me on the arm: "Well, alright." Then he moved on.
Dylan and Baez launched the party with a nostalgic set: 1963 all over again. Dylan wore a large white cowboy hat. As soon as he stepped off the stage, a grinning Phil lifted the hat off Dylan's head and donned it himself. Phil wore the hat for the rest of the evening. The party went on and on, set after set, liquor flowing. Ochs didn't play until about 4 in the morning. I remember that at one point he invited Dylan to join him but Dylan, somewhat drunk himself by that time, declined. Despite being demolished, Phil turned in a pretty good performance as I recall, playing on a borrowed guitar, and talking more than singing his songs. But then I was not positioned to recall much.
Shortly after Phil's set, I left the party with a brunette named Bridget – considerably older than me, maybe thirty – whom I'd not met before. The first hints of dawn were showing themselves when we got to her apartment two blocks from Gerdes. We spent the day in bed making it, sobering up, and recovering before I headed back north in the evening.
A few days later I was downtown once again, playing at Malachy McCourt's marvelous bar The Bells of Hell. I was not far into my set when Phil – whom I'd evidently informed of the gig, although I didn't remember doing so – wandered into the back of the room, taking me by surprise. He looked just as disheveled as he had previously, but was smiling and gave me a wave.
Later on, after my set, we sat across the table from each other and drank. Unlike at Porco's party, where his mood had seemed good throughout the long evening, the booze this night quickly made Phil sullen and petulant. He damn near erupted into violence when a passerby happened to brush against him where he sat; and he scowled bitterly when the music and laughing in the tavern made it hard for us to hear each other. I probably would have been quite elevated, having the opportunity to get loaded with one of my heroes, except I'd by then seen just enough of Phil to realize he wasn't my hero any more. He was just a sad story. Still, I sensed that it was not his fault. A nagging whisper told me that Ochs was a victim of a beast larger than himself. Fate, I thought at the time. There but for fortune. But now, looking back, I realize it was something far more ominous than mere fate. It was biochemistry.
Ochs complained to me that Seeger hated him, that he could no longer write songs, and that his voice was shot. He also said "the bastard John Train" had burned all of his – Ochs's – bridges, leaving him stranded and abandoned in desolate territory, with no means of escape. I told him I thought tunes like "Changes," "Miranda," "Crucifixion," "When I'm Gone," and "No More Songs" were masterpieces destined to echo for a very long time, unlike Phil's or anyone else's topical material. He told me even his best songs could not save him now, and that "No More Songs" was the truest thing he'd ever written. There would be no more songs. He'd hit an artistic brick wall. The muse had fled from him. Maybe he'd have to chase it down with a shotgun, "just like Hemingway."
Ochs had no money. I paid for our drinks. We both put away quite a bit. We wound up closing the place. (Later on, I wondered if his appearance at my gig was just a calculated move contrived to achieve an evening of free liquor. This is possible.) Outside, I hailed a cab for the two of us. Phil directed me to a rather seedy transient hotel where he got out and said goodnight. I continued on to a friend's apartment, where I'd arranged to crash on a couch. I never saw Ochs again. He hung himself at his sister's house in Far Rockaway five months later. Up to that time, he was the most manic person I'd ever encountered outside of myself. And I'd yet to truly encounter myself.
