The Band had always had a pact that if one of us died on the road of a heart attack or an overdose or a jealous boyfriend, or whatever might kill a traveling musician, the others would put him on ice underneath the bus with the instruments and haul him back to Woodstock before the police started asking questions. This flashed through my mind as I ran half-dressed down the motel corridor at nine o’clock on the morning of March 4, 1986, in Winter Park, Florida.
Richard Manuel and I had been laughing for years at stuff that wasn’t even funny anymore, when he went and took his own life. We were on what had been jokingly called the “Death Tour” because the gigs were in small places hundreds of miles apart. We tried to approach it with good humor, but I know Richard felt we weren’t getting the kind of respect we were used to. This was ten years after The Last Waltz, fifteen years after we were playing the biggest shows in American history, twenty years after Bob Dylan had “discovered” us, and twenty-five years after Ronnie Hawkins had molded us into the wildest, fiercest, speed-driven bar band in America. It had been almost thirty years since I’d left my daddy’s cotton farm in Phillips County, Arkansas, to seek my fortune on the rockabilly trail.
For sweet, ultrasensitive Richard Manuel, the trail ended on a spring morning in Florida.
Richard’s wife, Arlie, was screaming hysterically, “He’s dead! Oh my God, he’s dead!” Rick Danko and his wife, Elizabeth, were already in Richard’s room, and I heard Rick kind of gasp and say, “Oh, no, man …” I went inside: The room was in disarray, the bed unmade, the TV on, an empty bottle of Grand Marnier on the dresser. The light was on in the bathroom. Suddenly I got a terrible sense of pure dread and felt surrounded by the chill of death. I wanted to run the other way as fast as I could, but instead I walked to the bathroom door and looked in.
What I saw just broke my heart. That’s for damn sure. It would’ve broken yours too.
Five days later Rick and I and Richard’s brothers carried his metal casket into Knox Presbyterian Church in Stratford, Ontario. Richard had been raised a Baptist, but the bigger church was needed to accommodate his last sold-out show. The organist was Garth Hudson, who set the tone of the service with his old Anglican hymns. My mind was wandering through the prayers and the Scripture readings. Jane Manuel, Richard’s ex-wife, and her children were there, dozens of Richard’s relations, and many friends from our days in Toronto. It was hard to see so many beloved sad faces on such an occasion. I never did like funerals.
Robbie Robertson had been asked to deliver a eulogy, but he didn’t show up. Friends of Richard’s remembered his laughter, his jokes, his scary driving, his love for music. Then Garth played “I Shall Be Released,” which Bob Dylan had written for Richard to sing. Through all three verses there wasn’t a dry eye in the church.
I had a funny experience while Garth was playing. I was thinking about Richard and asking myself why, when I clearly heard Richard’s voice in the middle of my head. It came in as clear as a good radio signal. And he said, “Well, Levon, this was the one action I could take that was gonna really shake things up. It’s gonna shake ’em up and change things round some more, because that’s what needs to happen.”
Now, to understand this—and I think I have come to an understanding—you would have to know what Richard had been through, although that would be hard to convey. In fact, you’d have to know what we all had been through: the story of The Band, from 1958 until today. Because from then to now we went through the best of times as well as times that were full of pain and disappointment. But those bad times are important. They give you a chance to practice, listen, take stock, have a life, get your feet back on the ground, and maybe you’ll live to tell the story.
That’s what this book is all about. My story is recalled and written from my perspective on the drum stool, which I’ve always felt was the best seat in the house. From there you can see both the audience and the show. Along the way we’ll check in with friends and family, and I thank them for their memories and the ability to share them. In the end, though, the story must be my own, with apologies in advance to those I neglect to mention or damn with faint praise. Memory Lane can be a pretty painful address at times, but in any inventory of five decades of American musical experience you’ve got to take the good with the bad. So draw up a chair to my Catskill bluestone fireplace while I roll one, and we’ll crack open a couple of cold beers. The game’s on the cable with the sound off, and I’m gonna take you back in time, specifically to cotton country: the Mississippi Delta just after World War II. We’re gonna get this damn show on the road.