CHAPTER 20

In and out of dry dock

As I said, the early to mid-1970s went by in a blur for me. We were successful and we were busy. It was a lot of work but it was work we loved. And it was fun.

At the beginning, it was one club date after another. We would usually play for a week in each spot. Each time we went to a new city was one more week that the album was out and people started to know the names Cheech and Chong. Clubs were starting to sell out the whole week in advance. The greatest thing, though, was that we were working and evolving every day, two, maybe sometimes three, shows a day. You can’t help but grow. Every night it was like picking up the conversation where we had left off. We remembered something we meant to say the night before. Usually we saved it as a surprise for each other. Our favorite thing was to throw in something new that would make the other guy laugh. It was a constant evolution. We were the new underground FM radio stars, and people came prepared to like us. We didn’t have to break new ice every time. The album was doing that for us.

When you are working every day, you are changing the act in small, imperceptible ways. We had regular bits but we would change them slightly in each performance. In the tiniest of ways. Improvisation remained at the core of our act.

Quite often, a guy from the record company or Adler’s office would see us for the first time in a while. And he’d say, “Wow, you guys have really changed the act.” We would have no idea what he was talking about. But we also knew he was right. Little increments every night. I see it as whittling. Basic stagecraft. It’s a big part of my live performance approach.

Tommy and I were also together all the time. We would be walking down the street and out of the blue Tommy would say “Come out slower in that bit.” Or “What if he says this?” And I’d know exactly what he was talking about with no more information than that. Or if we were talking about a bit and playing with it, Tommy, or I, would suddenly say “Say it that way tonight!” Or “What if he does this?” And it would be right to both of us.

Tommy and I were so attuned to each other that we could write for each other. I could see his characters and he could see mine.

We also had a vast trove of common knowledge and experiences. Again, from all the time together. We knew what made each other tick and what made each other laugh. Sometimes, this bond would allow for big laughs for ourselves onstage.

One time we were at the bar at the hotel after a gig. The bartender was a snotty, dismissive woman who had no respect for us. All her answers to us were curt and rude. She could barely tolerate us. We were talking about her and laughing at the situation. Tommy called out to her, “Excuse me, miss? Can I ask you something?”

She snapped back “What?”

Tommy said, “Where do you keep that stick when you don’t have it stuck up your ass?”

Everybody with us fell on the floor laughing. She just gave us another death stare.

Later on during a show, if Tommy or I found a place to say, “Excuse me, miss?” we would. The other guy would crack up, but the bit would just roll on. That kind of shorthand kept it fresh and exciting for us. And kept it fun for the audience, because our joy was contagious and made the show better.

Another example of this bond we have is the bit “Hey, Margaret.” It’s an old couple going to a porn movie. The husband is trying to get the wife interested and the bit is essentially Tommy describing what he sees on the screen. It’s one of my favorite bits even though I don’t have a line. I played Margaret and my job was reacting to Tommy. He’d change it all the time, and sometimes I’d be unable to react I was laughing so hard. We’d hear the audience pleading for Tommy to pause so they could breathe. Eventually, Tommy would be disgusted by something on the screen and try to get Margaret to leave. But by then she’s enjoying it and wants to stay.

I loved doing it because I could channel my mother. And I had to listen to him to react properly. Definitely my favorite bit of ours to perform.

We finally got home in the middle of November 1971. All I wanted to do was sit in my living room, on my couch, and just look out the window until the room stopped spinning. It took about three days.

Finally, we paid a visit to Adler at his office at A&M. He filled us in on how well the album was doing, which none of us could believe. It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to big numbers. He was still working on the unprecedented success of Tapestry by Carole King.

In those days, it was a big deal to sell five hundred thousand units, which would get you a gold record. Platinum records for the sale of a million units were so rare as to be almost nonexistent. Tapestry would eventually pass the 15 million mark and just keep going. It would become the singer-songwriter touchstone of the 1970s. We were officially into the album age. It was like the recording industry had hit the Lotto. Before a year had passed, we had earned a gold record… and we were a comedy act. Before it was all over we would be the biggest-selling comedy act in recording history at that time.

Out of the blue, Lou asked if we had anything for AM radio. FM was cool, but it wasn’t the big commercial locomotive that Top 40 radio was.

“You guys got anything for Christmas?”

“Of course. We’re Chicano and a half.”

We have to have three jobs at the same time.

We went into the studio with just this snippet of an idea: a musician who doesn’t know who Santa Claus is. Go. We started to improvise. It took only two or three passes and we had it. We had been working together every day. We were so attuned to each other’s rhythm that it was like telepathy. We called Lou into the studio. He cracked up and got a gleam in his eye.

A couple of days later he called us back to listen to some music. A great studio musician, Clarence McDonald, had written a jazzy backing track that was so good you hardly even knew that it was there. The first time we all heard it together, we knew it was a hit.

It went on the radio two weeks before Christmas and exploded. It shot to number one in LA and then many other cities. It really showed the power of the radio as the fastest of the popular media. You recorded it and it could be on the air the next day. Much more indicative of where the culture was heading. In the movies, you might wait two years after writing a screenplay.

From its very first playing, “Santa Claus and His Old Lady” became a funky Christmas classic. To this day, people still say to me that Christmas isn’t officially Christmas until they’ve heard it.

I remember the first time I heard it on the radio. I was at a party with some of my friends and cousins. It had been out a couple of days and I’d been hearing that everybody had been keeping their radio on all day so that they wouldn’t miss it. Finally, it came on. I’ll never forget that feeling of wonder and amazement as we all gathered around and laughed at every line. When it was over, there was such a feeling of happiness bursting from everybody. Happiness that one of us, who shared the same sensibilities, had broken through.

After Christmas was over, it was back out on the road. We were so busy that when Lou called to tell us that our album was nominated for a Grammy for best Comedy Record of the Year, it didn’t even register.

“Well, that sounds great, Lou. Listen, I’ve got to go or we’ll miss our plane.” I told Tommy as we were boarding and he was in the same space.

“Yeah, cool.”

It wasn’t until later in the flight that he turned to me and said, “A Grammy, huh? All right.”

About a year later we were still out on the road and got a call from Adler.

“You guys have to come back to LA because you’re opening for the Rolling Stones at the Forum.”

“Uh, OK.”

You don’t get that call every day.

We were on a bill that read:

SANTANA, CHEECH AND CHONG AND THE ROLLING STONES

LIVE AT THE FORUM IN LOS ANGELES

FOR THE BENEFIT OF NICARAGUAN EARTHQUAKE RELIEF

Nicaragua had suffered a massive earthquake in December 1972 that killed more than ten thousand people and left three hundred thousand homeless. Mick Jagger’s wife, Bianca, was Nicaraguan. She was one of the great international beauties of the day. She came to her country’s aid and organized this concert. Somehow Lou was involved. I assume that was how we got on the bill.

It was a cool gig. We got to hobnob with all the rock royalty, and the Stones were at the white-hot center. The movie industry and the music scene were starting to merge. More and more, actors mingled backstage at concerts and shows. Jack Nicholson, Lou’s new best friend (they still sit next to each other at the Lakers games), was walking around with Warren Beatty and Anjelica Huston and Michelle Phillips.

It was great to work that big, wide stage in front of over sixteen thousand hometown fans. By this time, we had worked large audiences, having opened arenas for Alice Cooper, the Allman Brothers, and Bread (if you can believe it). The review in Rolling Stone said that we did a lot of pee-pee, ca-ca, and doo-doo jokes, displayed some very fine acting, and walked off to a thunderous standing ovation. Sounds accurate.

Our world was changing at light speed. Right about this time I hooked up with Rikki Jenny, who could have won the Farrah Fawcett look-alike contest. She was a waitress at the Rainbow Bar and Grill. I was there every night when I was in town, so eventually I wore down her resistance and she went out with me. After a few nights together, we decided that this was it and she moved in with me.

This momentous year ended with an invitation to Lou’s annual, famous, Christmas party. It was attended by a who’s who of showbiz. (Have to say this again for perspective: We were about a year away from picking up pop bottles on the street and now we were mingling with the Hollywood elite.) Anyway, Lou’s front door opened and there in the foyer, right in front of us, was Ryan O’Neal making out with Ursula Andress, the stunning Swiss actress who walked out of the sea in a bikini in Dr. No, the first James Bond movie. She looked up, assessed that we were nobody, and went back to making out with Ryan.

There was nowhere to gawk at this party, because everybody there was somebody famous. We talked to Mick Jagger and couldn’t understand a word he said. We just nodded and smiled. Rikki and I were just dazzled. (At another of Lou’s Christmas parties, we ran into an extremely thin John Lennon, who was living in LA while he was separated from Yoko Ono for about a year and a half. He mumbled something and moved on.)

We drove to the party in a Nash Rambler station wagon. Tommy brought his parents. We were still new to all of it. I was surprised that nobody wanted us to get their car for them.

As our popularity and fame grew, three things happened with regularity during the following four years.

Number one: During Thanksgiving we were booked into Chicago for the whole week. That’s the only way I knew that it was Thanksgiving—we were in Chicago. Every year, the venue got bigger, so that at the end we sold out the Arie Crown Theater in McCormick Place, capacity 4,249, for five straight days.

Number two: We would play the Troubadour the week between Christmas and New Year to sold-out audiences with the Persuasions, a fantastic a cappella group out of New York, opening for us. We had come full circle from our days at P.J.’s and performing alongside the best black musical acts in the country.

And each year our new album would get nominated for a Grammy, which we finally won in 1974 for Los Cochinos.

The Troubadour was an interesting deal. Doug Weston, the owner, made every act that played there sign a seven-option extension. So if an act got big and famous after playing the Troubadour, as Linda Ronstadt and Joni Mitchell did, they would still have to play the 275-seat Troubadour, if they wanted to play in LA—even if they could fill an arena.

It caused a lot of consternation among the managers of these acts.

But due to some oversight, or lack of interest, we were not signed to this extension. We could negotiate a new and very lucrative deal every time they wanted us to play there. And they wanted us to play there every Christmas.

The whirlwind of the road slowed down only when one of us would have to go in for some medical procedure, like a knee operation for me or some dental work for Tommy. We tried to schedule them at the same time. We called this period dry dock.

We had no sense of how successful we were, because we were on the road with no chance to spend money in any lavish way. We were very busy. The one change on the road was that we now could eat in any restaurant we wanted. Up to now, we had no real concept of dining out. Before we made the record, we either ate at Pioneer Chicken or made an inexpensive Chinese meal.

But when we were home, we had a chance to slow down and relax and take it all in. I remember one week from 1973 or so, we each got a check in the mail for $800,000. Two days later, we each got another check for $700,000. Record royalties.

That day, we both realized the same thing. We were making a shit-pot of money. But it didn’t change us that much. Really. My main thought was I better get a bank account.