25

Reruns

We'd arrived in L.A. armed with the success of Surrealistic Pillow, while the increasing publicity touted Jefferson Airplane as being in the forefront of the new music scene. When it was time to record our next album, After Bathing at Baxter's, we rented the same mansion The Beatles had used during one of their stays in the Hollywood hills—a big, typical Southern California home with a pool and an underground bowling alley extravagance. The mansion housed our band members and their entourage for the entire six months it took to record the album. Unlike when we'd recorded previously, we were now awash in money, cars, parties with L.A. bands, and new fans hanging out at the studio and in the bedrooms.

The sales of our records broadcast a message that was impossible not to hear: a whole lot of people understood what we were saying and what we meant. And a whole lot equaled success. Artistic success? Who was talking about art anymore? The discussion had moved to the bottom line—it was about continuity, the charts, the numbers.

In 1968, RCA was paying for all our studio time (that was the policy then), so we could relax and get weird. Each member of our group developed his own piece of the puzzle in the ongoing quest not to become a rerun. Unavoidably, there was a tendency toward deliberate eccentricity. By the way, the title After Bathing at Baxter's was not a specific reference. It came to us quite spontaneously, out of the mouth of Gary Blackman, a poet friend of Marty's. Gary used to hang around a lot, and one day, he said, “Hey, why don't you name this album After Bathing at Baxter's?”

Okay.

During this time of excess, the various band members let most of the business details ride, complaining only occasionally to our mates, instead of taking the problem to the right source. Except Paul. He was the one who talked to the managers, producers, CEOs, agents, and record company toadies. He always showed up at the studio as early as I did, and his presence in his favorite flowing medieval cape would immediately change the atmosphere. Conversations would go from casual to “Look out, the principal's here,” though not in such a way that the familiar school routine was interrupted. With his military straight back and a pothead's colorful take on the world, Paul presented an intriguing paradox.

At this point, he was becoming a power figure to me. He'd question every move the producers or the suits made, and even if his judgment wasn't always on the mark, at least someone was guarding whatever integrity we thought we had and wanted to preserve. Don't mistake me, he could be a major pain in the ass, but if he was on your side, the opposition was in deep shit. Romantically, he and I hadn't yet connected, but the union was closing in—the band probably saw it before we did.

There wasn't much time to contemplate much of anything. As soon as we finished After Bathing at Baxter's, we immediately went on tour. We'd had offers to go to Europe based on the popularity of Surrealistic Pillow, but concert dates in America and the excessive time we'd spent recording Baxter's had held us up. As soon as we were free, we took about a week to buy some new underwear and then zipped over to “do” the continent, co-headlining with The Doors.

In one of the Scandinavian countries, Airplane was offered the use of a big boat to cruise around a lake—a good opportunity to appreciate the scenery from the vantage point of about three hundred mics of acid per person. During the course of the day, we stopped the boat to explore a small island and swim around in the water. I was the only one left on the boat with Paul, who was sitting by himself, looking off into the distance. It was not one of those peaceful, contemplative moments. I could tell by the way I felt—jittery and distorted—that he might be experiencing the same point in the LSD high where things can get really peculiar. As much as for my own benefit as his, I went over and put my arms around him—but the extra feeling of sexual attraction was a surprise to me. The acid was clarifying some aspect of our friendship that I'd been previously unaware of. After we traded comments on the strangeness of the drug, the beauty of the water, and so forth, the strangeness diminished and we resumed our separate paths for the rest of the day.

Another country. Another night.

“We're going to the red-light district, you wanna come?” the group asked me. Frankfurt had an area of prostitution that was more like a Gene Kelly set for An American in Paris than the usual sleazy appearance of hooker hangouts. There was a huge cobblestone courtyard surrounded by quaint two- or three-story apartment buildings. Men and women lounged around on the windowsills or walked around the ground floor area, showing themselves and waiting for a trick. As we were crossing between the front entrance and the large yard area, a girl came toward us screaming and yelling, threatening me with a knife. As if he was Errol Flynn, Paul whipped off his blue leather cape and swirled it in front of her like a bullfighter. I guess she thought I was infringing on her territory. We concluded that my presence was upsetting the status quo, and we went off to more hospitable nightlife.

Now Paul had become both the strong and sensitive “leader” of the group and the mythic hero figure for Yours Truly. But still the relationship took only platonic forms.