The Big House
When Airplane returned from Europe to San Francisco, we spent a lot of time in the big Victorian mansion we'd acquired. We called this place the Big House, because for us, it was. The whole Victorian package, it featured four floors of activity, including an office, a kitchen, six bedrooms, a parlor, a dining room, a living room, a foyer, plus a carpenter/martial arts expert/coke dealer. He made his “office” in the basement, which also housed tools, a small bed and desk, and a couple of jumbo-sized nitrous oxide tanks. The members of the band would go down there from time to time and sit in a circle on the floor around the big blue metal totems, while our road manager, John Scheer, adjusted the six-spigot contraption on the top that allowed a group of people to get high, all at the same time. The “laughing gas” made us dizzy enough to pass out, so staying on the floor was a less painful way of enjoying the experience.
Jorma, for some reason, preferred to stand. Having hit his head twice (to the point of bleeding) on the sharp metal conduits at the top of the tank, we could never figure why he kept resuming his upright standing position. It's one of the few stupid things I've seen him do. Extremely bright and pragmatic, Jorma normally conducted himself with more restraint than the rest of us. Not to say that he wasn't into the extremes of the time as much as anybody else, but he was generally the most quiet and self-contained member of the group.
The main floor of the Big House had the typical baroque excesses of cut-velvet wall covering and pink carpets, carved wood paneling, and painted cherubs on the ceiling. The dining room accommodated our pool table, and the furniture ranged from cheap Louis XIV couches to a handmade wooden torture rack/dining table and an unplugged electric chair. I had the macabre items specially made, because the juxtaposition of happy dining and instruments of death tickled my dark fancy. We actually put David Crosby on the rack one time, strapped him in by his hands and feet, then turned the wheel that pulls on all four limbs at the same time. We realized how well designed it was when David's laughter turned to anguished screams.
Peace and love.
We used the second floor for offices, and I lived in the master bedroom (also on the second floor) for about four months. I was still seeing Spencer, although our love affair was cooling off, but on the road as well as at home, I've always maintained separate rooms from my partner. That way, each individual can sleep, play music, eat, be quiet, watch television, or party without disturbing the other.
I've always gotten up at about 4:30 every morning; it's my own peculiar ritual. Lying there in the dark for hours until the guy woke up would drive me nuts. Besides, it's sexier to make love in someone else's room; things get much more interesting when I can visit the man's territory for a while. Private quarters also help to avoid the old “Did you leave the cap off the toothpaste?” routine or “When are you gonna turn off the damn TV?” They lighten up the situation, leaving me free to argue over more important issues than who left the wet towels on the floor. Without that setup, each of my relationships would have ended in about a week.
The top floor of the Big House looked like a salon from a fancy turn-of-the-century house of ill repute. Lots of small rooms (for getting a quickie?) around a central area (which one of these girls would you like?) and one large bedroom (for the Madam?), where Paul took up residence. From Home of Tramps to Enrico Caruso's residing there on the night of the big earthquake of 1906, the Big House had seen it all.
Originally white, we painted it black—not as a tribute to The Stones song “Paint It Black,” but just to bring dark flavor to the neighborhood. With four big stained-dark columns in front, it looked like the Addams Family mansion.
I spent some strange days at the Big House; I actually met my friend Sally there one night when she was waiting for Spencer in one of the small upstairs bedrooms. Sally, a groupie (the groupies weren't necessarily mindless idiots), is now a lawyer, living in Texas with—surprise!—another musician husband. She and I talked for a couple of hours when we first met, and I liked her sense of humor and her sharp mind.
I felt that Spencer and I, as an item, were pretty much over, but it was another night at the Big House when my suspicions were confirmed. I walked in the front door to find Spencer and Sally in the living room, watching a video (which Spencer had taken earlier that evening) of Sally dancing around naked. I had a twinge of one-more-blonde-with-big-tits-grabs-the-spotlight envy. But considering my new interest in Paul, and my ongoing friendship with both Sally and Spencer, plus the fact that I was still married to Jerry, the viewing of the homemade peep show was more humorous than devastating.
Sally and Spencer tied the knot at the Big House. Our manager, Bill Thompson, got a mail-order preacher's license and married my ex-boyfriend and my new girlfriend there, followed by a lavish party attended by rock-and-roll types and San Francisco freaks of all descriptions. I was living off premises at that point, so I decided to leave on the early side. When I got home to Sausalito, though, I received a concerned phone call. “You've got to come back to the wedding party,” a friend said. “Paul's losing it on LSD.”
Paul losing it? Oh, Jesus, I didn't know what to think, or what I could do, but I went back to see if I could help. When I got to Paul's top-floor bedroom, he was sitting on his bed, legs crossed, in his usual ramrod-straight position, rolling a joint. This was freaking out?
“How's it going?” I asked. “Someone said you weren't doing so well.”
“Everything is so confusing,” he replied.
That was the extent of any “bad acid trip” I ever saw. Just momentary confusion. Of course, I'd read about people really losing it, like Art Linkletter's daughter, who committed suicide by jumping out a window while she was high on LSD. When Mr. Link-letter was interviewed on a TV program some years later, he accused Timothy Leary and me of killing her. Tim and I had never even met her, but our reputation as unpaid cheerleaders for LSD led Mr. Linkletter to arrive at his conclusion. When I heard Linkletter accuse me, I tried to call the TV station. I wondered how many celebrities who'd been paid to pitch alcohol had been accused of the millions of traffic deaths attributable to alcohol over the years. Probably none. I wanted to talk to the man, to remind him of the more serious alcohol situation and the hypocrisy associated with it, but the lines were jammed with other people who had their own opinions. I suppose Linkletter's grief would have prevented him from really listening to me anyway.
Later, Leary released this statement:
I've talked in the past about the weirdo oxygen-snorting fish who advanced evolution. But let's be honest. Some fish aren't ready to sniff oxygen. Most of them know who they are. It's been said, for instance, that LSD causes panic among people who have never tried it. Still, if I have prematurely coaxed some fish ashore who were really not prepared for the experience, I now express regret for not refining our invitations with more care.
—TIMOTHY LEARY (and GRACE SLICK by association)
On another occasion, at the Big House, I almost did kill somebody. I came in late one night, opened the front door, and the furniture had been tossed around the room like discarded toys. It looked like some kid had thrown a tantrum, but it was very quiet. No crazy party had gone on here—I would have known about it—so I figured it must have been a crazy person.
Fear.
I remembered that Paul kept a gun in his nightstand, but that was three floors up. Where was the person who'd caused the chaos? Was he or she still here and armed? As quietly as possible, I made it all the way up to Paul's room. Then I heard footsteps behind me. I grabbed the gun with mindless resolution and aimed at the door, fully intending to fire on sight.
“Good girl,” a familiar voice said, complimenting me on my ability to protect myself. David Crosby strolled into the room.
“Good girl, my ass,” I retorted. “I almost blew your head off.”
David had obviously come into the house before me, and after the screwball had trashed the place. Since neither of us knew at the time whether or not the nut was still in the house, we couldn't do anything but sneak out, wondering who'd done all the redecorating and why. We later found out that the mess had been created by a crazy “fan” who had some gripe about us not responding to his desire to join the band.
Since I didn't fire the gun, Crosby is still around. And happily for me, my ears didn't suffer the same kind of trauma that took place after an afternoon of shooting in the woods with The Dead, Airplane, and assorted Bay Area musicians and artists. We weren't aiming at animals; we were just bouncing bullets off planks of wood that we'd nailed to the trees. I should have worn target practice headgear, because my ears were ringing for days.
Of course, it never occurred to us semiconscious musicians that self-inflicted ear assaults could wreak havoc with a key requirement for our “profession”: hearing.