On the Road Again
I know it's holy rock and roll, but I spike it.
—ANONYMOUS
In 1988, Paul called together all the original members of Jefferson Airplane and suggested a short (one album, one tour) reunion. After some brief discussion about logistics, we all agreed to the adventure.
Fantastic, I thought. This time Airplane will be assisted by one of those professional management teams in L.A. (as opposed to well-meaning hippies from San Francisco) who really know how to put a rock-and-roll package together. Now that we're all old enough to prefer seamless negotiations, it'll be a snap.
Sure, Grace, and polar bears use toilets.
The old Grace and Paul versus Jack and Jorma game resumed immediately. Skip, in alignment with my tight organizational vision, recommended Trudy Green from H.K. Management. After meeting her, I was delighted with both her easy manner and sharklike business sensitivities. She was my unequivocal choice—a smart blonde Jew from L.A. who knew how to laugh and bark at the same time.
But Jack and Jorma wanted to have a fan/friend/lawyer type call the shots. This man was already managing their blues band, Hot Tuna, and he was afraid that if the West Coast (e.g., Trudy Green from H.K. Management) ran things, his two meal tickets would split for sunnier pastures. He didn't know Jack and Jorma well enough; they'd always chosen the more intimate club scene, and that wasn't about to change. The Airplane tour would only magnify their visibility, and when they returned to their smaller, more down-home jobs, which they actually preferred, they'd have benefited from the high-profile management coming out of Trudy's office.
The lawyer's reservations may not have been the only factor, however. The truth is, the unfamiliar, high-profile L.A. business scene probably made Jack and Jorma nervous.
There was no way, though, that I was letting Trudy Green disappear because of the other guys' fears of the West Coast entertainment monolith. Skip acted as arbiter, Paul was satisfied with Trudy's competence, Marty didn't care, and the guys eventually agreed; we signed with Sony for the record and gave responsibility for the tour to Trudy at H.K. The only deviation from the original group was the absence of Spencer Dryden due to an illness. He was replaced by Kenny Aronoff on drums, but the rest of the original line-up, including a yoga-healthy, blond Marty Balin, was finally ready to hit the boards.
We rented a bus, Jorma brought his wonderful dog, Marlow, and we got back into the old rock-and-roll tour mode—minus the narcotics and alcohol. I can't ever remember enjoying singing with Marty as much as I did on that tour. We'd both grown up, and in the process, we'd lost whatever competitiveness had been present in the earlier phases of Airplane.
Did we have groupies or group gropes? No. Everybody was married and temporarily or permanently faithful.
Did we get ripped to the tits on large amounts of “medication”? Nope. Too old. The livers would explode and the AAs would converge. Besides some pot for the native San Francisco boy, Paul, it was a fairly clearheaded journey.
Did we tell cops to eat shit and die? Not at all. Several “lawmen” were in the paying audience, and they were half our age.
Did we scream about government stupidity? No. Too lazy? Too old? Too numb? Or just defeated? Who knows? We were a nifty little rehash that reminded boomers of how it sounded when they didn't have to take Metamucil to get it out and get it on.
Depressing? Sure, if you're looking at it through the imposed radical chic of rock-and-roll parameters. But when a group of people come together to enjoy music, it can be a polka or a slam dance. When it's viewed from a nontrendy position, it really doesn't matter.
So apart from ten extra pounds on each of our middle-aged bodies, the quality of life enjoyed by members of the 1989 Jefferson Airplane was far tighter than the 1969 version. We were treated to higher-tech equipment, better venues, relatively sober audiences, good management, no incidents with law enforcement, egos tempered by age, and a tour's worth of relatively successful concerts. And because there was no lifelong commitment among the group members, we were more like a caravan of old friends who happened to be musicians than musicians involved in a “business deal.”
Album sales? I don't know the figures, but nobody went out and bought a Lear jet. Maybe some of us paid off tuition for offspring or Jorma got another goat for his farm—simple acquisitions for a graying crowd of musical gypsies. Did we care? If I said it didn't matter, you'd know right away that I was so cool, I was beyond social pressure. We've all read the Buddhist books, telling us that attachment leads to suffering, and we berate ourselves for our attachments to material things. But that's not what the wise men intend for us. Be more gentle with and tolerant of your humanity.
Following that line of thought, I can say that, although the tour was not a financial gold mine, it was a good thing. By the time it was over, we'd traded a lot of energy, renewed our friendships, and had closed some uncompleted circles.
Nice.