first time. Three or four friends were there, including his current girl, and they were moderately done up on cocaine. Larry was coming out of the kitchenette and into the living room with a bag of tollhouse cookies when the familiar KLMT slogan came on. And then Larry had been transfixed by the sound of his own voice coming out of the Technics speakers:
'I know I didn’t say I was comin down
I know you didn’t know I was here in town,
But bay-yay-yaby you can tell me if anyone can,
Baby, can you dig your man?
He’s a righteous man,
Tell me baby, can you dig your man?’’
“Jesus, that’s me,” he had said. He dropped the cookies onto the floor and then stood gape-mouthed stoned and flabbergasted as his friends applauded.
Four weeks ago his tune had jumped to seventy-three on the Billboard chart. He began to feel as if he had been pushed rudely into an old-time silent movie where everything was moving too fast. The phone rang off the hook. Columbia was screaming for the album, wanting to capitalize on the single’s success. Assurances that this could be the biggest record in five years poured into his dazed ears. Agents called by the dozen. They all sounded hungry. He began to take uppers, and it seemed to him that he heard his song everywhere. One Saturday morning he heard it on “Soul Train” and spent the rest of the day trying to make himself believe that, yes, he actually had heard it.
It became suddenly hard to separate himself from Julie, the girl he had been dating since his gig at Gino’s. She introduced him to all sorts of people, few of them people he really wanted to see. Her voice began to remind him of the prospective agents he heard over the telephone. In a long, loud, acrimonious argument, he split with her. She had screamed at him that his head would soon be too big to fit through a recording studio door, that he owed her five hundred dollars for dope, that he was the 1980s’ answer to Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods. She had threatened to kill herself. Afterward Larry felt as if he had been through a long pillow-fight in which all the pillows had been treated with a low-grade poison gas.
They had begun cutting the album three weeks ago, and Larry had withstood most of the “for your own good” suggestions. He used what leeway the contract gave him. He got three of the Tattered Remnants—Barry Greig, A1 Spellman, and Johnny McCall—and two other musicians he had worked with in the past, Neil Goodman and Wayne Stukey. They cut the album in nine days, absolutely all the studio time they could get. Columbia seemed to want an album based on what they thought would be a twenty-week career. Larry wanted more.
The album cover was a photo of Larry in an old-fashioned claw-foot tub full of suds. Written on the tiles above him in a Columbia secretary’s lipstick were the words POCKET SAVIOR and LARRY UNDERWOOD. Columbia had wanted to call the album Baby, Can You Dig Your Man? but Larry absolutely balked, and they had finally settled for a CONTAINS THE HIT SINGLE sticker on the shrink-wrap.
Two weeks ago the single hit number forty-seven, and the party had started. He had rented a Malibu beachhouse for a month, and after that things got a little hazy. People wandered in and out, always more of them. He knew some, but mostly they were strangers. He could remember being huckstered by even more agents who wanted to “further his great career.” He could remember a girl who had bum-tripped and gone screaming down the bone-white beach as naked as a jay. He could remember snorting coke and chasing it with tequila. He could remember being shaken awake on Saturday morning, it must have been a week or so ago, to hear Kasey Kasem spin his record as a debut song at number thirty-six on American Top Forty. He could remember taking a great many reds, and, vaguely, dickering for the Datsun Z with a four-thousand-dollar royalty check that had come in the mail.
And then it was June 13, six days ago, the
'I know I didn’t say I was comin down
I know you didn’t know I was here in town,
But bay-yay-yaby you can tell me if anyone can,
Baby, can you dig your man?
He’s a righteous man,
Tell me baby, can you dig your man?’’
“Jesus, that’s me,” he had said. He dropped the cookies onto the floor and then stood gape-mouthed stoned and flabbergasted as his friends applauded.
Four weeks ago his tune had jumped to seventy-three on the Billboard chart. He began to feel as if he had been pushed rudely into an old-time silent movie where everything was moving too fast. The phone rang off the hook. Columbia was screaming for the album, wanting to capitalize on the single’s success. Assurances that this could be the biggest record in five years poured into his dazed ears. Agents called by the dozen. They all sounded hungry. He began to take uppers, and it seemed to him that he heard his song everywhere. One Saturday morning he heard it on “Soul Train” and spent the rest of the day trying to make himself believe that, yes, he actually had heard it.
It became suddenly hard to separate himself from Julie, the girl he had been dating since his gig at Gino’s. She introduced him to all sorts of people, few of them people he really wanted to see. Her voice began to remind him of the prospective agents he heard over the telephone. In a long, loud, acrimonious argument, he split with her. She had screamed at him that his head would soon be too big to fit through a recording studio door, that he owed her five hundred dollars for dope, that he was the 1980s’ answer to Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods. She had threatened to kill herself. Afterward Larry felt as if he had been through a long pillow-fight in which all the pillows had been treated with a low-grade poison gas.
They had begun cutting the album three weeks ago, and Larry had withstood most of the “for your own good” suggestions. He used what leeway the contract gave him. He got three of the Tattered Remnants—Barry Greig, A1 Spellman, and Johnny McCall—and two other musicians he had worked with in the past, Neil Goodman and Wayne Stukey. They cut the album in nine days, absolutely all the studio time they could get. Columbia seemed to want an album based on what they thought would be a twenty-week career. Larry wanted more.
The album cover was a photo of Larry in an old-fashioned claw-foot tub full of suds. Written on the tiles above him in a Columbia secretary’s lipstick were the words POCKET SAVIOR and LARRY UNDERWOOD. Columbia had wanted to call the album Baby, Can You Dig Your Man? but Larry absolutely balked, and they had finally settled for a CONTAINS THE HIT SINGLE sticker on the shrink-wrap.
Two weeks ago the single hit number forty-seven, and the party had started. He had rented a Malibu beachhouse for a month, and after that things got a little hazy. People wandered in and out, always more of them. He knew some, but mostly they were strangers. He could remember being huckstered by even more agents who wanted to “further his great career.” He could remember a girl who had bum-tripped and gone screaming down the bone-white beach as naked as a jay. He could remember snorting coke and chasing it with tequila. He could remember being shaken awake on Saturday morning, it must have been a week or so ago, to hear Kasey Kasem spin his record as a debut song at number thirty-six on American Top Forty. He could remember taking a great many reds, and, vaguely, dickering for the Datsun Z with a four-thousand-dollar royalty check that had come in the mail.
And then it was June 13, six days ago, the
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