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Take whatever you know, and think you know, about being a rock
star in the '60s and inject Bill Payne's name into the fray. “I grew up in pretty
interesting times,” Payne says as a matter of course. And while many legends
lived right along with him during this cultural explosion, precious few are
left to share the stories with us. And fewer still bother to talk about them.
In 1969, while poring over each and every note of Frank
Zappa's epic soundtrack-before-the-movie Uncle Meat, Payne was on
a mission to find Zappa in Los Angeles. He didn't. Instead, he wound up finding
a kinsman named Lowell George and started Little
Feat. And while that's the gist of the story, it's not quite enough. There's
a much bigger tale to be told--much bigger, actually, than could ever be told
here.
Payne lived out that Kerouac mandate that today proclaims one
of the great untold rock 'n' roll stories. He saw it all, did it all, and survived
it all. Taking full advantage of the West Coast's free-spirited vibe, and enjoying
the Summer of Love to its fullest, a teenage Payne went up and down California,
from San Francisco to L.A., more times than he cares to remember. Without much
more than a dream of playing music, he lived in his car, on the beach, and in
friends' apartments, hoping some band or another was in need a keyboard player
to fill out their roster.
Among all the other reasons that have to do with pure talent
and genius, it was persistence that ultimately provided Payne with the break
of his young life. He managed to convince the secretary at Zappa's Bizarre record
label that he was earnest, and that he didn't intend to give up easily. Zappa
and the Mothers had just departed for Europe and left guitar prodigy George
behind. And here’s precisely where the musical tectonic plates began to shift
for Bill Payne.
Another man with this sterling a resume might otherwise be conceited,
and certainly wouldn't bother with a greenhorn such as myself. But not Bill
Payne. In fact, the times I've connected with Bill for our conversations are
the most memorable of any other that I've conducted. And that has everything
to do with his respect, his warmth, and his wisdom.
What follows is the first part of a lengthy conversation I recently had with Bill. Here, we concentrate mostly on his early years--how, when, where, and why everything started for him on the road to rock stardom.
JamBase: You've got a great rock 'n' story that I really
think needs to be told. I mean, the early days of Little Feat, in particular,
could be made into a movie. But, I want to step back even further. You know,
I don't expect you to remember when you were five years old, but I've read that
you started playing music when you were that age.
Bill Payne: [Laughs] Yeah, well, I did. There was a little girl
across the street. I was in Ventura, California, and there was a little girl
across the street, Marilyn Newell, who was taking piano lessons. My sister had
taken piano lessons--Ann, who is 9 years older than I am--but she kind of fell
out of it. She didn't like the teacher. It was too difficult. You know, what
most kids do when they hit the wall. But Marilyn and I... I liked her as a friend,
but we were competitive at that age. And I kind of thought, "Well, God.
If she's taking lessons..." I think I was closer to 6, but I started playing
piano as a result of this little girl. And really wanting to take lessons because
she had taken them. So it was sort of that "if she can do it I can do it."
My teacher Ruth Newman had a lot to do with the way I play.
In other words, she allowed me to play by ear as well as read music. A lot of
teachers insist that you play the music and don’t goof around. It drove them
nuts for whatever reason. But Ruth had the insight to say, "Well, if he wants
to play the 'Davy Crockett Theme' we’ll let him play it." She even wrote it
out for me at one point so I could see visually what it looked like. She really
encouraged me every step of the way to develop on sort of a two-track basis--one
was learning music, and the other one was to play what I heard in my head.
I wrote for a Japanese magazine called Player for about
three-and-a-half years and I documented quite a lot of that stuff. You know
where you talk about influences, Scott? I submitted three articles of 1800 words
apiece to describe my influences. The first article I spent 1800 words to talk
about when I was playing rock 'n' roll.
I took the most important drive of my life to Los Angeles in
the summer of 1969. In fact, it was probably around May of that year. And, I
was driving down to Lowell's house. I was hugging the right side of the freeway,
trying to get down to Los Angeles, scared to death of traffic. I took myself
down to where Lowell lived, and described walking up to his house, a little
wooden house just off the street. And I said, "I’m getting a little ahead of
myself." So I went back a year to a year and a half before that, and all the
travails of heading up to San Francisco a couple times and trying to join a
band up there – sleeping in my car, sleeping on the beach, finally mustering
up the courage and information to give Lowell a call through the auspices of
Frank Zappa’s label--he had two of them, Bizarre and Straight.
So there's a lot there. I joined my first band when I was 15.
JamBase: Was that the Debonairs?
Bill Payne: Yeah, it was the Debonairs. But what preceded that was a church function of some sort. With two other guys in Ventura right before I moved. And we played a little rock 'n' roll kinda gig. All the type of playing that I had done up to that point had been, you know, playing with the school band, the orchestra, or playing in churches. Because I used to play the pipe organ as well as piano.
JamBase: Had you tried your hand at writing music early on?
Bill Payne: I did, sort of. In fourth, fifth, and sixth grade
at our elementary school--which is Washington Elementary in Ventura, California--I
was frequently asked to perform at these recitals. Not recitals, but gatherings…I
forget what the hell they call them. But we were in this theater, it was a pretty
nice little theater. And they would go [nasally], "Bill Payne will now play."
And I go, "I will? Huh…AAHH! What am I gonna play?" And I would be walking up
to the piano with a standing ovation, kids screaming and hollering. And I would
sit down. One time I had this song #821 – "Dut didda dut (etc.)," like it was
this kind of Chinese tune [laughs]. And I come back, following that, to more
standing ovation cheers. And then go out on the playground and get beat up like
everybody else. So that was kind of cool.
 There
was a lick that I was goofing around with on a song with the Doobie Brothers,
on one recording. I said, "Take that lick out, I was just goofing around." And
they go “No, no, no, we dig it. We like it.” Ted Templeman and everybody. And
I'm like “No I…I was just…uhh…I honestly…I didn’t…” and I told them that story
because I had played a similar type of song on the first record and this was
the second one. So years later, Tommy goes, “You know that lick you played in
that tune?” I go, “Yeah.” He says, “Well I went home and named the song 'China
Grove' as a result of you doing that.”
No kidding. So you're responsible for that whole riff?
Well, I guess for him naming it. It was in the bridge section
[sings bridge].
Sure…
That lick.
Wow!
So I was just like, I had been playing on all their songs that
day, so I thought, “Oh shit.” I wasn't bored but I was feeling, you know…frisky
[laughs]. I don't know what I was doing. But I threw in this lick and I said,
“No, no, let me redo that. Because that’s not what I wanted to play.” And they
go [gruffly], “No, no we love it.” And when I told him the story on top of it
then he went back and called it “China Grove” which I thought was pretty cool.
That’s great. A little extra credit there.
Yeah, I thought that was cool.
How early did you know that you wanted to play music for the rest of your life?
You know, that's a good question, Scott. I think it took me
a while to figure it out. In fact, the first band I auditioned for which was
an offshoot of the Debonairs. This was in Santa Maria, California. I was not
a very happy person when I moved up there because it was an entirely new set
of people I was going to meet. Although, one would think that would be exciting,
but I grew up in Ventura. I was a surfer. You know, pretty content and relaxed
with who I knew and what I was doing down there. And just not ready for a new
thing. But my parents, in their frustration with trying to figure out how to
bring me out of the weeds, so to speak, talked to some lady who said “Oh, my
son’s got a band. Maybe your son would like to meet these guys and see what
happens.” So I went over and auditioned. I auditioned to play drums.
I didn’t even think of playing piano for whatever reason. Which is probably
an indication of how out of it I was.
Were they looking for a drummer, is that why you auditioned?
Yeah, they were. So I thought, “Well you know, I’ll audition to play drums.” I went over there and they had a piano in the house. And during the middle of the audition I walked up and started playing the piano and they go, “Wait a second! Forget this bullshit. We got this band called the Debonairs. It’s the same group but we got a drummer. We’ve got another guy who has all the gear you need. And we’re gonna do that.” And that was almost an accident how I joined that band. My first gig was at the Eagles Hall. We made $5 plus all the beer you could drink.
That works on some level.
It did. On a level or two, exactly. And uh, there was--oh I wish I could remember his name. Mexican guy…played horns…sat in with the band on this one deal and we were playing “Harlem Nocturne.” I mean it was some magic stuff back then.
Something Wild circa 1966 |
So when you were in that band, it sounds like you were concentrating
mostly on rock 'n' roll covers.
Oh yeah. Original material didn’t come until Something Wild, a few years later. And when I first came to Los Angeles in ’69, one of the first people I met--outside of Lowell and Richie and Martin Kibbee and those folks--was a guy named Eliot Ingber. And Eliot played guitar with the original Mothers of Invention.
Sure…
Then later he was Winged Eel Fingerling with uhh…with uhh…
Beefheart, right?
Beefheart. Right. But Eliot, when I met him, he goes, “Check this out.” And he shows me this record. It’s Psychedelic Records, Acid Head Productions, Something Wild. And two songs--“Trippin’ Out” and “She’s Kinda Weird.” I go, “Where the hell did you get this?” He says, “I saw it at a cut-rate record store and I was intrigued by the title, so I had to get it.” Obviously I was on it. It was pressed at the Columbia Records plant up in Santa Maria, California. And I didn’t know, but maybe ten copies of it were ever sold. It was great that Eliot got his hands on it. By the way, I had no idea what psychedelic at that time was, or what Acid Head Productions were either. It was probably in 1966, or at the very top of ’67. I soon became acquainted with both terms a little later in ’67.
And I assume that’s around the same time you--I don’t want to use the word “obsessing”--but you really got into Uncle Meat.
Frank Zappa's Uncle Meat |
Yeah, I did. And I think “obsession” is not too strong a word
either. It was a lifeline, in a lot of ways, for me. Because as I said, I was
up in the San Francisco Bay Area trying to find a home up there, musically.
I didn’t.
I don’t know, it seemed to me the musical theme, for a guy like
myself I was obviously pushing hard to do something, I wasn’t real outgoing.
I mean, I just didn’t know how to go about doing what I was supposed to do.
But I had some friends, again from Something Wild, but they were now in a band
called The Wedge. And their idea was, “Hey I want you to join this band. But
you gotta live on the street.” And I said, “What the hell do you think I’ve
been doing?” [Both laugh]
So I wound up sleeping in my car up in San Francisco and bumming around during the day and tagging up with them for a couple rehearsals. And I did this out of a plan--a devious plan, which I’m occasionally into. I stayed at their place a couple times, I slept with the lead singer’s old lady a couple times. That was the late '60s; that was the scene back then. When it came down to playing the gig--which I think was a party for a Hell’s Angels chapter--I played the gig. They go, “Man, we love it. You’re in the band.” I go, “Yeah? Well fuck you” and split. I’d rather sleep in my car.
Really…
Yeah. So about that time I started listening to Uncle Meat. Maybe a couple, few months later. I said, “That’s the kind of music I want to play.” The problem was that Zappa lived in Los Angeles. And Los Angeles was one of the last places I said I would ever live. So, you know, once again, God’s sense of humor was at work and I find myself getting a hold of Zappa’s label and seeing if I could tag up with him. And he was gonna be in Europe.
Lowell George in 1975 |
But this guy named Jeff Simmons was available. And he was with a group called
Eureka. And I’d seen Eureka, or heard them play, at a freak-out that Zappa and
the Mothers did--my first, and I think, one of the few times I’d seen the Mothers
play, at the Shrine Auditorium. So I’d heard Jeff’s band play. So when they mentioned
Jeffrey Simmons, I thought, “Well yeah, that’s cool.” So I went down and met him
at the Tropicana Hotel in Hollywood down on Santa Monica Boulevard. I played him
some piano and he said, “Man, I don’t think this is gonna work. Because I play
guitar but I play piano. You know what, you oughtta check this guy out named Lowell
George. He’s got a band going. Frank Zappa said to start his own band, and
you might want to check him out.”
So I went back up to Santa Barbara, back to sleeping on the beach, sleeping in my car, sleeping in friend’s apartments. Once again put in a call to Bizarre Records. It took quite a few calls for them to accept that I was somebody that necessarily wasn’t going to give up and I wasn’t apparently too obnoxious. So one of the secretaries down there helped me and hooked me up with Lowell. We had a brief conversation, I went down to his house, and the rest is pretty much history. We hit it off in a big, big way.
I was there about four hours before he showed up. There was a little girl sitting cross-legged in the room. The door was open. I said, “I’m here to see Lowell.” She said, “Oh, he’ll be back in three or four hours. Come on in.” So, we talked for a while. I was looking at his book collection, record collection, what he had hanging on the wall. By the time Lowell showed up I really felt like I kind of knew him.
So what was your relationship like? You felt you already knew him…
I knew him in the sense that his collection of records had Howlin’
Wolf, there was a blues anthology by the Smithsonian Institute that had “Gonna
Join the Band.” The girl was listening to some Erik Satie when I came in. Some
nice classical music. His books included Howl by Allen Ginsberg, poetry
by Carl Sandburg, Last Exit to Brooklyn--really just dark. Dark and shitty
by today's standards. A very eclectic human being, was Lowell.
So you had this introduction before ever really introducing yourself. And then, eventually, I understand you lived in a VW van on his property.
Well that was actually a little later...
I don’t want to jump the gun there, but...
No, but that was--he eventually had one of the Price sisters
– Patty, Pam, and Prissy. Richie [Heyward, Little Feat’s drummer] was married
to Pam. And their mother was Lulabelle. And Lulabelle sang on “The Lion Sleeps
Tonight.”
Oh no kidding, by the Tokens?
Yeah. She did all the real high voice stuff. She sang on “I Can’t Stop Loving You” by Ray Charles and again, the person who had the highest voice in that group of singers. She did the theme to
Telstar, to Star Trek (sings the high “hoo-hoo-oo-oo”). All that stuff. Lulabelle was an amazing singer. A different pedigree from of us of course.
To say the least...
[Laughing] To say the least. Her son-in-law must have freaked
her out a couple times.
Oh man, I can only imagine.
When Richie had his first motorcycle accident--I think it was
his first one--she had Mel Blanc concoct a get-well tape for him. So he was
given best wishes from Bugs Bunny, Foghorn Leghorn...
I’m sure Richie probably appreciated that, too.
He did. Richie is truly the rock star of this band. In the best sense of the word, I think. He’s like Keith Moon, I mean.
He’s out with Bob Dylan now, isn’t he?
Yes he is. He certainly is. I encouraged him to do so.
That’s a great gig.
Yeah it is. I mean I hope someday to have the same opportunity, even if it’s just for a show or two to--I mean, you never know.
Dylan’s an absolute treasure. Along the lines of say, Hunter Thompson. People like that who are so far on top of the curve that…
It’s hard to really even measure.
Exactly, that's the point. How do you even measure Dylan or
Hunter? With some people, they're considered almost caricatures in a certain
sense. But that’s the deep impact they’ve made. I think with shallow thinking
that’s what happens. With people who think they’re observing that are not. They’ll
catch on to whatever the cliché is. You know, if it’s the voice or Tom Petty,
or whomever.
One of the first records, not that I bought for my son, but we were on a trip one time headed up to Montana. He said, “I want you to listen some of my music.” Which included Beck. And I said, “Yeah I’ll listen to it, I’d be happy to. But I want you to listen something I’m gonna buy you.” And I bought him Bringing It All Back Home. And of course he’s a Dylan fan to this day.
Well you know, it’s impossible--when people ask me, “Why are you such a big fan of Bob Dylan?” Why even bother to explain, really? But it’s also very hard to explain--especially if the person asking really doesn’t have any other knowledge, other than this guy with a whiney voice.
What I direct people to is--you know, if you love his voice
great, if you’re one of those that doesn’t, then there’s plenty of those that
don’t--then simply listen to his lyrics. Or buy a book of his lyrics. It’s like
buying a book of poetry. He’s an extraordinary person in terms of shedding light
on quite a few things in life that most people can’t articulate in that way.
And he had his guys that he was influenced by--Ramblin’ Jack Elliott. I mean,
listening to John Fahey, for example. Folk music is indeed a very rich part
of our musical history here, and one that certainly still reverberates.
STAY TUNED FOR PART II...
Interviewed by Scott Caffrey
JamBase :: New Jersey
Go See Live Music!
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