Monthly Archives: October 2012

Flat 8225: FLEETWOOD MAC 1975  OFFHAND has already been reviewed as part of the SODD title “Will The Real Fleetwood Mac Please Stand Up”

[Many thanks for the Dr. for sending me this scan.]

Track list: (Hot Wacks lists for side 1 only) Redunzel / Dog Breath 50-50 / Son Of The Clap / The Nancy & Mary Music Parts 1, 2, & 3 / Montana

The Flat release is then ‘name dropped’ as part of this later release:

Frank Zappa: Dupree’s Paradise (2 LP)

* Duke University, Durham, North Carolina, 24-Feb-1973

Label listed on cover and spine as “The Impossible Recordworks”, but on labels as “The Excitable Recordworks”.
Tracks are not seperated, each side consisting of a single track.

Both discs have identical labels, but track listing is as listed on rear cover.

Side A duration: 19:03
Side B duration: 23:11
Side C duration: 20:11
Side D duration: 26:20

The actual catalogue number is IMP 2-24.

Zappa F DP b
* Re-released on Toasted Records with a deluxe color cover[ca. 1981, see the “Frank as Medusa” color cover below]
* Also abridged to Pygmy Pony (Spindizzle/Flat FW 8228)

Musicians: Frank Zappa, Jean-Luc Ponty, George Duke, Ian Underwood, Ruth Underwood, Bruce Fowler, Tom Fowler & Ralph Humphrey
Dupree’s Paradise

Length: 88:20
Sound quality: Audience B
Label: Impossible Recordworks IMP 2.24,

1. RDNZL[listed as “Redunzel”] [06:16]
2. Dog Breath Variations[listed as “Dog Breath”] [03:09] / Uncle Meat [02:43]
3. Fifty-Fifty [instrumental] [07:01]

4. Inca Roads [instrumental] [07:04]
5. Warts & Mice [an improvisation]
6. Improvisation [16:15 (together with “Warts & Mice”)]

7. Montana [06:48]
8. Dupree’s Paradise [09:15]
9. I’m the Slime [04:14]

10. Don’t You Ever Wash That Thing?[listed as “The Nancy & Mary Music”] [20:37]
11. Cosmik Debris [05:58]

Tracks 5-6 are 16 minutes of radiant improvisation. Deluxe black & white cover. Released in 1979.

Review on “This two-record set is a bootleg recorded by a member of the audience during a concert by Frank Zappa at Duke University (in 1973, not 1974 as shown on the cover), with Zappa leading an eight-piece band that includes violinist Jean-Luc Ponty, keyboardist George Duke, and multi-reed player Ian Underwood (making his final tour with Zappa). The first five tracks originally appeared on a single bootleg LP called Pygmy Pony, but a portion of the introduction to “Inca Roads” was edited out to allow time to include Zappa‘s introduction of the musicians at the beginning of the concert — and to possibly omit the annoying conversation between the person taping the concert and another member of the audience during the early portion of “Inca Roads,” which was very audible on the earlier single LP bootleg.

“RDZNL,” “Dog Breath,” and “Fifty-Fifty” make up the initial long and spirited medley prior to the sudden edit into the middle of “Inca Roads.” A group improvisation works rather well, as does a lengthy jam on “Montana.” The nicest surprise is the instrumental “Dupree’s Paradise,” which didn’t appear on a commercial Zappa release until Pierre Boulez conducted an orchestral version in 1984 (though a nearly 24-minute version was recorded at a 1974 concert but not released until 1988 by Rykodisc). The music on this album makes up for its audio shortcomings.”

It Coulda Happened this Way — LiveR Than You’ll Ever Be

Chris was tall, lean, had black wavy hair that hit his shoulders, didn’t do drugs, but moved as if he’d been popping bennies. He was Dub’s friend and he was always around. He liked Dylan, but was passionate about the Rolling Stones. Dub liked them too. Me, I was a Beatles guy, but Chris was always playing the Stones, talking up the Stones.

Both Dub and I bought new cars, but I had kids and a wife, rent and bills. Dub did not, so he spent a good portion of his new found wealth on toys. Toys that made the music sound better. There was this high priced stereo place called Radio Lab in Glendale he’d go to for the latest gear. I was never surprised when I got to his place and found him setting up a whole new system. One week it was top of the line McIntosh, the next Marantz. Chris was always there, helping him with the set up, wanting to hear the Stones through the new speakers that not only rocked Dub’s small apartment, but could’ve rocked all the way to downtown LA if Dub had wanted.

I remember one time I got to Dub’s place in the middle of the afternoon and he had this huge, orange, egg shaped, fiberglass chair with a stereo built into it. Chris was ensconced in the egg, listening to the Stones, lost in Mick and Keith land.

“Look what I got.” Dub held up this flute-looking affair and for a second that’s what I thought it was.

“Wonderful,” I said trying to hide my ignorance.

“Sennheiser shotgun mike.” He waved it around the way Obi Wan would wield a light saber a couple generations later. It was obviously very expensive.

“I always wanted one of those,” I said.

“Who wouldn’t?” Dub hadn’t heard a drop of the sarcasm in my voice. He was like a kid who’d just found the present of his dreams under the Christmas tree. I half expected to hear Brenda Lee break out with ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ as he handed the mic to Chris.

“Neat, isn’t it?” Chris said from the chair as Mick started out on ‘Honky Tonk Woman.’

“I don’t know about the mic, but that chair looks pretty fuckin’ neat.”

“Try it.” Chris jumped up holding the mic like a sword.

I got in the chair and I must admit, the sound from that baby was just about the best you could hope for. The Stones were blasting away in my little world, but outside that chair they didn’t sound much louder then a clock radio. Amazing.

“That’s enough.” Chris grabbed my hand, jerked me out of the chair. He really did like the Stones.

“Got this too.” Dub pulled a small tape recorder out of a box that was sitting next to his latest Amp. “Uher 4000 seven-and-a-half inches-per-second reel to reel tape recorder. State of the art.” Those were Dub’s favorite words in those days, “State of the art.”

“What are you gonna do with that?”

“Chris and I are gonna record the Stones. Got tickets for five shows.”


“You and Chris?” I shook my head. Recording our own show was something new. It was one thing to get a tape and put it out, but actually going to the concert and recording it, this was heady stuff and it sounded dangerous.

“I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry, I’m gonna paint the mic flat black. No one’s gonna see it in the dark.”

I looked down at Chris in that chair and I swear to heaven and all the angels above, nobody had ever worn a wider smile. I didn’t know if it was the music or the prospect of seeing them live. Probably both.

So Dub and Chris went on tour with the Stones. They recorded the Los Angeles, San Diego, Oakland and Phoenix shows. In fact, they were on the same plane with the band when they left Phoenix. Chris couldn’t have been happier.

I sat around and watched them work when they got back. I was good with a splicing bar, Dub was better. There was a lot of fighting, arguing, wrangling about what songs were gonna go on the record. There wasn’t enough for a double LP and Dub didn’t want to cram so much music on the disc that it would lose quality. Unlike me, Dub was a perfectionist, he wanted this record to sound like you were really there.

And he had the equipment to do it. He was the first kid on his or any other block to get an equalizer. I remember when he brought it home from Radio Lab. I also remember how upset he was when it didn’t perform the way he thought it should. He fired off an unflattering letter to the company, saying that he was gonna come over and tell them in person what they could do with the turkey they’d developed. Immediately he got a reply back from one of the engineers, saying that he had a two-by-four waiting to crack over Dub’s head the second he showed up.

He took the machine back to Radio Lab, got another that worked the way he deemed it should and used his magic ear to make ‘LiveR Than You’ll Ever Be’ the best live LP released by any band, ever. To this day, nobody, not the Rolling Stones themselves, or anybody else, has been able to match that record for sheer presence. The music is violent. It rips from the speakers, cuts to the soul. Dub belongs in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for that record.

You can hear his meticulous attention to detail the second you put your needle down on the vinyl. The amps blew out during the first show, apparently surprising Mick, because he said, “sh*t, hang on a minute. Can you hear that?” Dub thought that would be a great way to start the record, so he cut it out of the first show and stuck it before ‘Carol,’ the opening song, a masterpiece of rock and roll editing.

With the tape ready to go, Dub wanted the best when it came to mastering the record, so he and Chris found a place on Sunset. I remember sitting in there late at night while they put on the tape. Like when Ted and I did Stealin’, everybody knew what was going on, but they did an outstanding job with the master.

So now we had a master, but we had nowhere to get it pressed. Again I thought of Jack Brown at Rainbow, but he was too closely connected to my father, so we decided to go to someplace new.

But other than Pete’s, or maybe Jack’s, I didn’t want to go into a pressing plant and neither did Dub. That left Chris and to his credit he was willing and able. After all, he figured, nobody in the biz knew him, so the worst thing that could happen was that they would say no.

“I don’t think that’s a problem,” I said, “because you’ve got a better chance of finding an honest man in the record business, than you do of finding water on the sun.” I knew the first place he went, would do the record, especially if he offered a little more than they charged the real record companies. Everybody in the business in those days was a crook. I remember one of the distributors used to say that if someone who worked for you made you more than he stole from you, then you couldn’t afford to fire him.

Of course, Chris was in for a third of this record. He was the one going to the new plant, after all, and he’d gone on the recording tour with Dub. A new partner, we didn’t care, not in those days. There was more than enough money to go around, besides we were hippies, well kind of.

With the record mastered the three of us climbed into Dub’s Camero and headed out toward Burbank, so Chris could meet the Waddell Brothers, Horace and Bud. We parked outside their pressing plant while Chris went in. It was nail-biting time. Could he pull it off? Twenty minutes later he came bouncing toward the car, hopped in with a laugh and a smile.

“How’d it go?” I asked as Dub started the car.

“He took the money.”

“When do we get our records?” Dub turned out of the parking lot onto Olive.

“Next week.” Chris looked over his shoulder, out the back window, checking to see if we were being followed. It had taken a lot of courage for someone as paranoid as him to go in there and order those records. I was surprised he was able to do it, but then, he really liked the Stones.

A week later Dub and I were up in his tiny apartment waiting for Chris and our new title. We heard him bounding up the stairs. Dub was ready to put the record on the turntable.

“You won’t believe this,” Chris said as he burst into the room.

“What?” Dub and I said in unison.

“Our record is being pressed at the same plant that’s doing ‘Let it Bleed.’ He set the box of records he’d been carrying next to the stereo.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

Dub just smiled.

“Think of it,” Chris said. “The Stones’ real record and the bootleg being pressed together, side by side.

“This can’t be good,” I said as I checked out the box Chris had brought up. Sure enough it was a London Box.

“Why not?” Dub wanted to know.

“He’s worried about someone from London going to the plant and seeing our records there,” Chris said.

“It won’t happen,” Dub said. “Those guys are so lazy. They just wanna sit back in their plush offices and count their money.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It could be anyone, a driver for example.”

“You’re worried about nothing.”

“Besides, there’s nothing we can do about it,” Chris said. A statement that was remarkable coming from him, paranoid as he was.

Dub and I weren’t nearly as paranoid as him, but we were getting there. More and more we were meeting people we didn’t know. Underground types, criminal types, people living on the edge, drug dealers too, because they thought selling bootlegs was safer than dope.

We came up with this grand plan, we’d give ourselves alter egos. Our real names would be our secret identities, sort of like Superman and Batman. We were, of course, still wearing our buckskin jackets, still standing out like Hollywood pimps, and that bright orange Camero of Dub’s was anything but low key.

Chris didn’t need an identity, because he would pick up the records, meet me and Dub somewhere in the middle of the night, transfer the records to the Camero and get himself out of the picture. Back then I wouldn’t have traded places with him for all the cereal in Battlecreek, but that was before I knew Bud and Horace Waddell. You didn’t want to mess with Horace, but if you were straight with him, you didn’t have anything to worry about.

One night after the record had been out for a while, Chris met us in a parking lot close to Tommy’s at nine straight up with a car full of records. There was no moon, clouds closed off the stars. I smelled rain in the air, something else too, the cooking beef from Tommy’s wafting on the wind, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Chris was even more jumpy than usual. Soon he would be out of the business. It was too much for him.

His paranoia was contagious, all of a sudden shivers knifed up my spine and all I wanted to do was go home, but we had records to deliver, so we set up a chain, Chris tossing the boxes to me and me to Dub, who tossed them into the Camero. By the time we were finished the Camero was stuffed with the brown boxes, trunk and back seat both.

“Drive’s like a sled,” Dub said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“No fast getaway for us.”

“Not tonight.”

We drove to a residential neighborhood in North Hollywood, where we were supposed to meet the guys buying the records. We’d never met them before, Chris had set it up.

“There,” I pointed, “that’s the address.”

Dub pulled up in front of the house, parked.

“Now what do we do?” he said.

“I don’t know, get out and knock.”

“It’s dark, doesn’t look like anybody’s home.”

“Let’s go.”

Someone came up from behind, rapped on the window.

“sh*t!” Dub said.

It scared me too.

“We’re in the van across the street,” this big guy said. He had an accent, Italian kind of. And he was speaking loud enough for us to hear him with the windows up. He was sure of himself.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said.

Dub rolled down the window.

“We’ll pull up behind you.”

“Okay.” The guy sauntered back across the street, a big Marlon Brando from one of those early biker films.

“Who are we tonight?” I said.

“I’ll be Rick, you be Terry.”

“Got it.”

“I just want this to be over.” Dub shut the engine off behind a dark Ford van.

“Me too.” I got out of the car.

“You got everything we ordered?” Brando asked, only now he didn’t look like Marlon anymore. Up close I could see he had a pockmarked face. He also had dark eyes that said don’t fuck with me and a bulge under his faded Levi jacket that I didn’t want to know about.

“Come on, Terry,” Dub said.

I ignored him.

“Terry, Terry?”

Still I ignored him.

“I think your friend’s taking to you.”

“Me?” All of a sudden I remembered who I was supposed to be. “Yeah, yeah, okay, Rick.”

Marlon opened the back of the van and we got those records in there as fast as we could. Finished the guy reached for that bulge and I was sure this was going to be a rip off, but instead he pulled out a wallet stuffed full of hundred dollar bills. He grabbed them out of the leather pocket.

“Want me to count it out for you, or what?”

“That’s okay,” I said. “We trust you.”

“Sure you do, Terry.” The guy handed over the money, got in the passenger side of the van and the drove off. We never did see the driver.

“I don’t know about you,” I said once we were safely back in the car, “but I never want to see that guy again.”

“And I never want to shift records around in the middle of the night like this. What if a cop would’ve come by?”

“Right, never again.” I didn’t know it, but I’d just lied. I’d be shifting records around in the dark of night for a long time to come.

Source: KBFH recording & broadcast, Convention Center, Dallas, TX – November 15th, 1976

Here is the complete set list for the Dallas show and at least the bold titles are confirmed to be on this album:

Hello Old Friend, Sign Language, Badge, Knocking On Heaven’s Door, One Night With You, Tell The Truth, Can’t Find My Way Home, Blues Power, Layla, Further On Up The Road (w. Freddie King)

Side 2 on the LP is listed as having: Whole Lotta Shakin, Can’t Find My Way Home, Livin’ on Blues Power

I do believe that some of these titles are incorrect and side 2 is from the Dallas recording as well. As the ‘producers’ were already wildly off the mark regarding the year of this concert, does it surprise?

wolfgangsvault has some of the show available:

King Crimson Senabular 2

Recorded at: University Of Texas, Arlington, TX – October 6th, 1973

  • 1. Lark’s Tongue In Aspic
  • 2. Easy Money
  • 3. Fracture
  • 4. Book Of Saturday

From “this one from the University Of Texas is among the very best Crimson audience tapes in existence. The producer of the tape was sitting very close to the stage and used an ECM-19B Sony external microphone with a Realistic-7 recorder. The atmosphere and detail present is simply astonishing. […] Previous […] releases of this tape include […] Senabular Flat (8221).

The ferocious performance by the band easily eliminates any trifling concerns. This has to be one of the best concerts caught on tape. In the autumn ’73 tour Crimson were in the transition phase to Starless And Bible Black which would reach its culmination in November.”


This very bootleg source has been available for purchase from for some years now. One of the few instances of an artist making a bootleg source available for purchase.

Soundbites from KC collectors:

“A thoroughly exciting show with an energy which comes through despite the limitiations of listening to an audience tape, albeit a very good one for the age and DGM post production.  Good balance and clarity.  “Fracture” is great listening for the ’new’ section, the improv is a monster, and the “Talking Drum/Larks II” is firery. ”

“The 10/6/73 performance is phenomenal, and the recording is excellent.  Sure, it’s a boot but the sound is warm and full.  This could be the best boot recording I’ve heard – particularly from 30 plus years ago.  In my opinion, the sound quality is MUCH better than the Central Park ’74 show available through the KCCC.  As for the performance, it is wonderful in the established repertoire and the improvs are spectacular.  In my opinion, again.  This performance is every bit the equal of the Concertgebouw ’73 released as The Nightwatch and I’d say even more powerful.  And you get RF’s “happy hippies” announcement.  Don’t hesitate, grab this one. ”

“This is the most impecable version of Larks’ to my knowledge. ”

“I’ve got a copy of the vinyl LP Senabular and it always was one of favourite bootlegs. The Improvised track (which I dubbed Senabular (not original I know)) was my favourite piece of improvisation from my bootleg collection. It really is a first rate concert, as always the RF Announcement is very amusing, typical English humour.”

“Absolutely intense.  One of the best perfomances I have heard from any line up.  David’s Viola/Violin is much more promenant than any other recording I have heard.”

“This is an awesome concert. Yeah it’s a bootleg , but what you have here is , undoubtably , the best quality version of this concert available. Without the inclusion of such bootlegs gems like this are not available to be heard. IMO the sound quality is very listenable and the vibe of this concert is fantastic.”

It Coulda Happened this Way — Bookies & Crooks

Vesta and I were watching this program on Television with Gene Barry and Susan St. James called ‘The Name of the Game,’ sort of a liberal leaning Friday night series about the newspaper business when Ted from Records and Supertape called me up. He had these soundboard Dylan tapes I just had to hear.

“When?” I said.

“How do I get to your place?” He was excited and I gave him directions. He was living in the back of his Record Store on Pico off Robertson in Santa Monica and I lived in Lakewood, a long way to go on a Friday night just to play someone a tape, but his obvious excitement told me there was something about these tapes that couldn’t wait till daylight. Besides, if he was going to drive all the way to my place, then I was going to stay up and listen.

It was almost midnight when he showed up. He was a stocky guy, about five-six or seven, with hair to his shoulders, who didn’t know how to frown. In my life I’ve never met a guy so up. Even when he was down his smile told the world life was great. That night he was higher than you could ever get on drugs and he was juggling a reel of tape back and forth in his hands like it was white hot.

“Put this on.” He handed the tape over.

“I’m all set up.” I took it and felt an electric energy ripple from my fingers to the back of my neck. His mood was infectious and I quickly caught it.

“What do you think?” he said after about a minute of ‘Killing Me Alive,’ an electric outtake from Highway 61.

What I thought was, “How in the world did he get this tape and why wasn’t this song on the album?”, but what I said was, “Let me hear a little more.” Dub was going to have a cow when he got to hear this. Two more songs into the tape and the mask started to slip off the Lone Ranger. “This stuff has gotta get on vinyl,” I said. Up until then, I’d been pretty low key. Nobody in the record business, except my father and Pete at the pressing plant, knew of my involvement with the Dylan bootleg. I wanted to keep it that way, but if I wanted those tapes, I was going to have to decide pretty quick about telling Ted.

“We need to find the Great White Wonder guys.” Ted bounced on the balls of his feet as he paced my living room.

“You found ’em, Kimosabe.” The mask had been whisked away, the decision not hard to make at all, the desire to have the tapes greater than my desire for secrecy.

“You?” He turned, stared at me through the dark. Vesta and the kids were asleep. I had a green lava lamp on. Ted looked ghostly.

“Ya wanna master it right now?” I was good with a splicing bar, fast and accurate.


A couple hours later and after a lot of wrangling about which songs were going to go on the record, we finally finished and took off the headphones. Now it was time to see how well we’d done. We sat back to smoke a joint and listen to our effort. We played the tape low, so as not to wake anyone, each lost in our own thoughts when ‘Stealin’’ came on.

“I didn’t say to put that on there,” Ted said.

“I didn’t want it on there either,” I said.

“Let’s take it off,” he said.

“Okay.” I got off the couch to get the splicing bar.


I stopped.

“What a great title. Stealin’. It’s fate,” he said. And the song stayed on.

The next day Ted and I met with Dub and played the tape. There were some songs left over that Ted let us have and Dub had managed to get ‘Talkin’ John Birch Society Blues’ and ‘Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie’ which were taken off Freewheelin’ and a couple other songs, so Birch must have already been percolating in his brain when he agreed to take Ted on for a third of Stealin’.

So now we’ve got this great tape, mastered and ready to go. But we needed somewhere new to get it pressed. Pete never seemed to have more than two presses working at any one time, despite the massive amount of machinery he had in his plant, and oftentimes only one was in production, plus he had regular customers. We needed to go elsewhere.

I knew Jack Brown at Rainbow, but was reluctant to go there, as he’d been involved in a court case with my father, the two of them against a record company that accused Jack Brown of over pressing and selling the illegal over runs to Jack Douglas at Saturn. Go figure. The last thing I wanted to do was get caught at his plant and bring them both more grief.

Then I remember this black guy named Harry. He was a heavy set man who used to come into Saturn all the time looking for that pot of gold with a new single he’d just recorded, usually black acts, but the last time he’d been in he had a white girl from USC in tow and she’d done a cover of ‘Proud Mary.’ She was pretty good, but nobody’s as good as Tina, so I knew right away that song wasn’t ever going anywhere. What stuck out about Harry was that in addition to being able to get records pressed, he ran an illegal sport’s book. No way would a bookie turn us in. So we decided to give him a call.

Harry was almost as excited as Ted when we met at his apartment. Yes, he could get them pressed, for an equal share. So now, like with Great White Wonder, we were four, Harry, Ken, Dub and Ted. Four didn’t work out so well the first time and Dub didn’t think it was going to work this time either. There was a prickly sensation in the air when he and Ted were together and an icy chill when he and Harry met. Dub could be stubborn, Ted unpredictable and Harry, well Dub and Ted had no experience dealing with a smooth talking hustler like him. Dub wanted Stealin’ to come out and he wanted the extra songs, so we agreed that I’d deal with Harry and Ted. Ted and Harry didn’t like each other from the get go. Harry ignored Ted, pretending there were only three partners. Ted thought Harry was a crook. He was, but weren’t we all?

Ted and I got the acetate for Stealin’ cut at Goldstar Studios in Hollywood. We just went in one day with the tape, asked if we could master a record and this guy took us back into the studio, put on a blank acetate, qued it up, put on the tape for a sound check and Bob Dylan’s voice blasted through the studio. Everything else that was going on there stopped and people started to crowd around as this guy started to work.

“Sounds like Bob Dylan,” someone said.

“It is Bob Dylan,” someone else said.

There must’ve been fifteen or twenty musicians and engineers enjoying themselves as we made that record. Listening to the tape loud through their sound system sent chills up my back. I was on edge. Of course, thinking the cops were gonna come busting in and cart us away at any second might’ve had something to do with that. But the cops didn’t come and that night I met Harry and gave him the acetates. It was going to happen. We were doing another record, Dub and me.

A couple weeks later Harry showed up with records.

“What’s this?” I took the first record out of a box and held it up for Harry to see, pointed at the fictitious record company name on the label.

“HarKub,” Harry said. “It stands for Harry, Ken and Dub.”

“Christ, Harry, it’s supposed to be a secret. We don’t want anybody connecting us to this.”

“Relax,” he said, but I couldn’t. I suppose if you’re a bookie and used to dodging the law, making a few thousand copies of an underground record wasn’t a big deal.

Ted’s perennial grin slipped when he saw the labels. I didn’t have to tell him what HarKub stood for, he wasn’t stupid. No part of his name was in there and he wasn’t too happy about that. And he was less happy when he figured out that Harry was pressing extra copies for himself and underselling us all over L.A. My father was still struggling along with Saturn and Ted had arranged a meeting with Harry in the alley that dead-ended behind the one-stop. He’d told Harry that he needed several hundred records and he was going to meet him with a gun and just take them.

“Bad idea,” I said.

“Bad Karma,” Ted said. “Just give me some records and I’m out of the deal.”

“I’ll do what I can.” And I did. I met Harry, paid him for the records, gave them to Ted and now there were three of us.

But Dub too had learned of Harry’s stupid double-cross and didn’t want anything more to do with the man. Harry denied it, but how many fast taking, chunky black guys could’ve been out there selling Bob Dylan bootlegs to the hippy record stores. While I was telling Harry the partnership was over, Dub was remastering Stealin’ along with our next offering, John Birch Society Blues. Harry kept on selling the HarKub Stealin’ for awhile, but eventually he gave up and Dub and I were back on our own with three titles now and we were keeping Pete’s antiquated pressing plant very busy.

Soon after Birch came out we were approached by this guy named Joe who claimed to manage someone called Alice Cooper. He wanted us to do a half Alice, half Dylan Bootleg to help kick off Alice’s career.

“Come to the Ice House,” he said. “Alice is going to kill a live chicken on stage. It’ll really be something to see.”

We declined, both the offer to see Alice live and the bootleg deal, but I’ve often wondered what would have happened if we’d done the record. Alice Cooper undoubtedly would still have gone on to become what he turned out to be, but he’d’ve forever been associated with bootleg records. Would other acts have gone that route? It certainly wasn’t the last time we were approached by a budding rock star or even the real deal and asked to bootleg them.

Joe wasn’t dismayed that we’d turned him down, on the contrary, he turned out to be our biggest customer to date. He bought records in the hundreds, paid cash and did business like a businessman. No clandestine meetings somewhere on Sunset in the middle of the night, he had us deliver the goods up to his apartment in Hollywood, had us up for cokes, a joint (not for Dub) and television. I remember one night when we were up there they had a Holocaust documentary on. We’re sitting around stoned, counting the cash, pigging out on cardboard snacks as we’re watching these Nazi films. It didn’t seem right somehow, but nobody turned the channel. I think it might have been the first time some of that stuff was aired. After a bit we put the cash away, the dope too. We couldn’t eat anymore, not and watch that.

It makes you wonder, the Holocaust, what it’s all about. At the time the war in Vietnam was getting hotter as the months dragged on. Billions in bombs, young lives on both sides. How could we have come through Hitler and the Holocaust and not learned anything at all? I suppose that’s one for the politicians and not us mere mortals.

About this time someone stole that tape from John Lennon in Canada and put out a Beatles bootleg. Someone else put out a Dylan/Band thing called Troubled Troubadour and Dub and I weren’t alone anymore.

[The first ever Beatles bootleg, released in the fall of 1969]

[“Troubled Troubadour” originally started out under this title seen below]

Norty and Ben had been captured and were out of business, but they weren’t tuned in to the counter culture, didn’t know how to hide in plain sight.

Joe didn’t seem to be hiding either. He was buying more records from us than ever and taking them to his apartment was starting to be a hassle, so he had us deliver them to the airport. Not the freight dock, but the passenger terminal. We’d drive up with three carloads of records, the skycap would ask to see a ticket and Joe would hand him a hundred dollar bill, then we’d load the boxes onto the curb as the skycap made out a baggage claim for each and every one. Joe would put a black X on the last box, put the claim tickets in it, tape it up and we’d be off. His customer in New York would meet the plane with a hand truck or two, load them up, open the Xed box for his claim checks, thus saving hundreds of dollars in freight bills, not to mention that there were no records of the shipments.

I remember one night, this young skycap refused Joe’s ticket.

“Get your boss out here,” Joe said. Not angry, but in a way that let the skycap know he meant business.

“What seems to be the problem?” this old black guy in a skycap uniform said.

“Your man here doesn’t like my ticket,” Joe handed him the hundred.

“He’s a fool.” The old guy snatched the money and we unloaded the records.

This went on for quite awhile. We were eating out every night. Dub got a new orange Camero, I got a blue Firebird 400. We were stylin’. We bought hundred dollar leather jackets with lots of fringe that the rock stars were wearing. We looked like Davy Crocket and Daniel Boone.

Then Joe came to us with an offer from some guys in Toronto to buy a set of the Stealin’ and Birch stampers for twenty thousand dollars. This was serious money. Real serious money. The deal was, we’d make them a set of stampers and we got to keep making the records ourselves. These guys, whoever they were, were gonna make the records in Canada, not interfere with us at all. We told Joe we’d think about it. Joe left, we talked it over, but not for long.

“Free money,” Dub said.

“Free money,” I agreed, “let’s do it.”

So we got in Dub’s Camero that night, went to Joe’s, told him the deal was on.

“Great,” he said. “Now all you have to do is fly to Toronto, deliver the stampers and collect the money.”

“What?” I said.

“They want to meet you,” Joe said.

“But we don’t wanna meet anybody,” Dub said.

“That’s right,” I said. “We’re anonymous.”

“We’ll think about it,” Dub said and we left.

“How come they’re paying us twenty grand when all they have to do is copy the records like Norty and Ben did?” I said as soon as we got into Dub’s car.

“I was wondering the same thing.” Dub keyed the ignition and we drove around in silence for awhile.

“Think it’s a setup?” Dub said.

“Nobody’s gonna pay that kind of money for a couple sets of stampers.”

“How come we didn’t see it before?”

“We were stupid.”

“Stupid.” Dub pounded the steering wheel.

“We gotta be more careful,” I said.

“You’re not kidding about that.”

So there we were, Davy and Daniel sans coonskin caps, driving around Hollywood in the middle of the night in a bright orange Camero, wondering what our next move was going to be. We must’ve looked like a couple white pimps, but we were cool, oh so cool.

Meanwhile the Rolling Stones were getting ready to go on tour.

Live at Carnegie Hall, New York City; December 5, 1970. Very good audience recording.

Side 1: Down By The River/ Cinnamon Girl/ I Am A Child/ Expecting To Fly/ The Loner/ I’m Wondering/ Helpless
Side 2: Southern Man/ Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing/ On The Way Home/ Tell Me Why/ Only Love Can Break Your Heart/ Old Man


From two reviews:

“While fans have enjoyed Neil Young’s 1974 Bottom Line show (circulated as Citizen Kane Junior Blues), another show many fans are familiar with is the December 5, 1970 show at Carnegie Hall.

In Neil Young: The Definitive Story Of His Musical Career, Johnny Rogan wrote:

The performances at Carnegie Hall in December (4th-5th) were regarded by Young as some of the most important of his career. Young even stated that he would have gladly played for free, just for the pleasure of performing at that prestigious venue. The seriousness with which Young took those performances were evident in some of his adverse comments to the audiences. He demanded silence between songs and when one punter shouted for a song, Young gave him this stern reply:

“Listen, let me tell you one thing. As a performer, when you play Carnegie Hall you look forward to it for a number of years. I don’t take playing here lightly at all and I think that you should have enough faith in me to know that I would plan ahead and include all of the songs that I thought you’d want to hear. That’s OK at the Maple Leaf Gardens… but I’m not Grand Funk Railroad.” [Ed: For this set, he stopped early on Clancy. According to the book Shakey, Young was upset at some noisy fans and called for an intermission.]

…The intimacy that Young achieved during these solo gigs were mainly due to the fact that all his songs were presented in their bare acoustic form. While the electric Down By The River had ended the sets with Crazy Horse during the early part of the year, it was suddenly transformed into the opening acoustic number of his Carnegie set.

There were other surprises too, most notably the acoustic versions of Cinnamon Girl, The Loner, Cowgirl In The Sand, Ohio and Southern Man, all of which were previously well known electric cuts. Young appeared effortlessly to transform them into an acoustic framework, without losing ay of the power or emotion that characterized the original electric versions. Carnegie Hall was a personal triumph and fully demonstrated Young’s ability to take his own show on the road without the necessity of a backing group.

During that Carnegie concert, Young introduced a couple of new numbers, including Old Man and Bad Fog Of Loneliness.”

“Neil Young – Live At Carnegie Hall 1970

In the winter of 1970, Neil Young went on his first solo, unaccompanied tour. He had already toured with Crazy Horse backing him, and as part of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, but this was the first time he went out on his own. It was also at a time when his career was starting to really go somewhere, after his time with CSNY and the recent success of his third solo album, After The Gold Rush. He was becoming seriously popular. The tour has been widely bootlegged, and recently (2007) a concert recording from Toronto’s Massey Hall was released as part of his Archives series. However long before this release Neil Young fans had been sharing recordings of concerts from this tour.
This is one of them, from one of his performances at Carnegie Hall in New York City, in early December 1970. The sound quality might not be quite as good as the official Massey Hall release, but it doesn’t really effect the quality of the experience, the whole concert being performed solo on acoustic guitar and piano. Caught at an exciting time in Young’s career, the songs come from his Buffalo Springfield days and his first three solo albums, plus “Helpless” and “Ohio” from his tenure with CSNY… and a few then-unreleased songs. These are “Old Man”, which would be released on his next album (1972’s Harvest), plus a few that wouldn’t see release until many years later (“See The Sky About To Rain” came out in 1974, “Wonderin'” didn’t see release until 1983, and “Bad Fog Of Loneliness” remained unreleased until the Massey Hall album). All twenty one songs are given new life through these stark solo arrangements, and the recording just makes for more evidence of Neil Young’s genius as a songwriter.”


Notes regarding the master:

“Neil is chatty (though the taper turns the recorder off between songs, missing some of the banter), if a bit testy at times about audience noise; at one point, he starts “Clancy,” then stops abruptly and takes an intermission. The setlist includes a few songs that would not be played the following year, including “Cinnamon Girl,” “Wonderin’ ,” “Southern Man,” “Flying on the Ground” and “Birds.” Sound is good to very good.

Neil Young
12-05-1970, Carnegie Hall, New York City, NY (late show) Complete Solo

Source info: AUD>Cass>CD-R>EAC>FLAC Frontend


Disk 1:

1. Down By The River
2. Cinnamon Girl
3. I Am A Child
4. Expecting To Fly
5. The Loner
6. Wonderin’
7. Helpless
8. Southern Man
9. Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing (aborted)

Disk 2:

1. On The Way Home
2. Tell Me Why
3. Only Love Can Break Your Heart
4. Old Man
5. After The Goldrush
6. Flying On The Ground Is Wrong
7. Don’t Let It Bring You Down
8. Cowgirl In The Sand
9. Birds
10. Bad Fog Of Loneliness
11. Ohio
12. See The Sky About To Rain
13. Sugar Mountain


Source: Tokyo, Nichidai Kodo – April 4, 1976, last night of Queen’s second Japan tour

Quality: “a bit worse” than the original LP

Set list (bold titles included on the album):

Bohemian Rhapsody (tape & rock part), Ogre Battle, Sweet Lady, White Queen, Flick Of The Wrist, Bohemian Rhapsody (verses), Killer Queen, The March Of The Black Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody (reprise), Bring Back That Leroy Brown, Brighton Rock, Son And Daughter, The Prophet’s Song, Stone Cold Crazy, Doing All Right, Lazing On A Sunday Afternoon, Keep Yourself Alive, Liar, In The Lap Of The Gods…Revisited, Now I’m Here, Big Spender, Jailhouse Rock, God Save The Queen

The quality on the original Marc Records release shown below is described as “great quality, although a bit distant”.

It Coulda Happened this way — There was Money There

After Jim came back to Saturn with the cash, we had a meeting, Dub, Sam and me. All of a sudden we were seeing dollar signs. If one store could take four hundred copies of our Dylan record, how many could we sell? Sam thought lots and was willing to finance us, for a third. Dub and I still couldn’t go around and sell them and Sam was almost as well known by the record store owners as we were. The answer was right in front of us and we cut deserter Jim in. Sam’s share dropped to a fourth, as did ours.

The next day I drove out to Hollywood and Korelich Engineering to order more records. Pete had a rambling set of buildings on Highland, between Melrose and Sunset. I used to love the drive from L.A. up to there. The rich houses on Sixth Street, then Highland Avenue. The great trees that blocked out the sun. It was as if I were driving through another world. So close, but so far from the Los Angeles teaming with millions of people, scratching, working and hustling out a living that I knew.

I parked my 1957 two door Ford station wagon in front of Pete’s pressing plant. I’d paid twenty-five dollars for that car from my friend Malcolm’s father because he was going to junk it and that was the going price from junkyards in those days. I drove that car for two years, shifted a lot of bootlegs around in it, before the transmission finally gave up the ghost in Downey, where I coasted off the freeway and sold it to the guy pumping gas in a Texico for five bucks, enough for cab fare home.

Pete’s pressing plant was like a walk through an alien place. A musty, dusty place where machines once ruled, but were conquered, dismembered and stowed for a future use that would never come. He had parts of machines in there that nobody alive had ever heard of. You could get lost in the metal maze. One wrong turn, starvation, one wrong move, lean on the wrong thing and something made of cast iron could fall and kill.

It was after closing time when I got there, as it would be most times when I did business with him. His band of illegal employees had gone home. The sun was going down, casting mechanical shadows throughout the place.

“Hey, Pete,” I shouted.

“Back here.”

“I followed the sound of his voice to an office I’d never been in. Pete was flat on his back on a couch, one leg in the air, a rope around his shod foot leading around some kind of high bar he’d rigged up over the end of the couch to a couple coffee cans full of cement tied to the other end of it.

“It looks serious. Why?” I said.

“Traction, I hurt my back.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No, I read about it. This is supposed to make it better.”

“How long are you gonna be this way?”

“A few weeks.”

“How are you gonna work? Or eat?”

“I won’t do it during the day.”

“Ah.” I nodded, tried not to smile. Did he live there? I looked around. It didn’t look like it, but you never really knew with Pete. He could live in a mansion, at the plant or anywhere in between. He didn’t give anything away. You took him as you found him and for me that was easy to do. He was eccentric, but he was easy to like.

“I need more records.”

“You sold all those?” He tried to sit up, couldn’t, those cement cans were holding him down.

“Did somebody help you into this thing?”

“Did it myself.” He was actually beaming. I shook my head, maybe he got hooked up by himself, but I couldn’t see how he’d get unhooked without help.

“Want me to—?”

“No, I’m fine. How many more records?”

“How about a thousand?”


“With white labels this time.”

“Really?” He was on his elbows now, still hampered by the cement. For a few seconds there I thought he was going to get up and press them straightaway, but he fell back down. “Two days.”

The next day Bill Bowers was in Saturn, holding court before a bunch of record store owners. He was a funny guy, a great story teller and the story he was telling was about this guy who’d come by Vogue and sold him a load of Dylan bootlegs. A fold open double white cover with stupid labels on ’em. It was the first time I’d heard the word bootleg associated with a record. We’d invented ’em, Dub and me, rock bootlegs anyway, but we didn’t know what they were called.

Bill was like our unpaid advertising arm. I don’t know if he knew it, but he’d started the rumor flying. There was a Bob Dylan bootleg out there and all those guys wanted them in their stores. The record had only been out a day, had yet to be played on the radio. Nobody new it existed and already it was in demand. If we’d’ve been a little sharper, we coulda got rich, but we coulda got caught, too, so maybe it was a good thing we were a little stupid.

By the end of the week I was back at Pete’s with Sam’s money to pick up the records. I delivered them to Dub and he took Jim around to the record stores to sell them. It took an afternoon. That night we went to the Free Press Bookstore on Fairfax and we saw our records displayed under a sign calling it the Great White Wonder Record, because it was marketed in a white jacket, not because Bob Dylan was the Great White Wonder.

Dub loved it, the next day while I was back at Pete’s ordering two thousand copies, much to Pete’s delight, Dub was out ordering a rubber stamp. Four thousand records would take Pete a few days to do, so I picked them up as he made them. It seemed for a month or two that his pressing plant was my second home. When I showed up at Dub’s with the first batch of our third pressing, he and Jim surprised me with the stamp. Dub was a genius. The slipshod way we did the record, the limited way we made it available, Dub’s stamp, the disappointing Nashville Skyline, all this combined to turn our record into a phenomenon.

In days it was all over the underground FM stations in L.A. and KRLA, the station that tried so hard to be the hip AM station in Los Angeles was all over it, too. Some of the Dylan/Band stuff was out there by the Band and other people, Julie Driscol had done a song, I remember that album, Julie Driscol and the Trinity. They did a great version of Donovan’s ‘Sunshine Superman’ on it. Mimi Farina did a cut, too, but it was Manfred Mann’s hit recording of the ‘Mighty Quinn,” I believe, that woke everybody up to the fact that Bob Dylan had done something significant between that motorcycle accident and John Wesley Harding.

I don’t know if Nashville Skyline was a big record for Colombia, but it was a turkey for Saturn. I think I bought ten thousand copies from them (somehow my father had turned me into the rock buyer), sold three and returned seventeen. How a one-stop was able to return more records than it actually bought back in those days is another story and one that deserves telling, but not here. It’s enough to say that there were crooks in the music business back in those days. The ’60s were sort of like the wild west in the record business.

If we’d’ve been older, knew the law or had an attorney, we might have gone big time, but weren’t and we didn’t. We stayed small and our record became an instant collector’s item. And so to answer the question for all those collector’s that I’ve seen posed at all these bootleg sites I’ve recently discovered on the net. The original, the real original Great White Wonder, came in a double fold white jacket with the Rocoulion labels on them that Pete had lying around his plant, there were four hundred made. The second batch, without the rubber stamp, had white labels. There were a thousand made. From then on all the records we did were stamped with the rubber stamp. How many of those did we do? Who knows, a lot, we weren’t keeping track.

But one thing’s for sure, Norty and Ben made a lot more.

Norty Beckman was my father’s friend. Mine too. He was a big man, liked to eat. He had a big head, lots of curly hair. You could hear him breathe when he talked. He used to write short stories and bring them around for me to read. He had a store not far from the Free Press Bookstore on Fairfax, called Norty’s Records. He was in Saturn most everyday, as were a lot of record store owners.

Ben Goldman owned Ben’s Records. He was Norty’s brother-in-law. He called himself a big man. To me he seemed fat and out of shape, but he used to tell me about how he put on his kimono and did his karate workouts. One of my brothers was a karate guy. They didn’t wear kimono at his dojo. Ah well, maybe Ben studied a different kind of karate. But if he did, he had to do it between his wizard stock market trades. If the market went down yesterday, he’d sold just before. If it went up, he was there on time. He was single and bragged about his dates and girlfriends. “Why get married when you can have the cow for free,” he was fond of saying.

The third pressing of Great White Wonder had only been out a few days and Ben was in Saturn telling any store owner who would listen how David Crosby had been in his store. How he bought Great White Wonder. “The rock stars love the record,” he exclaimed. Dub and I just stood their deadpan. You never knew about Ben, but this was a story we wanted to believe.

While Dub and Jim were meeting reporter Jerry Hopkins in the Platerpuss Record Store in Hollywood one night, the brothers-in-law, Norty and Ben were conspiring to make their own record. A copy of ours. In those days, it didn’t take long for something said on the street or in the back of a record store to appear in Rolling Stone. Jerry’s story about GWW made Sam go ballistic.

“We gave the Rolling Stone guy fake names,” Dub said. “We called ourselves Vladimer and Patrick.”

“Boy that fooled ’em.” I’d never seen Sam angry before. He turned to me. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Think he was upset?” Dub said after Sam had gone.

“I think so.”

Sam and I used to meet for breakfast at a diner on Pico. He liked Cream of Wheat. He used to spoon the hot cereal onto toast. When I showed up that morning, he told me right off he wanted out.

“Dub’s a good kid,” Sam said, “but he can’t think. We were supposed to be low key, now everybody in the world knows about that record. And Rolling Stone knows what he looks like, it’s only a matter of time before they find out who he is and when they do, they’re going to come straight for us.” This was in September of 1969.

A month later, Rolling Stone was back on the street with a multi-page story by Greil Marcus about unreleased Bob Dylan recordings. Dub was ecstatic. Never had a human been so enthusiastic about anything.

“We have to get all this stuff.” His heart must have been pumping three hundred beats a minute. “We have to put it all out.”

“Yeah,” Rhonda, his girlfriend said. “All of it.” Rhonda was a ’60s flower power girl. Pretty, free, uninhibited. I remember going to eat with them at a Chart House restaurant once in the middle of the week. She wore this see though flimsy chiffon type blouse you could see right though and nothing underneath. Her nipples stood right out, captured everybody’s eye in the place. Our waiter was overly attentive and not because he was looking for a big tip.

Sam had been gone for a couple months. Saturn was going bankrupt, my father was supporting too many record stores and the record companies refused to support him, so Dub and I were out of work. The FBI had been around to Jim’s house again, looking for him and again he passed himself off as his brother, but he was getting worried. The war was going strong, people were dying for no good reason and he didn’t want to go, so he went to Canada. Dub and I were unemployed and on our own. We were now full time bootleggers.

We would stop by Saturn on occasion and see my dad, ask how things were going. He’d smile and say he thought he was going to make it, but it was obvious to everybody but him that his business was dying a slow and ugly death. It was during one of our visits that a customer came into the back room, I don’t remember who. We were sitting on boxes of records my dad was trying to return to the record companies instead of cash, drinking coffee and this guy shows us his Great White Wonder record, then told us he just bought a couple hundred copies.

“Isn’t that interesting,” Dub said.

“Yeah,” I said as I looked at the record. It wasn’t one of ours.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Dub said after the guy left.

“It’s not like we own Dylan,” I said.

“Maybe it’ll take the heat off us,” Dub said.

But it didn’t, instead it ratcheted it up. The two unnamed bootleggers were getting blamed for everything, and Sam was right, it wasn’t long before they got Dub’s name. A private detective, process server started coming around his grandmother’s place. She managed a small group of apartments in Glendale, Dub lived in one of the upstairs units.

I got served one night as I was getting in my car to go home. He was looking for a long haired guy and I had long hair. Bastard refused to believe I wasn’t Dub. I went to Dub’s grandmother’s, called the cops, identified myself, said I was served a subpoena for someone I didn’t know and the server wouldn’t believe me. They said they’d handle it and not to worry. I hung up, but I worried plenty.

The next day I went by Saturn. It was sad to see the great record one-stop as a only a shadow of her former self. Customers still came in, though now it wasn’t for the selection. My dad was trying to hold on by selling what he had left cheap. I hung around for the day and told Mike from Platerpuss that Dub had moved to Vancouver to avoid the draft and opened a gas station. Three weeks later it was in Rolling Stone. They reported the gas station story word for word as I’d told Mike. We expected that, but maybe not so fast.

As luck would have it, the day after the story came out, Dub and I were again back at Saturn when Ben and Norty came in madder than hell. Norty had recognized Dub’s name in the article and figured out I had to be in on it.

“We’re friends,” he raged. “How come you didn’t come to me with the record idea? How come I had to go and knock it off? We could’ve been partners. We could’ve made a fortune. I have lawyers. This isn’t something kids got into. I’m twenty-five years older then you, wiser.”

“Jeez,” Dub said after they’d left, “those two old farts are the ones.” He laughed. He wasn’t the least bit upset that they’d copied the record. And why should he have been. We didn’t have Bob Dylan under contract. But Ben hated Dub from that moment on, hated me too. Norty ignored me, but Ben bragged around that he was practicing up his karate, getting ready to settle with us.

Dub and I considered the source and ignored this talk, but not Rhonda. It pissed her off plenty that they’d copied our record. Ben’s saber rattling pushed her over the edge. She picked up the phone, called Colombia and turned them in.

They blamed me and Dub. Now we had enemies.


Title: ‘New’ Dylan Album Bootlegged in LA.
Source: “Rolling Stone”.
Date: 20 September 1969.
Author: Jerry Hopkins

‘New’ Dylan Album Bootlegged in LA.
By Jerry Hopkins.

[Photo: “‘The Great White Wonder’ at Edwardsville”.]

LOS ANGELES – More then 2,300 copies of “bootleg” Bob Dylan album are now being sold in Los Angeles in what may be the entertainment industry’s first truly hip situation comedy.

The simply-produced package – 26 cuts on two plain unmarked discs, called “Great White Wonder” – was made from tapes never before released by Dylan or by his now rather miffed record label, Columbia.

Rather, it was collected, pressed and currently is being marketed by two young Los Angeles residents both of whom have long hair, a moderate case of the shakes (prompted by paranoia) and an amusing story to tell.

Before getting into the trials and tribulations of the city’s only visible “Bootleggers,” some statistics:

Nine of the songs are apparently from the “basement tape” made in the cellar of Dylan’s upstate New York home more than 18 months ago, shortly before he went to Nashville to record “John Wesley Harding”. On these, Dylan performs with what later became known as the Band from Big Pink.

Another 16 cuts – 12 of them songs, four of them brief rap sessions – are allegedly from a tape made December 22nd, 1961, in a Minneapolis hotel room. All these feature Dylan alone, with an acoustic guitar and harmonica, and if the date is correct, the tape was made before Dylan signed with Columbia.

The final cut, “Living the Blues,” was taken direct from the television set when Dylan appeared on the Johnny Cash Show earlier this summer.

Effect of the album’s “release” on the local record scene has been phenomenal. Five radio stations – KCBS in Santa Barbara, KNAC in Long Beach, KRLA in Pasadena and KMET-FM and KPPC-FM in Los Angeles – immediately began playing the LP, thereby creating a demand that often far exceeded a shop’s limited supply.

The supply line was ragged at best, largely because the two men behind the scheme (a third put up the initial money, the say) are the “exclusive distributors.”

Not only that, “We don’t have a car of our own,” they say. “We have to borrow cars to take the records around.”

Distribution has been further hampered by the fact that they will not give their names, addresses or a telephone where they might be reached. This, for what they term “all the obvious reasons.”

As a result, shops are charging whatever they think the traffic will bear. The two producers say they are wholesaling the package at $4.50 each ($4.25 apiece after the first 50), and shops are asking from $6.50 up. One store, The Psychedelic Supermarket in Hollywood – its name tells where it’s owner is at – is even asking, and getting, $12.50 for the two-record set.

Amused and displeased spokesmen at Colombia [sic] (it depended who you spoke to), were aware copies of the basement tape were in circulation, had even been played on the air, but they did not have any warning that an LP like this would be marketed.

Columbia Records, contacted by phone, made this statement: “We consider the release of this record as an abuse of the integrity of a great artist. By releasing material without the knowledge or approval of Bob Dylan or Columbia Records, the sellers of this record are crassly depriving a great artist of the opportunity to perfect his performance to the point where he believes in their integrity and validity. They are at one time defaming the artist and defrauding his admirers. For these reasons, Columbia Records in cooperation with Bob Dylan’s attorneys intends to take all legal steps to stop the distribution and sale of this album.”

The two youthful bootlegger/entrepreneurs, meanwhile, continue to troop from shop to shop, wondering what will happen next. Several stores, described by one of the bootleggers as “stone chicken,” have refused to carry the LP.

Some objected to the simple packaging – a white double sleeve with “Great White Wonder” rubber stamped in the upper righthand corner – they said, while others indicated they were afraid of how Columbia might react.

Those shops carrying the LP seem happy, though, with many reporting the album’s arrival has had the same effect on business as a new Beatles or Stones LP might have: Business generally has picked up.

Of all the songs offered in the package, only three had previously been released by Dylan, and all were then in a different form. They are “See That My Grave is Swept Clean” and “Man of Constant Sorrow,” both from his first album for Columbia, “Bob Dylan”, and “Only a Hobo Talkin’ Devil,” from a broadside album, “Broadside Ballads, Volume 1, A Handful of Songs About Our Time,” when Dylan was recording as Blind Boy Grunt.

Several other of the songs had been recorded by others, notably the Band, while still others are folk classics, but until this recorded collection appeared in all its unmarked splendor, Dylan versions of the material existed only on “secret” tapes.

Unfortunately, much of the recording quality is poor. (Although it is questionable whether comparisons of this sort can be made fairly when talking about “bootleg” material.) The tracks made with the Band, for example, sound as if run through a paper cup and string.

On other songs, however, the sound reproduction is quite good, and in most of the early material, Dylan even seems to be playing a freer, more imaginative acoustic guitar than he’s been heard to pick any time recently.

Getting into specifics, and using the producers’ numbering choice (which seems to be arbitrary at best), Side No. 1 contains six songs and two raps, all from the “hotel” or “Minneapolis” tape.

Songs are “Candy Man,” Ramblin’ Around,” “Hezekiah,” “No Home In This World Any More,” “Abner Till” and “Lazarus.” Some of the titles are, like the numbering of the sides, arbitrary; Dylan was in Europe and not available for assistance in identification.

In the first of the talking cuts on this side, Dylan offers some comment about photographs that had been taken recently – said they made him look like James Dean. They’re both informal, but not very informative.

Side No. 2, the second made from the Minneapolis tape, begins with “Baby, Please Don’t Go,” then goes into a rap during which Pete Seeger asks Dylan how he writes his songs (the response is representative Dylan put-on), then into “Dink’s Blues” and “See That My Grave Is Swept Clean.” Next is a longer rap, titled “East Orange, New Jersey,” all about how Dylan once didn’t get paid in money, but chess men; it’s a variation of a story told by Lee Hays of the Weavers (in which Lee said he got paid in furs) and probably several others as well. The final song on the side is “Man of Constant Sorrow.”

Side No. 3 begins with an unfinished solo blues which might be called just that – “Unfinished Blues” – because it ends as abruptly as a San Francisco freeway, in mid-air. Next is “I Think I’ll Stay All Night,” recorded rather shabbily with the Band and “Only a Hobo Talkin’ Devil,” recorded alone. The last three cuts on the side also were recorded with the Band – “Kill Me Alive,” “The Mighty Quinn” and “Wheels on Fire.”

The first five songs on Side No. 4 are from the basement tape made with the Band – “I Shall Be Released,” “Open the Door, Richard,” “Too Much of Nothin’,” “Take Care of Yourself” and “Tears of Rage.” Again, the fidelity is weak. And the final cut is “Livin’ the Blues,” the song lifted from the Cash show and the song which, ironically, it is reported Columbia will release as Dylan’s next “official” single.

The bootleggers, of course, plan no single releases. They do hint at producing more albums, though – however indefinite their plans may be, “due to existing circumstances.” Since issuing this one, they say, they’ve been approached by a number of people with other “secret” tapes.

In the meantime, they’re still struggling with their little “company’s” first release and protecting their anonymity.

“What’re your names?” I asked.

“Call me Patrick,” said the one with the longest hair.

“Call me Vladimir,” said the one with the bushiest sideburns.

“How do you spell Vladimir?”

“I don’t know, man. Make it Merlin.”

Why did they do it?

“Bob Dylan is a heavy talent,” Patrick said, “and he’s got all those songs nobody’s ever heard. We thought we’d take it upon ourselves to make this music available.”

“Do you know what will happen if you get away with it?” I said. “Why, if John Mayall or anybody opens at the Whisky tonight, there’ll be a live recording of it on the stands by the middle of next week.”

Patrick and Vladimir/Merlin just grinned.

Source: BBC, Paris Theatre, Lower Regent Street, London

Recording date: Thursday 1 April 1971

Side 1: Immigrant Song/ Heartbreaker/ Since I’ve Been Loving You/ Black Dog
Side 2: That’s The Way/ The Lemon Song/ Whole Lotta Love/ Communication Breakdown/ Going To California/ Dazed And Confused

A later re-release with printed covers as part of TAKRL’s 900 series, this is # 910

It Coulda Happened this Way — Great White Wonder, the Beginning

When I worked at Saturn Records in 1968 my father was sort of the unofficial distributor of King Records and to my recollection they only had one act worth mentioning, James Brown. I don’t remember the exact date, but Martin Luther King was still alive. James had somehow insulted the station manager at KGFJ, the R & B station in L.A. and in retaliation they’d decided not to play his records.Bad news for James Brown. If they didn’t play him on KGFJ they didn’t hear him in L.A. James and his manager, a guy named Bud Hobgood, came to town to fix it. I remember the four of them, James, Bud, my dad and his partner, a guy named Jack Frost, no lie, that was his name, sitting in my dad’s office trying to decide what to do. I sort of drifted in and out, so I don’t really know who got the idea, but, when the meeting was over, all of a sudden James was gonna be the righter of a horrible wrong. Not only was KGFJ not playing him, they weren’t playing Bill Medley’s, “Brown Eyed Woman” and Jose Feliciano’s, “Star Spangled Banner,” either. They had a policy back then. Only black acts on their station. Mr. Medley and Mr. Feliciano didn’t fit the bill. But they probably didn’t care, as every other station in America was all over those records. But James cared, nobody in L.A. was playing his.Their idea was to round up a bunch of black kids and make a record with them. James would sing, they’d chime in on the chorus. They’d take an ad out in the black papers, linking James with Bill and Jose, call the station raciest, force them to play James’ records.So Godfrey Kerr, a local DJ on a small FM station, and myself took Jack’s kids, (Jack was—and if he’s still alive, still is—a white guy and one of the greatest human beings to ever grace God’s earth. His wife was black though, Eunice of Gene and Eunice fame, so his kids qualified.) and a load of their friends to Vox studios in Burbank. They were so excited, they were going to meet James Brown.When we got there the band was already set up. They had chairs for us and the kids. The kids sat. The band tuned up. Then James came in. Mr. Electricity himself. It doesn’t make any difference if you like his music or not, when you see him in a room, you like him. There’s an aura about the guy that sucks you right in. An audience of one or a hundred thousand, it makes no difference, when James Brown is on, he’s got you by the guts, you’re his till he lets you go, but you don’t care, because the ride’s worth it.He started right in on this new song. We were told that whenever he sang out, “Say it loud,” we were to shout back. “I’m black and I’m proud.” Godfrey and I were the only two white faces in the studio, but we shouted along. James noticed us in the middle of the song, stopped the music, came over, shook our hands and said, “It’s okay, sing it out.” The guy might’ve had problems, but he was a class act.

A couple weeks later, “I’m black and I’m Proud” was out and James was back on the radio in Los Angeles. Not only that, KGFJ started playing Bill and Jose, too. This was my introduction to how records were made.

The record business didn’t exist in a vacuum. There was other stuff going on in the country, the world. Garbage workers were striking in Memphis. Martin Luther King, on his way to somewhere else, stopped by to lend his support and there he lost his life.

A couple days later Bud Hobgood showed up at Saturn with a tape of MLK at some convention in Cincinnati. Bud was the kind of guy that could sell you a new Lincoln when you showed up at the car lot to buy a used Ford. He was excited, he wanted to be the first to hit the streets with a King record. It never dawned on me that he had his own record label, why’d he have to come to L.A. Ah well, maybe it was all on the up and up, I don’t know. Anyway the two Jacks (my father’s name was Jack, too) arranged for him to have it pressed at a plant in Los Angeles. But none of them wanted to go to the plant and pick up the records, so they sent me. Then they sent me out to pick up the black and white covers they’d had printed up. And then they had me stuff the records into the jackets. They sold a lot of that record, what happened to the money, I don’t know, but I know this, my education was complete.

I remember Bobby, tears in his eyes as he spoke the eulogy at Martin’s funeral service. It was dark, raining I think, his voice cracked. A few months later a guy that worked for Bud was in L.A. doing some business for James. My dad delegated me as his driver. Before taking care of business, he wanted to stop by the Ambassador Hotel and maybe get a look at Bobby. We were there, then at the hospital, then at the Hyatt on Sunset, a zoo. There were people from all walks of life crammed in there on that sad night. Anyway this black guy talked to us for a few minutes about Aretha Franklin and what a great voice she had. When he left, the guy I was with said, “Aretha, you should meet her, that woman does what she wants, when she wants to do it.” Then he said, “I wish I had that kind of courage.”

I don’t know if he really knew Aretha, but he worked for James Brown, so maybe he did. But whether he did or not, I thought he did and I thought what he said was true. I was living in sort of an LSD induced haze at the time, so those words seemed perhaps more profound then they should’ve. I wasn’t on drugs that night, thank God. But most nights I was. And from that night on, for about a year, whenever a joint or a hit of acid would come my way, I’d think, what would Aretha do. Stupid, I know now, and I guess I knew it then.

Vesta didn’t like me taking drugs, well on occasion it was okay, if I did it with her, but this business of doing it on the freeway to and from work and coming home stoned more nights than not was getting to her. She had a point, she was at home with the kids all day and I was out working, stoned, having fun, living the rock and roll life from the sidelines. I was on the fast track to nowhere and I was about to become unemployed. I’d lost the job I’d had at the Gas Company, fixing heaters and stoves, because I was incompetent. That’s what they said, incoherent’s closer to the truth. I probably would’ve wound up as a janitor somewhere, but my dad gave me a job. I guess he felt he owed it to me, because right after I turned seventeen he tricked me into joining the Marine Corps. I wasn’t a bright kid. And I was screwing up the best job a kid cold possibly have at the end of the 60’s. He was gonna fire me, I knew it. It was just a matter of time.

Then I met Dub.

Dub Michael Taylor. He worked for one of the record stores that bought at Saturn. Six feet, thin, hair down his back. He knew records, nothing else, but nothing else mattered, so we hired him. Ask him about the Lakers and he’d answer back, I don’t follow baseball. But he followed Rock ’n’ Roll. He moved in kind of a slow way around the one stop that drove my dad nuts. It was like he didn’t care if it took him half the afternoon to get a Pepsi out of the fridge. It seemed he was stoned all the time, but he wasn’t. His mind worked, just not the same as anybody else’s.

I was beginning to like the music. Dub showed me how to love it. And he made me look good at work, that’s what I really liked about him. My work habits hadn’t improved, it’s just that he was so much more screwed up then me, that I kind of looked normal. And the really amazing thing about him was that he managed to be that way without taking any chemicals.

Oh sure, he had flashbacks, but who didn’t?

Until Dub came to work at Saturn I used to go missing in action a lot. Someone like Ted from Records and Supertape would show up and we’d take off to somewhere like Dodger Stadium and smoke a couple joints, then my work for the rest of the day would be in the toilet, but after Dub arrived on the scene I mostly stayed at work, cut way back on the grass and stopped LSD altogether.

Coherent now, I started to take in the world around me and it was all about music, mostly John Wesley Harding and why it wasn’t any good. I loved that album right from the get go. This was how the electric Bob Dylan was supposed to sound. Dub, however, was a Highway 61 and Blond on Blond person and we used to argue about that all the time. Somebody gave him the 61 Minnesota stuff. He called me late at night and played some of it over the phone. I liked the acoustic Dylan, Dub liked the electric, it was something else we used to argue about. Dylan wise we couldn’t agree about anything, as far as I was concerned he could’ve gone right from the acoustic half of Bringing it All Back Home straight to JWH. Dub though JWH better left on the studio floor. However when Nashville Skyline came out there was finally something we could agree on. We didn’t like it.

So we started to conspire.

At first it was, “Wouldn’t it be nice if we had this stuff on a record? That way it’d last forever.” We thought vinyl was permanent, a much better medium for storing rare stuff on than tape. We were in the back of Saturn, doing returns for the majors and talking about this when Sam Billis came on back.

“It could be done,” he said, after eavesdropping for a few minutes. Sam later went on to open the Soul City One Stop after Saturn went out of business. Who knew how high he’d rise. Soul City turned into Sound Music Sales and they sold more records than Saturn ever dreamed of and Saturn was big. “All we have to do is find someone to master it.”

I thought about taking it out where James Brown did, “I’m Black and I’m Proud,” but it was Bob Dylan, everybody knew what he sounded like. They’d call the cops, we’d all go to jail. That was a bad idea. We knew where to get it pressed, where to get the jackets, but getting the master was a problem. Then Sam saved the day.

“There’s this guy Jewel, that comes in here a lot. He can get it done. Jewel, at least I think that was his name if my memory serves me, was a slightly overweight black guy who never took off this huge white Stetson. He’d had this hit single, “The Birds and the Bees.” I think that was the name of it. He’d sing it on occasion as he moved about the one stop. “Let me tell you about the birds and the bees, and the flowers and the trees—” well, you get the picture. Anyway, Sam said he could get it done for four hundred bucks. We didn’t know it then, but that was about four times what we shoulda paid. Anyway, Sam figured out how much the whole shebang would run, mastering, mothering, plates, records and jackets and he loaned us the money.

Now all we had to do was figure out what to do with the things after we got them. We needed to sell four hundred double records for Dub and I to get five copies each, get Sam’s money back and maybe make a few bucks. Easier said than done. We were convinced this was some kind of heinous crime, so we couldn’t just walk into a record store and offer them for sale. Everybody in L.A., everybody that counted anyway, knew us. I was willing to go to the pressing plant and the jacket place, Dub was too, but we weren’t going into any stores. Dub solved the problem. His friend Jim was fresh out of bootcamp and decided he didn’t like the Army and would probably hate Viet Nam. So he deserted by moving in with his parents. When the FBI came looking, he said he was his brother and that he hadn’t seen himself in months. Really, how do they ever catch anybody?

Having faced down the FBI on his doorstep, Jim was more than willing to take the records around to the stores. However, we still didn’t think it was going to happen till Jewel came in one night before closing with the master. We sat around and drank beer, not Dub, he didn’t drink either, and talked about how we were so slick. I got a little drunk, I didn’t do that a lot, because you do stupid things when you drink too much. I pulled off Jewel’s cowboy hat and we went a little crazy. Turns out he was bald and didn’t want anyone to know. I’ve seen ugly rugs, but a white hat the size of Texas, that’ll hide it.

The next morning my splitting headache and I drove them out to Korelich Engineering and gave the masters to Pete.

Pete seemed old even then. He’d always seemed old to me, was old twenty years later when I showed up at his plant again to make records, but back then nobody’d ever heard of a bootleg, heck we hadn’t either, hadn’t even thought of what we were doing as bootlegging.

“What are you gonna use for labels?” Pete asked me.

“We hadn’t thought of that.”

“Can’t make a record without labels.”

“Put on anything you’ve got lying around.” I meant for him to reverse them so that the labels would be plain white, but he didn’t understand.

“You can sell them that way?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find out.” And for years Pete would introduce me to his other customers as the guy who made music so good he doesn’t need labels. He never did understand that it was supposed to be a secret.

Five days later I went to pick up the records and was shocked to find Rocoulion labels on them, with song titles I’d never heard of, that nobody’d ever heard of.

“You said anything I had left over.” Pete looked at me, arms wide, palms open.

“Yeah, I did. Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t.” Pete never worried about anything. He was that kind of man.

[Having just speculated about how the Monique D’Ozo labels ended up on these records I, a. had to laugh and b. think that my story looks more probable than ever. ]

I handed the records over to Jim the deserter. His first stop was Vogue Records on Hollywood Boulevard. Bill Bowers bought them all and I’d forgotten to take out the copies for me and Dub.

We were gonna have to do it again.”


Dub: Ken and I worked for a major record distributor in LA. We were returning some tapes that hadn’t sold – I think they were 4-track Donovan tapes – and we had both been acquiring some unreleased tapes of Bob Dylan. We were both real hardcore Dylan fans [“I have not been influenced by Bob Dylan, nor intrigued…” Ken in 2006] and we started talking. We were saying, ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to make a record of this stuff and to put it out’ … ços Dylan had just done Nashville Skyline, which was a disaster commercially … We had piles of ’em at the distributor, nobody wanted it. So Ken says, ‘I know someone who might be willing to put up the money for this.’ So we talked to this man, who I’ll call the Greek, and he agreed to put up the initial capital to get the records pressed. I’m not sure how many we pressed originally, it was either 1,000 or 2,000 but the originals are just a white cover and a white label, there’s nothing on them. And the album did not have a title at that time.  I had this other friend, Patrick … I approached him because Ken and I were known in the business and couldn’t go to the stores and sell these ourselves … At the time he was a deserter from the army … and he needed money and I said, ‘We’re doing this bootleg Dylan thing, why don’t you take ’em around? I’ll go round with you and show you where the stores are, you take ’em in and see if you can sell them …’ I think originally we sold them for eight or twelve dollars each …. we thought we could sell a few and make a little money. We had no idea what was going to happen.

One of the [first] customers we had was the LA Free Press, which was the LA counterpart to the Village Voice in New York … They had bookstores in LA. One of them was on Fairfax, and we went to their office and we talked to this woman who was from Brooklyn in New York, this Jewish woman … and explained that we had this underground Dylan album and [asked], ‘Would you like to carry it in your store?’ And she just loved the idea, she goes ‘This is great. We’ll put ads in our newspaper saying that we have this unreleased Bob Dylan album … ‘We were real excited about this, ‘cos this was the first time that someone could actually advertise it and stir up some shit … It was the mentality of the time, the Vietnam war. There was such an anti-establishment feeling in the air … We were in there talking to her and she says, ‘You know, we have to call this album something … Why don’t we call it … how about Great White Wonder?’  And we looked at her and we said, ‘That’s fine … we’ll call it Great White Wonder.’ So we went out and had a rubber stamp made that said ‘GWW’ and started stamping the fronts of the covers. I don’t think that she meant that Dylan was the great white wonder or anything, but we thought, ‘That sounds a little weird. Let’s do it! 

[Heylin, Bootleg: The Secret History of the Other Recording History, pp 44-45]