For the Byrds

“I’m just saying what I’m thinking, that’s all.”


March 1978


We stood in the church courtyard just before the Maundy Thursday service. We were not in a mind to sit through a somber service on a somber subject.
“Let’s DO something!” Sanford exclaimed.
“He’s restless,” his brother, Robert, remarked dryly.
“I’m not restless. It’s just…I’m like…We’re all here, so we oughta do something!” He plucked an air bass guitar with two fingers with his wrist at his waist.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” John said, nodding his head vigorously.
“Well, got any ideas?” I said to Sanford.
“A concert!”
“A concert?” John said, “Who’s playing?”
“I don’t know. Something. Somewhere,” Sanford replied.
“Some plan,” Robert put in.
“Ok,” he said, “let’s get the Times and see,”
“Yeah, good idea,” John said.
“Great!” Robert said, “Raise your hand if you happen to have the Calendar section in your back pocket!”
“Hey, wait a minute you guys,” John said, “I just remembered the Byrds are playing at the Golden Bear.”
“The Byrds?” I said, “Which line up?”
“The original I think.”
“With David Crosby? I doubt it.” Robert said.
“Yeah,” John admitted, “probably not Crosby.”
“Well,” I said, “he did play on that reunion album.”
“That was like five years ago,” Robert said.
“And it sucked!” Sanford added.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I said.
“Look at it this way guys,” John said, “even if Crosby isn’t there, you still got Chris Hillman and Gene Clark.
“You got a point there, Johnny boy,” I said.
“Then what are standing here for? Let’s go!” Sanford said.
“What time’s it start?” Robert asked.
“By the time we get there we should make the first show,” John said, looking at his watch.
“I’m in,” Robert said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Great,” John said, “how about the rest of you guys?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“I’m cool,” Sanford said, “Who’s driving?”
“I’m low on petrol,” Robert said. John and I looked at each other.
“I’ll drive,” I said.
“Right on!” Sanford said, “Let’s do it!”
“But wait a minute,” John said, “what about the church service?”
“Jesus is always gonna be with us,” Robert said, “the Byrds, maybe not.” They all looked at me.
“The important part is the resurrection, and we’ll all be here on Sunday.”
“Then let’s get the flock out of here and go see the Byrds!” Sanford cried with delight.
We got in the car when I realized I didn’t know how to get there. There was some debate as to which way to go but ultimately, Sanford won out.
“Five to the 605 to the 405, trust me. Don’t listen to these guys.”
“Thanks, Sanford.”
“It’s Harry.”
“Harry? What happened to Sandy?”
“That a long time ago.”
“Well, man I’ve known you since 7th grade. Now THAT was a long time ago. When I think of you, it’s Sanford.”
“Yeah, that’s cool.”
“I mean, it’s ok, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, so anyway, whatever happened to Vatche?”
“Markarian?”
“Yeah.”
“Vatch!” Robert exclaimed, “Vatch probably wonders that himself.” He laughed raucously at his own joke.
“I remember the guy,” John said, “He was one spaced out dude.”
“Last I heard he was in a punk band,” Sanford said.
“What?” I said.
“That figures,” Robert said.
“Vatche in a punk band, who-woo,” John remarked.
“How could he play in a punk band? I mean, they jump around and all that,” I said, “A little challenging for the chemically impaired.”
“I don’t know. That’s what he’s into though,” Sanford said.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not spending my dough to get spit on,” Robert laughed.
“And they can’t even play and they play out of tune,” John added.
“Whatever gets you through the night,” Sanford said.
“How about Chuck?” I said.
“Chuck!!!” John said. “He’s still following the Dead.”
“Yeah,” Sanford said, “I was with him last summer when they were at the Forum and Jerry Garcia says, ‘Good night! See you in San Francisco!’ and Chuck yells back, ‘I’ll be there!’” He really does follow them all over the place. What a nut!”
“Whoever said an Art History major wouldn’t be able to find a job?” Robert remarked, whacking John on the back.
“Remember, guys,” John said, “Without Chuck, none of us would have got turned on to the Kinks.”
“That’s right!” Sanford said, “He gave me a tape of Lola…”
“I took it from Sanford…” Robert said.
“I borrowed it from Robes,” John added.
“And I bought it on Robes’ recommendation,” I said, “And it’s a great album, that’s for sure.”
“It’s ok,” Sanford said.
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s ok. I mean Is it as good as Led Zeppelin?” Sanford asked.
“Sanford, that’s like comparing peaches and pears,” John said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Still fruit!” Sanford said, “Gotcha on that one!”
“Sanford’s bands have to have a guitar god in them,” Robert explained.
“Dave Davies is no slouch,” I said.
“He’s not Jimmy Page, that’s for sure!” Sanford said.
“They’ve got some good songs but sex and drugs, drugs and sex, you know?” I said, “Isn’t there something else to sing about?”
“Oh, right,” Sanford said, “like a guy who dates a guy dressed up like a girl!”
“Lola is the least interesting song on the album,” I said.
“That’s true,” John said.
“Whatever,” Sanford said.
Traffic slowed to a crawl and they argued about alternate routes. Then it picked up again.
“What’s your favorite Beatle album?” I asked.
“That’s a tough one,” John said.
“Gotta be Pepper,” Sanford said.
“Mine’s Rubber Soul,” I said.
“Rubber Soul?” Sanford exclaimed.
“Yeah,” I said.
“There’s like five albums better than that one,” Sanford said.
“Rubber Soul’s pretty good. It’s kinda got that country feel to it,” John said.
“Pepper, Magical Mystery Tour, Revolver, The White Album. All better than Rubber Soul,” Sanford said.
“Wait a minute now,” John said, “Don’t forget the early stuff. Beatles ’65 is a great album.”
“Yeah. And I love Yesterday and Today. “’And Your Bird Can Sing’ is a great song,” I said.
“Those two aren’t really albums,” Robert said.
“What? What’re you talking about?” Sanford exclaimed.
“They’re both just a collection of left over songs,” Robert said matter of factly.
“So what?” Sanford said.
“So it’s not what they had in mind. It was just a distribution dilemma.”
“That doesn’t matter Robert,” John said, “They’re still great albums.”
“Wow,” I said, “how many bands do you know can put out two albums with great music from left over songs?”
“Not too many, I’d say. Hah!” Sanford said.
“Yeah, really,” John said.
“Besides,” Robert said, “none of you are right. The best Beatles album is Abbey Road.”
“Great album,” I said.
“Yeah, man,” John said.
“Great way to go out,” Sanford said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“But it’s a matter of opinion. Jack didn’t say what’s the best album. He said what’s your favorite album,” John said.
“In my case though, it’s one and the same,” Robert said, laughing.
“Oh right, Robert’s like Mr. Music Critic,” Sanford said.
“The next Robert Hilburn,” I said.
“The next Hilburn! Who woo!” John said.
“If you think about it, it’s true. Great harmonies, great guitars, great melodies. Heck, even a dang drum solo,” Robert said.
“Yeah, it’s a classic. It’s gonna stand up for a long time,” I said.
“Who knows?” John said, “A hundred years from today will they still be talking about the Beatles?”
“They’re probably the ONLY band people will remember from a hundred years ago.”
“Bob Dylan,” I said, “They’ll still know about Dylan.”
“Yeah, for sure,” John said.
“But that’s it,” Robert said.
“The Stones! The Rolling Stones!” Sanford shouted.
“Maybe,” Robert said, “but probably not.”
“Oh, ok, Robert Hilburn,” Sanford said.
“That’s Mr. Hilburn to you,” Robert said.
“What made you think of one hundred years, John?” I asked.
“That song by the Byrds, actually. One hundred years from this day, will the people still feel this way….”
“I don’t know that song,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s from Sweethearts of the Rodeo. It’s great,” John said. “Nobody knows the kind of trouble we’re in. Nobody seems to think it all might happen again.”
“Never heard of it,” Robert muttered.
“Uh-oh! Robes never heard of it. It doesn’t exist!” Sanford laughed.
“Maybe we’ll hear it tonight,” I said.
We fell silent for a while. Then John spoke up.
“Hey guys,” he said, “you hear about the Armenian that built the Grand Canyon?”
“Built the Grand Canyon?” I said.
“Yeah,” John said, “Soy-el Ehrosyan.”
“Ah, man. Boo! Boo!” Sanford said.
“That’s nothing,” Robert said, “How about the first Armenian Porno Star?”
“Who’s that?” John said.
“Harry Protrusian!” Robert said chortling.
“Ah, ha-ha, that’s pretty good, actually,” I said.
“I made that one up, as a matter of fact,” Robert said.
“In honor of your brother, Harry?” I asked.
“Hardy har-har,” Sanford said.
“That’s what she said,” Robert joked.
“Funny, Robert.” Sanford said.
“You guys are too much. You crack me up sometimes,” John said.
“Where are we anyway?” I asked.
“You’re looking for Beach Boulevard,” Robert said. We were quiet the rest of the way.
We arrived at the Golden Bear a little early but the seating was first come, first serve. Sanford got a little ahead; then stood waiting at the entry.
“All right boys, pony up. Five dollars a pop. Can anybody front me five? I’m a little low on funds.” We stared at him.
“Forget it, Sanford.”
“No way.”
“Sorry, man.”
“Ok, ok. I get the picture,” Sanford said and rummaged around in his front pocket and produced a ten.
We found a small, round table not too close, but not too far back either, and a little to the left of the small stage. We were all excited to see the Byrds, with or without David Crosby. When the waitress arrived Sanford turned to me.
“So Jack, buy your old buddy a beer?”
“Sure, Sanford, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Thanks!”
We sat sipping our beers, waiting. There was no opening act. Half way through his beer, Sanford turned to me again.
“So you drink beer?”
“Yeah, once in a while.”
“Part time drinker, huh?”
“Yeah, part timer, that’s me.” I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.
“Just like you’re a part time Christian?”
“What?”
“A part time Christian.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, get ripped when you feel like it, and then go to church too.”
“Bible says ‘Do not get drunk with wine, instead be filled with the spirit.’ So do I look drunk to you?”
“No, but you’re drinking.”
“Jesus served wine. Paul said drink a little wine to aid your digestion.”
“Is that what you’re doing, aiding your digestion?”
“No, I’m just telling you that people who follow God are not restricted from drinking. They’re not supposed to get drunk, but they can drink.”
“You’re gonna tell me you’ve never been drunk?”
“I… No, I’m not telling you that either. I’ve made my mistakes, but I know where I want to go. It’s called the Pilgrim’s Progress. You don’t get there all at once.”
“Oh, ok. Cool. Buy me another beer?”
“Sanford, I’m not buying you another beer.”
“Why not? You don’t want me to get drunk?”
“No. I’m a little low on funds.”
“Ok, cool.”
“Hey Sanford, lighten up, man,” John said. I wasn’t even aware that John was listening.
“Don’t pay attention to him, Jack, he just likes annoying people,” Robert said.
“I’m not annoying anybody. Did I annoy you?”
“No, Sanford.”
“See? We’re cool. I’m just saying what I’m thinking, that’s all.”
Everything was set up on stage, but they hadn’t come on yet. I looked at the guitar on the far right, resting in its stand.
“Hey,” I said, “is that an ichthys on McGuinn’s guitar?”
“A what?” Sanford said.
“An ichthys, you know, the fish, the Christian symbol.” John said.
“That’s not a Rickenbacker,” Sanford said. “That’s not his.”
“I doubt they’re gonna leave his Rickenbacker on stage,” Robert said.
“Yeah, it’s expensive,” John said, “and not only that, do you know what that guitar means to him? It’s like his baby.”
“He probably uses more than one guitar in the set.” I said. “That might be his.”
“So what are you guys trying to say?” Sanford asked. “You mean he’s like turned Christian or something?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Actually, I think I read in the Rolling Stone or somewhere that McGuinn was really shook when Elvis died and he got off drugs and everything. So, yeah, it could be possible.” John said.
“Oh man,” Sanford said, “does that mean he won’t be playing ‘Eight Miles High’”?
A few minutes later they came on stage. McGuinn picked up the black solid body Fender with the ichthys and tuned up. He introduced “Eight Miles High” by saying, “This song was never about drugs. It is about my fear of flying among other things. Not about drugs though. You can’t stop some people from believing what they want to believe.” At the end of the set McGuinn said “Good night, drive carefully and God bless you.”
They played a great set, mixing the old songs with a few new ones. It was a memorable night. I was baffled by why Sanford would want to-- out of the blue-- go on the offensive but I wasn’t mad at him, and I’m not mad at him now. I’ve known Sanford since we were 12 years old. He’s like family to me. What he did was kind of weird, but we are all weird, just in different ways.