IN THE LAND OF MU
It’s funny how time just slips away.
Out of the blue, I got a call from Merrell Fankhauser. He wanted me to promote his MU album. Without hesitation, I packed up, hit the highway, and drove the length, width, and girth of California — chasing music, chasing purpose.
The group’s publicist was Audrey P. Franklyn, a powerhouse who handled promotions for Norman Granz’s Pablo Jazz Records, then distributed by RCA. Pablo had the crème de la crème of jazz: Ella Fitzgerald, Joe Williams, Oscar Peterson, Paulinho da Costa — the real royalty of that era. Audrey wasn’t new to success; she also represented several ABC Records artists, including Gloria Lynne, Bobby “Blue” Bland, and B.B. King.
With Audrey’s help, the MU campaign started catching fire. A full-page ad in Billboard didn’t hurt either. Then came the meeting she’d arranged for me with Norman Granz himself — the legendary producer behind those jazz greats.
After the interview, Norman called Audrey and said, “The boy is good. He knows the business. That’s why he won’t be working for me. He needs his own label.”
That moment stuck with me. It was both compliment and challenge.
Meanwhile, FM radio stations across California jumped on the MU album like wildfire. Without hesitation, they pushed it into the mainstream of rock’s new dominion. It was the same year the Patty Hearst tapes were circulating — a time when the country seemed to be unraveling and reinventing itself at once.
Around then, Billy Foster had married Etta James. Their little boy, Donta, was two and a half. Etta would sometimes escape to the desert, to rest her voice and her soul. She’d stay in bed for days, then wander outside for sunshine when she could.
Etta was unstoppable — everything she touched turned to gold. I still remember the first time I heard a standing ovation for a song that was written in my own mother’s bedroom: “I’d Rather Go Blind.” That song carried pain, truth, and redemption, all wrapped in her voice.
Billy and I would often visit Charles Wright of the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band, who was working on a new album for ABC Records. Out of all his music, my favorite still is “Apartment Living.” It caught the ache and humor of trying to survive the city — the same story, different rhythm.
When MU released their debut album on RTV Records, a subsidiary of Era Records, the reaction was electric. Era, known for hits like “The Birds and the Bees” by Jewel Akens and “Love Letters from Your Heart” by Ketty Lester, had suddenly stumbled into a rock explosion. FM underground stations were spinning every cut. You couldn’t escape MU; they were a storm in motion.
But that year would mark a turning point.
Merrell, Jeff, and Randy decided to make a pilgrimage to Maui. Their farewell concert was held at the Los Angeles Room in Century City — the same room where Richard Nixon once made history. Next door, Dusty Springfield was performing in the Grand Room.
The place was a madhouse. Over 7,000 people packed into the L.A. Room to see MU. Dusty drew about 3,500. I stood at the door, greeting the crowd, handing out MU buttons and maps. The promoter for Dusty’s show kept coming over, shaking his head.
“Who the hell is this group?” he said. “Man, they’re killing me.”
A few of Merrell’s old friends dropped by that night — Harry Nilsson, Perry Botkin Jr., and Peter Noone. CBS News had cameras rolling. It felt like a movement, not just a concert.
When Merrell, Jeff, and Randy said their final goodbyes, the crowd roared. The next morning, they were gone — off to Maui, chasing new sounds and maybe a little peace.
But my own peace was harder to find.
War had changed me. Coming home was harder than leaving had ever been. I saw how mean people could be to veterans — the same people we thought we’d fought for.
It reminded me of playing football in the old days. When we won, it was we won. When we lost, it was why did you lose? That’s how it felt returning from the war. No welcome, no “we.” Just quiet blame.
I tried explaining what the problem was, but folks laughed it off. I started drinking — not socially, not casually, but with purpose. And the purpose was forgetting.
What hurt most was that I couldn’t name what hurt. I was running from something invisible, something with a body and a breath that burned like hellfire.
Two lives I ruined, and both were trying to love me through it. They were there for me — I wasn’t there for me. I wanted to find that kind, gentle man I’d once been, but I’d left him somewhere in a muddy field in Southeast Asia.
Sometimes I laughed when I saw how my letters were addressed to an APO in Thailand, while I was deep in the hills of Cambodia or Laos. The absurdity of it all — fighting ghosts in places no one believed we were.
When Lynn and I finally crawled back into the so-called real world, tragedy hit again. His wife Sue died suddenly from a brain hemorrhage, leaving him to raise their two children alone. He walked away from music and disappeared into the mountains.
As for me, Irene divorced me. I sank into a valley of nothingness — in and out of hospitals, drifting through weeks and years that didn’t feel like mine.
But then, like before, the music found me again.
It wasn’t a grand return — more like a faint hum at first. A reminder that somewhere inside, life was still possible. The road was still calling.
And time, funny as ever, just kept slipping away.
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