CROSBY, STILLS & NASH: THE LOST CONCERT VIDEO
“SAVE THE WHALES – JULY 28, 1978”
There are certain years that etch themselves into memory—not for triumph or tragedy alone, but for how life seemed to tilt in a single season. For me, 1978 was one of those years.
I owed a favor. Conte Candoli, the great trumpeter from The Tonight Show band, had fallen ill. NBC was winding down The Johnny Carson Show, and the musicians who had held up that late-night sound were suddenly being let go. For years, it had felt like that gig would never end—and then, just like that, it did.
That same summer, the cause of saving the whales brought together a most unlikely mix of celebrities, activists, and dreamers. The event was hosted at the elegant Eloquent Manor on Adams Boulevard in Los Angeles. Loretta Swit, Cleveland Amory, and others were at the forefront, rallying for the whales. I was in charge of the entertainment—a role that gave me the rare chance to call in a few favors of my own.
At that time, Linda Lou Kestin and I were spending most of our free moments roller skating down Venice Beach. We’d write songs between skate sessions, surrounded by sunshine, music, and a steady parade of beautiful, eccentric souls gliding past in wild costumes. The beach was our studio, our sanctuary. Between the writing sessions, the laughter, and the waves, we dreamed up new melodies that carried the freedom of those afternoons.
Professionally, though, I was still tied to Gwendolyn Gordy and Motown Records. The contract held me tighter than I’d hoped. By all accounts, I should’ve had a new deal on the horizon, but being bound by paper and ink meant my hands were tied. So I went back to what I knew best—promotion.
I’d learned the craft years before under Glen MacArthur at Glenn Records in Palmdale. Those lessons carried me far. With help from Kay Saunders Palmer and the Associated Booking Corporation, I began moonlighting as an in-house producer in Beverly Hills. Tony Papa gave me a corner of his empire—SDC Communications and Platinum Sound Productions—right in the heart of town. The arrangement was simple: I handled client lists, promotions, and concert coordination. I also kept an eye on the kind of high-maintenance stars who loved the road more than home.
That inherited client list read like a soundtrack to the era: the Candoli Brothers, Caroline Cline (Miss West Virginia 1978), Les Elsgard, Louie Bellson, Bobby Caldwell, The Sylvers, Little Richard, the SOS Band, Undisputed Truth, Frankie Beverly and Maze, B.B. King, Bobby “Blue” Bland, and Johnnie Taylor.
When the first-ever “Save the Whales” fundraiser took shape in Los Angeles, the guest list exploded. Hugh Hefner lent his fleet of Playboy limousines to ferry guests: Johnny Paycheck, Sigourney Weaver, Pearl Bailey, Willie Nelson, Lacy J. Dalton, Pete Candoli, Pat Morita, Robert Guillaume, Sherman Hemsley, Neil Young, Dusty Rhodes—the names went on and on. Bobby “O” Ormsby and his band set the tone as guests roller-skated on a portable floor under the stars.
Amid the music and motion, a young man caught my eye. He was lugging around a new Sony Betamax portable video unit, capturing everything he could for a documentary about Cleveland Amory and the movement to save the whales. His name was Paulino Estrada, a film student from Colombia studying at the California School of Film in Santa Monica. His passion was pure, his energy relentless. He was also close friends with my girlfriend, Barbara Gannon—known to most as Stella Starlight.
Barbara adored him. She said he was the kind of dreamer who reminded her why people fight for things bigger than themselves. When Paulino asked to film everything, I gave him my blessing on one condition: that he’d send a copy to the club archives. He agreed—and later asked if he could take the event banner with him to Washington, D.C., for the Crosby, Stills & Nash concert at the Capital Centre.
A few days later, we found ourselves in D.C. It was scorching hot. One of Paulino’s cameramen never showed, so I ended up behind Camera Three—holding the wide shot for what became an unforgettable performance.
We stayed in the city for three days. On the last night, just before our flight home, Paulino appeared at our hotel room door, bruised and shaken. He carried a small canvas bag containing four UVS backup tapes of the CSN concert. He said he’d been roughed up and needed to get back to Colombia.
Barbara and I scraped together $10,000 and handed it to him. He promised he’d return the money and reclaim the tapes after a couple of months. Barbara hugged him goodbye, told him she loved him, and wished him safety on his way home.
Those tapes sat on our dinner table for months, untouched. Later, they were moved to a closet—where they stayed for years. Then came the year that broke me—the year I lost Barbara, my Stella Starlight. She had been the pulse in every beat of my life. When she was gone, even the light in Paulino’s eyes—her “starlight”—faded from memory. He never returned.
By 1980, Lee Rogers and I decided to breathe life back into D-Town Records. Billboard ran a small notice that November. I packed up and moved my things to Kay’s place, storing the tapes in the D-Town/Platinum Sound vaults for safekeeping. Five years later, I moved everything again—to Las Vegas—where my sister Erma Jean kept the masters stored for more than a decade.
Then, in 1993, Goldmine Magazine published an article about missing concert footage from the Crosby, Stills & Nash “Save the Whales” concert. The trail led straight to me. I wasn’t hiding it; truth was, nobody really cared back then about “just another” concert video. Except—it wasn’t just another. This was history, captured on film.
Pete Candoli called me after reading the piece. He had a contact in Coral Gables, Florida, who was looking for concert footage to distribute. Pete reminded me of that old favor I owed from the very first “Save the Whales” benefit. So, I took the call.
The company was Canyon Creek Productions—a small outfit, but eager. They offered $50,000 for a two-year licensing deal, to be paid in two installments of $25,000, with a $5,000 advance. We signed the agreement. SDC Communications retained all publishing and video rights, and I made sure the tape was copied and properly filed with the Library of Congress. Their first check cleared the bank. Then, like Paulino, they vanished.
Years later, in January 2007, a copy of that same concert found its way to The Jimmy Kimmel Show and ABC News.
Some tapes hold more than music. They hold people—voices and faces that time keeps replaying long after they’re gone. That night in 1978 wasn’t just about saving whales. It was about saving moments before they disappeared into the tide of history.
And somehow, through a handful of videotapes, a few lost friends, and a love that never dimmed, the music of that night still plays on.
Would you like me to add a brief prologue or afterword—something that frames the story as part of your broader music chronicle? It could help connect this piece to your larger narrative series.
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