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Fly Me to the Moon [midnight version]. Steinhauer, Dietmar. Piano Man. The Gibb brothers reunited in to make the follow-up to Spirits Having Flown or to some extent the follow-up to Guilty. No one enjoyed making it, and the public ignored it. Living Eyes effectively ended the Bee Gees until No one wanted to repeat the experience. Maurice meanwhile was suddenly very active again outside the Bee Gees doing lots of instrumentals for now obscure projects.
None of them have seen the light of day. The lawsuits between the Bee Gees and RSO were settled out of court in June, and then hashed around some more in the press.
Their music publishing, formerly owned by RSO, would now be transferred to a company owned by the Bee Gees. This got them more income as writers from anyone recording or performing their songs, and let them control how the songs were promoted and how the income was managed.
US copyright April , created The compositions above are mostly songs for Living Eyes , some of which were actually written in the later part of , and many instrumentals by Maurice. There are also two songs written by Maurice and top lyricist Don Black. Maurice Gibb — probably keyboard, synthesizer engineer:? These Maurice Gibb titles copyright in April are presumably the finished pieces for an instrumental album to be called Strings and Things that never appeared.
These pieces might date to the middle of , but the US copyright gives the date of creation as Maurice probably did not work on this project at the same time as the Bee Gees Living Eyes but a date in January or February is possible. One instrumental piece supposedly from this group has circulated on tape.
Some fans consider Living Eyes the worst Bee Gees album ever made. Not all fans agree of course; they never do. I was watching the overhead floor-indicator. The door opened at Seven, but nobody moved. Dead silence. The door closed. Up to eight … then open again. Still no sound or movement in the crowded car. Just as the door began to close I stepped off and grabbed his arm, jerking him out just in time. The doors slid shut and the elevator light dinged Nine.
My attorney was laughing wildly. They were spooked. Like rats in a death-cage! That girl understood. She fell in love with me. N ow many hours later, he was convinced that Lacerda — the so-called photographer had somehow got his hands on the girl. I have to put the car in the lot. One of the things you learn, after years of dealing with drug people, is that everything is serious. That poor geek, I thought, as I hurried down the escalator.
They sent him out here on this perfectly reasonable assignment — just a few photos of motorcycles and dune buggies racing around the desert — and now he was plunged, without realizing it, into the maw of some world beyond his ken. There was no way he could possibly understand what was happening. What were we doing out here? What was the meaning of this trip?
Did I actually have a big red convertible out there on the street? Was I just roaming around these Mint Hotel escalators in a drug frenzy of some kind or had I really come out here to Las Vegas to work on a story? At least that much was real. So my immediate task was to deal with the car and get back to that room … and then hopefully get straight enough to cope with whatever might happen at dawn.
Now off the escalator and into the casino, big crowds still tight around the crap tables. Who are these people? These faces! Where do they come from? They look like caricatures of used-car dealers from Dallas. And, sweet Jesus, there are a hell of a lot of them — still screaming around these desert-city crap tables at on a Sunday morning. Still humping the American Dream, that vision of the Big Winner somehow emerging from the last-minute pre-dawn chaos of a stale Vegas casino. Big strike in Silver City.
Beat the dealer and go home rich. Why not? Calm down. Learn to enjoy losing. The important thing is to cover this story on its own terms; leave the other stuff to Life and Look — at least for now. On the way down the escalator I saw the Life man twisted feverishly into the telegraph booth, chanting his wisdom into the ear of some horny robot in a cubicle on that other coast. Extreme tension. And our Life team is here as always, with a sturdy police escort. What else?
This is, after all, a Life Special. I drove around to the garage and checked it in — Dr. Yes, of course — just bill the room. M y attorney was in the bathtub when I returned. Top volume. First Lennon, now this, I thought. Where indeed? No flowers in this town.
Only carnivorous plants. I turned the volume down and noticed a hunk of chewed-up white paper beside the radio. My attorney seemed not to notice the sound-change. He was lost in a fog of green steam; only half his head was visible above the water line.
He ignored me. But I knew. He would be very difficult to reach for the next six hours. The whole blotter was chewed up. I picked up the radio and noticed that it was also a tape recorder — one of those things with a cassette-unit built in. And the tape, Surrealistic Pillow, needed only to be flipped over.
He had already gone through side one — at a volume that must have been audible in every room within a radius of yards, walls and all. Right there in the tub. This is it, I thought. This time he wants it. Can you give me two hours? They know me. The bathroom was like the inside of a huge defective woofer. Heinous vibrations, overwhelming sound. The floor was full of water. I moved the radio as far from the tub as it would go, then I left and closed the door behind me.
The room was very quiet. I walked over to the TV set and turned it on to a dead channel — white noise at maximum decibels, a fine sound for sleeping, a powerful continuous hiss to drown out everything strange. I live in a quiet place, where any sound at night means something is about to happen: You come awake fast — thinking, what does that mean? Usually nothing.
Cars, horns, footsteps … no way to relax; so drown it all out with the fine white drone of a cross-eyed TV set. Jam the bugger between channels and doze off nicely.
Ignore that nightmare in the bathroom. My attorney is not a candidate for the Master Game. And neither am I, for that matter. I once lived down the hill from Dr. I parked on the road and lumbered up his gravel driveway, pausing enroute to wave pleasantly at his wife, who was working in the garden under the brim of a huge seeding hat … a good scene, I thought: The old man is inside brewing up one of his fantastic drug-stews, and here we see his woman out in the garden, pruning carrots, or whatever … humming while she works, some tune I failed to recognize.
Yes … but it would be nearly ten years before I would recognize that sound for what it was: Like Ginsberg far gone in the Om, DeRopp was trying to humm me off. He was playing the Master Game. That was no old lady out there in that garden; it was the good doctor himself — and his humming was a frantic attempt to block me out of his higher consciousness.
I did, after all, have weapons. And I liked to shoot them — especially at night, when the great blue flame would leap out, along with all that noise … and, yes, the bullets, too.
But I always fired into the nearest hill or, failing that, into blackness. I meant no harm; I just liked the explosions. And I was careful never to kill more than I could eat. Had it ever eaten meat?
No … no hope of communication in this place. I recognized that — but not soon enough to keep the drug doctor from humming me all the way down his driveway and into my car and down the mountain road. Forget LSD, I thought. One grey lump of sugar and Boom. Not on the surface, but underneath — poking up through that finely cultivated earth like some kind of mutant mushroom.
A victim of the Drug Explosion. A natural street freak, just eating whatever came by. All I need is a place to cook. Huge white spansules. But only half at first, I thought. Good thinking, but a hard thing to accomplish under the circumstances. I ate the first half, but spilled the rest on the sleeve of my red Pendleton shirt … And then, wondering what to do with it, I saw the bartender come in. He said nothing: Merely grabbed my arm and began sucking on it. A very gross tableau.
Fuck him, I thought. Would he dare to suck a sleeve? Probably not. Play it safe. Pretend you never saw it. S trange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era — the kind of peak that never comes again.
San Francisco in the middle Sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run … but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world.
Whatever it meant. My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights — or very early mornings — when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big Lightning across the Bay Bridge at miles an hour wearing L. There was madness in any direction, at any hour. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.
And that, I think, was the handle — that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.
No sympathy for the Devil … newsmen tortured? T he decision to flee came suddenly. Or maybe not. The bill was a factor, I think. Because I had no money to pay it. Not after dealing with Sidney Zion. And besides, the magazine is legally responsible.
My attorney saw to that. We signed nothing. Except those room service tabs. He must have sensed trouble. On Monday evening he ordered up a set of fine cowhide luggage from room service, then told me he had reservations on the next plane for L. It crept up my spine like the first rising vibes of an acid frenzy. All these horrible realities began to dawn on me: Here I was all alone in Las Vegas with this goddamn incredibly expensive car, completely twisted on drugs, no attorney, no cash, no story for the magazine — and on top of everything else I had a gigantic goddamn hotel bill to deal with.
We had ordered everything into that room that human hands could carry — including about bars of translucent Neutrogena soap. The whole car was full of it — all over the floors, the seats, the glove compartment. My attorney had worked out some kind of arrangement with the mestizo maids on our floor to have this soap delivered to us — bars of this weird, transparent shit — and now it was all mine. Along with this plastic briefcase that I suddenly noticed right beside me on the front seat.
I lifted the fucker and knew immediately what was inside. No Samoan attorney in his right mind is going to stomp through the metal-detector gates of a commercial airline with a fat black. So he had left it with me, for delivery — if I made it back to L. Otherwise … well, I could almost hear myself talking to the California Highway Patrol:. This weapon? This loaded, unregistered, concealed and maybe hot. What am I doing with it? Well, you see, officer, I pulled off the road near Mescal Springs — on the advice of my attorney, who subsequently disappeared — and all of a sudden while I was just sort of walking around that deserted waterhole by myself for no reason at all when this little fella with a beard came up to me, out of nowhere, and he had this horrible linoleum knife in one hand and this huge black pistol in the other hand … and he offered to carve a big X on my forehead, in memory of Lt.
Calley … but when I told him I was a doctor of journalism his whole attitude changed. Right, he just shoved it into my hands, butt-first, and then he ran off into the darkness. A good. My risk — my gun: it made perfect sense.
And if that Samoan pig wanted to argue, if he wanted to come yelling around the house, give him a taste of the bugger about midway up the femur. M adness, madness … and meanwhile all alone with the Great Red Shark in the parking lot of the Las Vegas airport. To hell with this panic. Get a grip. For the next 24 hours this matter of personal control will be critical. Here I am sitting out here alone on this fucking desert, in this nest of armed loonies, with a very dangerous carload of hazards, horrors and liabilities that I must get back to L.
Completely fucked. No question about that. No future for a doctor of journalism editing the state pen weekly. Better to get the hell out of this atavistic state at high speed. Not for me. No mercy for a criminal freak in Las Vegas. This place is like the Army: the shark ethic prevails — eat the wounded.
In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity. This was the final step. I had taken all the grapefruit and other luggage out to the car a few hours earlier. Now it was only a matter of slipping the noose: Yes, extremely casual behavior, wild eyes hidden behind these Saigon-mirror sun glasses … waiting for the Shark to roll up. Where is it? Stay calm, keep reading the paper. The lead story was a screaming blue headline across the top of the page:.
To the left of that grim notice was a four-column center-page photo of Washington, D. Right underneath that story was a headline saying: Five wounded near NYC Tenement … by an unidentified gunman who fired from the roof of a building, for no apparent reason. Reading the front page made me feel a lot better. Against that heinous background, my crimes were pale and meaningless. I was a relatively respectable citizen — a multiple felon, perhaps, but certainly not dangerous. And when the Great Scorer came to write against my name, that would surely make a difference.
Or would it? I turned to the sports page and saw a small item about Muhammad Ali; his case was before the Supreme Court, the final appeal.
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