Larry Lives!

It had already happened in a few other places; but when it happened in Los Angeles, Larry cried for joy. First Michael Bloomfield, wearing a crushed-velvet bowling shirt and jeans, made his way out to the Troubadour mike.

"I guess you all know why I'm here," Mike began. "I want to introduce the next act. While we were all screwing around with blues and country music and that other shit, this man was getting into the only sounds that really mean anything. We've all listened to his records when we thought everyone else was asleep and we've all learned something about music and maybe even about life from him. Aw, shit, you know who I'm talking about, so let's give him a real Troubadour welcome."

Larry walked uncertainly onto the Troubadour stage. He smiled his beautiful smile and the entire audience rose and applauded. He just stood there, wrapping himself in the blanket of applause. Finally, he picked up his beautiful mother-of-pearl-inlaid accordion, blew into the mike and announced: "Enough of this beeswax. Let's get it on."

"Right on," came the audience response.

"Do you want to boogie?" he asked.

"Yeah," the people responded.

"I said, 'Do you want to boogie?'"

"Yeah!"

As he ran through the opening chords, he told the audience, "I want you all to get real outrageous with this. You can speak loud, snap your fingers, whatever you want to do."

They were all dancing in their seats to the Boogie Polka.

"Far out," one long-haired kid confided to another. "He's still the fastest accordion player there is."

Part of the audience was dancing to Larry's music. Others shook their fists and chanted, "A vun and a two and a vun and a two."

Larry asked for requests and got a chance to play all the cuts on Dues, his new Reprise album. Understandably, the chants for "More! More!" were particularly loud when he did his two underground hits, Foxy Foxy Fox Trot and Lady of Spain Boogie.

After the set, his dressing room was crowded with the usual assortment of groupies and music people. Yet somehow the atmosphere was different. For a second, I couldn't spot him; but all I had to do was see Joni. Her blonde hair spilled onto the shoulders of her burgundy dress and she was smiling at her old man.

Larry was still wearing his accordion. Standing near him, also wearing an accordion, was Leon Russell. Leon was clearly pleased as he watched his own fingers make a stab at the Malagueña Boogie.

In a corner of the dressing room, the Lennon sisters were getting into a heavy "Doo-wop doo-wop," which provided a pleasant Gospel undertone. Larry's manager, Lance Feldman, and I found each other. Lance was wearing a tie-dyed bowling shirt, baggy brown pants with a belt in back, white socks and suede bowling shoes.

"Glad you're here. Glad you're here," Lance chanted. "If there's anything you want to know for your story, you let me know, because Larry is it and everybody ought to know about him. I tell you, man, my whole life has changed since I met him. I'm not too proud to admit it. I guess you want to know how I met Larry. Huh? For your story, I mean."

"Well...." I hesitated.

"That's what I thought." He closed his eyes and started into the same rap he gave every interviewer. "I was passing through Milwaukee and I went into this bar because I had to pee. And I'm standing there, see, and I'm looking in the mirror and then I hear music like I never heard before. It was real friendly and the vibes from the audience were real friendly. As soon as I dry my hands, I step out of the men's room and there's one guy onstage, playing an accordion, and if that isn't far out, the place is filled with kids whispering. 'A vun and a two.' You know.

"'Who is that guy?' I asked one kid.

"'That is Larry,' he replied. 'Larry Welk.'" Lance looked at me significantly.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Jerry Garcia. His nimble fingers moved up and down the rainbow-colored keys of his accordion to create a very heavy Humoresque. But still Lance continued.

"The name Larry Welk struck a bell, but I didn't associate it with, you know, him. So, after the gig, I rapped with him. I told him who I was and how I thought he ought to make records, you know, get his music to the people. Well, Larry just laughed and explained he had no intention to go through that star trip again. And then I recognized him. Blew my mind. Well, I hung out in Milwaukee for a couple of weeks so I could rap to him without doing any kind of high-pressure numbers, and I'd call the Coast every day. Well, finally we worked it out so that Larry Would call the tune on his records and appearances and everything. I offered to be his manager and he thought that was kosher. I don't mind saying I got him a lot of bread up front."

I was getting tired of Feldman, so I told him to fuck off. I wanted to talk to Larry. He mumbled something and walked away. A minute later, I was looking at the wrinkled face of Larry Welk.

"Sit down, man," he said, pointing to a folding chair. "I understand you want to rap. Nothing I like better than rapping and talking."

Larry reached beneath his chair and came up with a couple of paper cups and a bottle of mountain red. He poured for both of us and then returned the bottle to its place.

"Wow," Welk murmured. "This sure ain't like the old days. I used to own this town. All those gigs at the Hollywood Bowl. The TV-star thing. I remember when Frankie and the Rat Pack challenged me and the boys to a touch-football game in Forest Lawn Cemetery. Big Tiny Little really came through that time.

"But I was doing a lot of champagne in those days and--well, you know what they say--a champagne head rides the bubbles and they take him up and down. When I think back to those days, I think I'm watching a horror movie and I'm both the hero and the monster. That's why I wrote my song Horror Movie."

When Larry mentioned his song, the chords rushed into my mind immediately. It was played on all the underground FM stations last spring.

I think I'm watching a horror movieAnd I'm both the monster and thehero.

How could one human being beBoth Eisenhower and Nero?

Horror movie boo boo booHorror movie boo boo booHorror movie boo boo booHorror movie a vun and a two.

Only an artist like Larry Welk could draw so dramatically from his experience. I asked him if in that period when he did that whole number he realized that a lot of people hated him.

"Yeah," he said, taking a sip of wine. "With all those bad vibes aimed at me, I had to feel something. But, you see, I thought it was my music the people hated.

"I used to have horrible temper tantrums, jumping and screaming for hours. I used to line up all the cats in the band for a hair inspection. But now I know that doesn't mean anything. People have got to be free. Hair can come down to the collar line. I don't care what it looks like as long as the guy can take care of it. Right, Jerry?"

Jerry Garcia had sidled up to us.

"Sure, man," Garcia mumbled. "As long as it's neat."

We were approached by what appeared to be a choochoo train. Actually, it was a Reprise promotion man, followed by a man in a blue double-breasted suit with a burgundy turtleneck and brown shoes, a woman with shellacked hair and a sequined jump suit and an 11-year-old girl brat who was obviously wearing a tie-dyed trainer bra. The caboose was a photographer.

"Hey there, Larry, sorry to interrupt," said the promotion man. "But I want you to meet Vinnie. He's a local distributor and he's done a super job getting your LP out to the one-stops."

"Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Welk. This is my wife, Frieda, and my daughter Melody."

The photographer moved in and as the men shook hands, he slashed at them with clicks and flashes. After the pictures were taken, the choochoo train huffed and puffed away. Larry reached under his seat for the wine bottle.

"To think," he said as he refilled our cups, "that I used to be into champagne----"

"Larry," I cut in. "You obviously have gone through very heavy changes. What made you do it? Acid? Meditation? (concluded on page 167)Larry Lives!(continued from page 120) Mescaline? A suicide attempt? What was it?"

"Beer," he replied.

"Beer?"

"Yes, beer. The cat who supplied me with champagne was out of town and I was really irritable. It was really a bad time. My Imperial wouldn't start. I was having trouble with my ratings. I was having trouble in the recording studio. My producer wanted to overdub with loads of clarinets.

"I was really freaking out. I remember racing through the studio over at Dot records, looking for a bottle of champagne. I checked out every refrigerator. I remember beating on the janitor's door, screaming, 'Gronowski, my contract stipulates I always have champagne. Where is my champagne?' I fell to my knees and he opened the door.

"'I have no champagne,' he told me. 'But I can give you a brew.'

"'A brew? What are you talking about, you crazy Polish human being?' I screamed at him.

"'A brew. Suds. Beer. I can give you a can of beer.'

"'I don't want it,' I told him.

"'It has got bubbles like champagne.'

"'Gimme!'

"He went to the fridge and took out a six-pack. He moved so slowly. He took a can for himself and one for me. I grabbed mine out of his hand. I was so anxious I cut my finger on the pop-top. I just poured that amber liquid down my throat. It tasted awful. A lot of beer heads will boast about how bitter that first hit of beer in your mouth is. But I didn't care. I had to have more. Before that first can had a chance to really hang out in my belly, I took another can and another and another. I told you I was in a weird mood. Gronowski just watched me. He was waiting for something. And then it happened. I had a mystical experience. I belched and I understood everything. I understood every single thing. I looked at myself in disgust. I remembered screaming at my valet because he didn't give me a white-on-white tie to match my white-on-white shirt. I remembered screaming at my producer because he wanted to put in all those clarinets. Heck, man, clarinet players are part of the cosmos. Well, all kinds of thoughts like that went through my mind and then I just sort of passed out.

"When I woke up, I was looking at the bottom of Gronowski's table, but that was OK, because it was part of the cosmos. I thanked that wonderful Polish human being and I split. I went into the parking lot and then I saw my car. I shook my head. I knew I could never again travel in a chrome-plated accordion with fins.

"I just went to the Strip and I stuck my thumb out. A lot of people didn't want to pick me up. I must have looked very disreputable. I hadn't shaved all day. But I finally got a lift and I kept going until I hit Milwaukee. That was where I started from and that was where I had to be. Nothing much happened there except that I spent a lot of time in the woodshed getting together with my ax. And when I was ready to play my new music for the people, I asked a friend if I could sort of work out in his club and he said righto and that's where Lance found me."

Larry smiled and poured some more mountain red into our cups.

"To think," he mused, "that I used to do only champagne. Wow."

I knew I had time to ask only one more question and I asked him what he thought of the old days, and his changes.

"Well, I'll tell you," he told me, taking a pull at his cup. "I thought the old days were really fine, until I had that mystical experience; but the day I had that fast beer-belch flash, I knew I could never play rip-off games again. So I dropped out. I did reading that I never did before. By the way, did you see the latest issue of The Hulk? He's really heavy. Anyway, it turns out that now I'm financially better off than I used to be. Not that I care. I've had three gold LPs within a year. I don't have to pay the expenses of a band. But more important, I have a lot of good friends and good times. In fact, we're all going over to my trailer after the show tonight, man. All of us." He pointed one of his lightning hands at the dudes in the room. Garcia was getting on down with Humoresque. After Larry, it sounded kind of lame, but the vibes were good. The Lennon sisters were sitting on an old couch, flipping through a copy of Family Circle in time to the music, and Leon Russell stood in a corner quietly combing his beard. It was then that I really understood the word together. "And," Larry added, "why don't you come? Leon's holding some dynamite stuff--real Roma Rocket. We're gonna take off on that and get it on. Can you dig it?"

Being a reporter for Bowling Stoned means you don't get off on much, because you've been there. Doing Coke with David Cassidy. Rapping with Bucky Fuller. Window-shopping with Abbie Hoffman. Whistling at girls with the Stones. But I couldn't pass up a free trip on the Roma Rocket with some of the best fingers of our time. It was a scene they'd be talking about for years. It was a scene I'd be writing about for years. So I patted Larry on the back of his snakeskin bowling shirt and said, "Sure, man, I can dig it."

Larry grinned and led the way to his trailer.

As we filed out the door, Jerry Garcia leaned his well-kept halo of hair toward me and whispered with a beatific smile: "Feel like getting into some champagne, man?"