Chapter 22
Chapter 22: Good Vibrations - Marilyn, Music, and the Man in Black
“I have an answer for you, Marilyn but it’s not one that you’re going to want to hear.” Dr. Robert Vice, with his unkempt hair and foggy glasses was just the latest in a series of stooges that the starlett had visited in the past few years. Gynecologist was the professional term for what he did, but stooge seemed to Marilyn a more apt description. “I know you and Joe are trying, and I’ve been rooting for you all the way, but after examining your charts and getting the x-rays back from last week… I think it best that you accept the reality of your situation. You have endometriosis, Marilyn. Between that and your age I can’t in good conscience recommend that you continue trying to have a baby. I respect your drive to be a mother, but the medicine just isn’t there.”
Frustration mingled with deeply felt sadness in the actresses’ stomach. “Come on, Doctor. That’s it? There isn’t an operation, or a drug I can take? I’ve been fighting this thing for years. All I want is to be a mom!”
“I’m aware.” Vice replied, wiping fatigue from his eyes and adjusting his spectacles. “Unfortunately the likelihood of any pregnancy you could develop not ending in miscarriage is severely low. If motherhood really means as much to you as I think it does, then there is another option.” He reached into his frumpled white lab jacket to pull out a glossy pamphlet. “There are always plenty of children on the streets and in the system who could use a good home. There’s nothing that says that adopting a child keeps you from being a ‘real’ parent. To that child, you’d be changing their entire world.”
“He makes a good point.” Joe DiMaggio sighed as he leafed through the pages of the pamphlet. He pointed to a forlorn looking lad on the inner fold. “Imagine taking this kid home and giving him a real chance, eh? We’d make sure he never goes hungry, always has someone to look after him when he’s sick.” He stood behind his beloved wife and wrapped his arms around her neck, gently. “We’d teach him to walk and talk, and when he’s old enough he’d call us ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ and everything. Come on, honey; whaddya say?”
Mom. Marilyn thought to herself, the word hanging on her lips. An unspoken wish, an unfulfilled promise. Throughout her career, she felt that her body had her trapped in a bizarre sort of abusive relationship. Without her looks and vivacious curves, she might not have ever gotten the chance to pursue her dream of acting, but with them she was, for a long time, overlooked, underestimated. Men, especially the directors and producers of Hollywood saw her as a fading beauty, an ex-bombshell whose power to put asses in seats was steadily declining as her powers of seduction and arousal went out to pasture. Her body also kept her from her greatest dream of all: motherhood. This damned condition of mine. She cursed silently. Why do you have to keep this last wish of mine from me? Her body gave her success, and pleasure to millions of men across the world, but it refused to yield up new life.
As Joe held her however, Marilyn noticed something she never had before. His arms weren’t nearly as thick as they used to be. They felt almost fragile, coiled as they were. Her husband was still active, jogged every morning before work and lifted weights in the evenings from time to time. But long gone were the tight, wiry appendages which knocked fastballs hundreds of feet into the air and out of Yankee Stadium for home runs. His body was getting old too. No longer could Joltin’ Joe head up to the plate and lead his team to victory. But Joe could still coach, no matter how old or tired his limbs became. Despite his physical limitations, he would be a leader on the Diamond, just in a different manner than he originally intended. He was still the world’s greatest living ballplayer, and God dammit, she could still be a mom!
“Alright Joe.” Marilyn said, managing after a time to smile. “Let’s adopt a baby.”
Two weeks later, the couple welcomed a three week old orphan into their lives from a foster family in nearby Burbank. A beautiful boy with eyes as blue as the ocean and hair like the bark of a chestnut tree, Joe insisted that he take Marilyn’s surname when they filled out the adoption papers. “He’ll be both of our sons.” Joe explained patiently and with love for the child already clear in his eyes. “But this is your dream, my darling.”
“Arthur Percival Monroe” was the name the couple decided on for their new son. Continuing their late night tradition of reading poetry and novels in the nude together, the happy parents to be had just finished T.H. White’s The Once and Future King, and felt that only the names of the great King and one of his gallant knights could fit their princely baby. Tears filled the actresses’ eyes regularly in their first few nights with “Percy” as they took to calling him. Late night tantrums and troubles with feeding were always ignored, so happy was Marilyn to finally have a child of her own, a life that she could care for, cultivate and make ready for an uncertain future.
It was just after putting Percy to bed for the night one evening in the summer of ‘66 that Monroe’s phone rang in the kitchen. Wrapped only in her fluffy, pink bathrobe, as was her usual habit, Marilyn made her way downstairs and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Good evening, Marilyn. I’m sorry to bother you at so late an hour.” It was a voice familiar to Monroe after so many years. Her agent, Norman Brokaw had a distinctive manner about him when he had something important to tell her. “But I’ve got something big for you, and I think you’d love it.” The actress’ silence to Brokaw represented interest, and so he continued. “How would you feel about being in a picture? I know that things are busy with the baby and all. But this one shouldn’t take too long to shoot and seems like a surefire hit. The script is dynamite and Mike Nichols is insistent. You’d be perfect for his leading lady.”
Marilyn grinned. The prospect of working so soon after adopting Percy seemed risky, but Joe would keep a good eye on him, and she thought it best that her son grow up knowing that mothers could be breadwinners outside the home just as well as fathers could. “Very well, Norman. I’m intrigued. You may send the script over for my consideration.” The actress said. “Now that the baby’s sleeping through the night, I might have a moment to sit and actually read it. What’s it called anyway?”
Brokaw did a great job of putting sufficient oomph into the lackluster title to keep her interest, even have her excited to see what this project was about, anyway. “The Graduate.” His voice radiated giddiness. “It’s going to be magnificent.”
…
Above: Ann Margret and Elvis Presley at their wedding. Attendee Johnny Cash reported “Never in all of my days have I ever seen two people more happy and in love.” The ceremony was rather tasteful and private for a union between two celebrities, and plans were made for the couple to buy a permanent residence in San Francisco, in addition to their mansion at Graceland.
“Oh man Chet, this guy is good!” Elvis Presley and Ann Margret were, in the eyes of those who worked with them, the best example of “puppy love” you could ever ask for. The King and his Queen held hands and sipped coffee on a green sofa while his producer, the aforementioned Chet Atkins played back fresh takes from recent sessions. Ann wasn’t involved in the process except to provide support and encouragement, but once filming of her two episodes for the first season of Batman were finished, she became a fixture around the studio; often bringing homemade donuts, fruit salad, and other goodies to the various musicians working on her husband’s latest album. Of all of these studio employees, one stood out above the rest: a guitarist from Seattle with big hair and even bigger sound named James Marshall Hendrix.
“Yeah Elvis, he’s… something alright. I asked him to just sort of riff around for a while, you know, and the next thing I know we’re all standing around the booth just listening.” Atkins’ eyes were filled with wonder as he rolled back the tape to play for his client again. “He’s got the amp making all kinds of feedback, but it doesn’t sound bad. It wasn’t an accident or anything, he just made it part of his playing. You familiar with that new blues-rock song, ‘Hey Joe’?”
“‘Course.” Presley replied. “It’s got a great sound to it.”
Atkins grinned ear to ear and paused the tape to prepare his two guests to take the revelation in. “Well I’d bet everything I own that you haven’t ever heard it done like this.” The producer pressed play and almost instantly, the room was filled with aggressive, wailing guitar and Hendrix’s soulful, urgent vocals.
Hey Joe, where you goin' with that gun of yours?
Hey Joe, I said where you goin' with that gun in your hand?
Oh, I'm goin' down to shoot my old lady.
You know I caught her messin' 'round with another man.
Elvis’ eyes went wide. It was like nothing he’d ever heard before. Rock n Roll had always been loud, fast, and driving, that was what had earned it its reputation as the devil’s music when he was first making his ascent up the mountain of fame. But Presley’s genre of music always exercised restraint. For every Jerry Lee Lewis kicking over a piano bench in a moment of libido, there was a Pat Boone releasing neutered covers, or an Ed Sullivan to make you sing to a hound dog in a tuxedo. (Presley had never forgiven the host or the Colonel for that one.) Even the Beatles, for all their long hair and new sound, still wore matching suits and spoke politely in their interviews. Their biggest hit so far in the States had been, after all, about holding hands (the horror!). Here, in Hendrix’s demo tapes, was Rock in a more primal, animalistic form. The careful restraint imposed on Rock n Roll by a generation unready for its full potential was torn away, the chains broken. In their place, was an entirely new breed of music, one which reflected the changing times of an evolving United States. The shrieks of Hendrix’s amplifier matched those of protesters under attack from the police at UC Berkeley. The lyrics’ tale of justice as a very personal force echoed the thoughts of many in the Civil Rights movement, frustrated at the snail’s pace of progress they were seeing across the country.Hey Joe, I said where you goin' with that gun in your hand?
Oh, I'm goin' down to shoot my old lady.
You know I caught her messin' 'round with another man.
Taking it all in, Ann nodded approvingly. “This is really something, Chet. Who is this guy?”
Atkins shrugged. “His name’s Jimi Hendrix and he’s from Seattle, that’s pretty much all any of us can get out of him. He’s almost as shy as your husband was when I first met him. I wanted you to hear it, Elvis because I think there’s really something to this tune. If I can rub some sandpaper round the edges, smooth it out a bit, I think it could be a big hit for you.” He paused, trying to contain his excitement. “So what do you think? Will you record it?”
The King nodded, borrowed his hand back from Ann and stood. “Sounds good to me. But on one condition.” He pointed to the studio proper, on the other side of the glass barrier separating the booth from the microphones and other equipment. “I want this Jimi kid in there with me when I record it. I ain’t ever heard someone make that kind of noise with their guitar before. I don’t want to do this song unless I’ve got the same kind of backing he gave himself on it. Deal?” The producer gave his assent and within the hour, Hendrix was called in, told he was needed for a recording session that afternoon.
A legendary meeting for fans of rock music the world over, both were initially too impressed with each other to say more than a sentence in greeting. It was once they were in the studio, with work between them to bond over, that an easy friendship quickly spawned between the two. In a single take, both Presley and Hendrix gave “Hey Joe” everything they had. The raw power of Elvis’ voice blended seamlessly with the pure energy of the guitar player’s licks to create what would go down in music history as one of rock’s greatest anthems. As they wrapped up production for the day, Elvis took Jimi aside and smacked his shoulder. “If you don’t mind my saying, Jimi, you’re probably the best guitar player I’ve ever seen.”
Hendrix was thrilled at the compliment from a living legend. “Well thank you, Mr. Presley.”
“Please, call me Elvis.” The King smiled warmly and sat down, extending his arm to offer a glass. “You want some sweet tea? Ann makes a mean lemonade too, if that’s more to your liking.”
“Neither for right now.” Hendrix waved the offer away sheepishly. “Thanks, though. I’m glad you like the sound, Elvis. It’s nice to know that I’m not just making noise, you know?”
“Sure.” Elvis laughed. “They used to say that about me when I first made it big, if you can believe that. I was ‘just sound’, or worse ‘Elvis the Pelvis.’ They thought I was going to make the sky collapse or something. I was just singing songs and making music. New music granted, but still just music.” He allowed himself a swallow of Ann’s tea, savoring every drop. “You got a band you play in or anything? There’s no way a guy as good as you should spend his whole life doing session work.” He enjoyed this kid already, Elvis could tell. He projected sensitivity and a quiet, shy demeanor, all qualities that the boy from Tupelo, Mississippi was known for himself at one point or another. He figured he and Hendrix were kindred spirits, in a way.
“As it happens,” Hendrix raised his eyebrows. “A couple of guys and I have a little outfit together right now. We call ourselves ‘Buster and the Battery’, on account of me being called Buster as a kid and all of us being vets from the Army.” He shrugged, dismissive. “But I’m not really sure that there’s much chance of us going anywhere. I earn a better living from studio work than we’ve ever gotten from gigs.”
“Thank you for your service. It’s always nice to meet a fellow veteran. You play songs like that one we done today?” The King inquired, finishing off his glass and pouring himself another.
“All kinds.” Hendrix admitted. “But mostly, yeah. Blues-Rock all the way, hard, heavy, and loud.”
“Interesting.” Presley set his glass aside and rolled his neck to stretch out an ache. “Well Jimi, if all your friends in the Battery play half as good as you do, I’d be foolish not to take this opportunity while it’s here. After I finish working on this album, I’m set for another tour all over America, Canada, and England. Would you and your boys be up for being my opening act?”
For a second, the guitarist was speechless. Opening for Elvis Presley, the King of Rock N Roll himself was a surefire ticket to the big time. Hell, even The Beatles had warmed the crowds up for him on their recent tour all over the world. Breaks like this came, he knew, once in a lifetime and he’d be a fool to pass it up. “Elvis, we’d be honored to open up for ya.”
Elvis offered a hand for Hendrix to shake. “Well alright! I’ll make sure to keep you in the know about how things are coming along, and when we’ll be heading out, you hear? In the meantime, keep on playing that thing like there’s no tomorrow. You’ve got a gift, Jimi. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”
As he departed Chet Atkins’ studio that sweltering day in San Francisco, Jimi Hendrix felt something rare enough in his to that point tragic life: thrill. No matter what happened out on the road to Buster and the Battery, he was sure of one thing. It’s going to be one hell of an experience.
…
Above: Johnny Cash, “The Man in Black”, outside of The Falcon, a theater in Cardiff, Wales. The photograph was taken by Bob Dylan, who performed alongside Cash that night. The pair brought the crowd to their feet with a duet of Dylan’s song “Girl from the North Country”. It was the last show of each of their respective 1966 European tours.
John Ray Cash, born February 26th, 1932 in Kingsland, Arkansas went by many different names to many different people. To those he considered friendly or familiar, he was “J.R.”; to legions of fans who turned out to hear him play his unique blend of rockabilly-country, “Johnny Cash”; and from music critics and writers he had earned a more foreboding moniker: the Man in Black. Country music’s greatest outlaw, Cash earned a reputation for spending time in jail for minor crimes and for playing music which cut through the niceties often associated with his genre, and spoke directly to the disaffected, the downtrodden, and the depressed. By his side in March of 1966, as he stepped outside for some fresh air after a concert at the Falcon was Bob Dylan, often seen as something of a rebel in his own right.
Unlike the older Cash, who’d spent his formative years picking cotton on a family farm and having the Christian Gospel ingrained into his bones, Dylan was born Robert Allen Zimmerman on May 24th, 1941 in Duluth, Minnesota to two Jewish parents: Abram and Beatrice. Dylan had taken criticism from his more devout fans recently over his decision to “go electric” for his newest record, Highway 61 Revisited. Previously the darling of the folk movement, Dylan was beginning to develop as an artist, and leave the burgeoning scene he’d helped create behind for a more complex and mature sound.
Together, the Man in Black and the Bard stood in the damp evening air and watched the clouds overhead cloak the night sky in misty secrecy. “You played great tonight, JR.” Dylan said to break the silence. From his pocket he produced a cigarette and a lighter. “You need a light?”
Cash shook his head. “Thanks Bob, you too.” He lit his own and together they smoked in solemn enjoyment of the gentle breeze blowing between the brick, pre-war buildings. “You better be careful, I might steal those songs of yours if you keep writing ‘em like that.” He inhaled deeply and gestured with his hand. “It’s poetry, what you do.”
Dylan chuckled. “I appreciate that. Play ‘em as much as you want, but don’t you go about stealing them at the cost of your own. You’ve got your own songs to sing, your own stories to tell, J.R.” He shook his head and let the smoke flow out of his nostrils while he thought. “That thing you do with your guitar when you play… your voice, your whole sound, man. That’s poetry in its own way. Compared to you, I’m just some nasal-voiced Jew with a dictionary.”
“You and I both know that isn’t true, but I’ll keep that in mind, Bob.” Cash pulled on the sleeve of his black stage shirt to reveal the weathered leather band of his wrist-watch. “Shit. I’ve got to head back in. June will be calling me out to do ‘Jackson’ anytime now.” He tugged his leather jacket back on and snuffed out his cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe. “Nice talking to you, Bob, and playing too. Next time we cross paths, we should do this again.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” Dylan replied, waving goodbye and leaning against a neighboring building. “Don’t be a stranger, eh? You ever work up the courage and ask Miss June to marry you, I’m the first person you tell.”
He sees right through me. The man must be the smartest musician I’ve ever met. Cash laughed out loud. “Will do. Take it easy.” With those few words, the Man in Black headed back into the theater to a standing ovation from the eager crowd inside. The boom-chicka-boom of his guitar swelled and his deep bass voice collided with June’s sweet intonations to create the illusion of an American freight train riding loose through the Welsh countryside. As he and June bowed and finished their set that night, Johnny Cash had no idea that his promise to Bob Dylan would ultimately prove unfulfilled. For that brief cigarette break would be the last he and the Folk Rock prophet would ever see of each other.
A few short months later, while driving his motorcycle home to Woodstock, New York from his manager’s house nearby, Bob Dylan would be run off the road by an oncoming truck and crash into the trunk of an ancient tree. The 25 year old Dylan, arguably the greatest songwriter in the world, was killed instantly. In the blink of an eye, Rock was deprived of one of its greatest stars. The fledgling voice of a new generation was snuffed out.
Rest in Peace: Bob Dylan
May 24th, 1941 - July 29th, 1966
May 24th, 1941 - July 29th, 1966
Next Time on Blue Skies in Camelot: Two Americans stand at a crossroads.
A lot of the best songs of this era and later ones were penned by the Bard. He may rise to even higher Mythic Status ITTL. Though people will debate whether he deserves it or he's only getting all the acclaim because he died young. (Oddly like JFK, IOTL)
