DRUMMER DOUG HINMAN REMEMBERS BILLY MARLOWE
(Doug toured and recorded with Duke Robillard and others.)
Late in the winter of 1983, I was living on East Third Street in New York’s Lower East Side, a grey piece of the city which back then was also known as “the Hell's Angels’ block.” My apartment was in an old tenement building managed by Steve Satterwhite.
At that time, I was the drummer in a rockabilly band called Rock House, and Satterwhite used to occasionally come to bars to see us play. We got to know each other pretty well, and our buddy John O’Hare, a fine all-around musician and singer, became the third member of our well-oiled drinking-and-talking crew.
The previous fall Satterwhite and his partner, musician Stephen Gaboury, had built their own recording studio around the corner on East Fourth Street. It was in the storefront of another building that Satterwhite also managed, and the “enterprising Mister Satterwhite” was on the hunt for unsigned talent that he could record, hoping to land a major label record deal. Back then, independent labels were very rare and not truly a big force on the general music scene.
I recall that Satterwhite was very excited when he first heard and began working with Billy Marlowe. Billy was a very talented singer and songwriter, and he was also occasionally a good drinking buddy. We all did quite a bit of drinking back then.
Satterwhite knew many aspiring musicians who often ended up renting apartments in buildings that he managed in the evolving “East Village.” For instance, Shawn Colvin had recently arrived in the Big Apple to start her singing career, and she lived down the hall from me. Bassist Tony Garnier was another neighborhood regular who was already established in town after leaving Asleep At The Wheel; during that period Tony was Robert Gordon's stellar bass player.
When Steve got around to putting some of Billy’s songs down on tape, the studio was barely operational; the control room had an old TASCAM board with EQ knobs that really didn’t do much of anything. At any rate, and in the spirit of the times, he asked if John O’Hare and I would like to lay down a bass and drum track behind Billy on guitar and vocals. If my old diary notes are correct, we recorded Salvation Railroad and Born Again on Sunday, March 6. I was on drums, in a very small---small---isolation booth, with John and Billy in the main room. John played bass, then added some steel guitar as well. At the end of the session, Stephen Gaboury dropped in after a gig and very quickly overdubbed the really catchy keyboard track on Salvation Railroad. I have always thought that the part he invented on the spot was practically perfect, and sort of commercial sounding in an elegant, and rocking, way. After making some work mixes of the tracks, we headed uptown to an Irish bar on Fourteenth Street, and we all drank way too much draught Guinness.
A second diary entry shows that I was back at the studio three weeks later on Sunday, March 27, this time with Tony Garnier on bass doing You Got My Heart. Other than paying close attention to Tony through the drum booth window, I don't recall much about the session. I had known Tony casually for a good while; even though this was years before he began his 24-year run as Bob Dylan's main man, I still recall being a little nervous, recording and playing with him. Tony is a genuinely nice guy who carries no airs about him, but he has always been a monster player, and at that point I had not logged in too many hours as a studio drummer. Other than an old cassette of the rough mixes, which I subsequently lent to my friend John, I didn't hear the tracks again for years.
I left New York in 1984 and never realized that some of our Billy Marlowe tracks had been included on Billy’s hard-to-find LP. Decades later, I retrieved my old cassette from John, then later got back in touch with Satterwhite who finally sent a copy of the LP to me. It was exciting to finally hear the songs and the mastered production after all those years.
And now here it is 2012, and there is a Billy Marlowe CD. Alas, only recently did I hear of Billy's passing. No one ever said that the music business was easy or fair, but I clearly remember being thrilled to have known and worked with Billy for that period of my involvement. I can't wait to hear the CD. Hurry up, Steve!!
Doug Hinman, Warren, Rhode Island
November 2012
At that time, I was the drummer in a rockabilly band called Rock House, and Satterwhite used to occasionally come to bars to see us play. We got to know each other pretty well, and our buddy John O’Hare, a fine all-around musician and singer, became the third member of our well-oiled drinking-and-talking crew.
The previous fall Satterwhite and his partner, musician Stephen Gaboury, had built their own recording studio around the corner on East Fourth Street. It was in the storefront of another building that Satterwhite also managed, and the “enterprising Mister Satterwhite” was on the hunt for unsigned talent that he could record, hoping to land a major label record deal. Back then, independent labels were very rare and not truly a big force on the general music scene.
I recall that Satterwhite was very excited when he first heard and began working with Billy Marlowe. Billy was a very talented singer and songwriter, and he was also occasionally a good drinking buddy. We all did quite a bit of drinking back then.
Satterwhite knew many aspiring musicians who often ended up renting apartments in buildings that he managed in the evolving “East Village.” For instance, Shawn Colvin had recently arrived in the Big Apple to start her singing career, and she lived down the hall from me. Bassist Tony Garnier was another neighborhood regular who was already established in town after leaving Asleep At The Wheel; during that period Tony was Robert Gordon's stellar bass player.
When Steve got around to putting some of Billy’s songs down on tape, the studio was barely operational; the control room had an old TASCAM board with EQ knobs that really didn’t do much of anything. At any rate, and in the spirit of the times, he asked if John O’Hare and I would like to lay down a bass and drum track behind Billy on guitar and vocals. If my old diary notes are correct, we recorded Salvation Railroad and Born Again on Sunday, March 6. I was on drums, in a very small---small---isolation booth, with John and Billy in the main room. John played bass, then added some steel guitar as well. At the end of the session, Stephen Gaboury dropped in after a gig and very quickly overdubbed the really catchy keyboard track on Salvation Railroad. I have always thought that the part he invented on the spot was practically perfect, and sort of commercial sounding in an elegant, and rocking, way. After making some work mixes of the tracks, we headed uptown to an Irish bar on Fourteenth Street, and we all drank way too much draught Guinness.
A second diary entry shows that I was back at the studio three weeks later on Sunday, March 27, this time with Tony Garnier on bass doing You Got My Heart. Other than paying close attention to Tony through the drum booth window, I don't recall much about the session. I had known Tony casually for a good while; even though this was years before he began his 24-year run as Bob Dylan's main man, I still recall being a little nervous, recording and playing with him. Tony is a genuinely nice guy who carries no airs about him, but he has always been a monster player, and at that point I had not logged in too many hours as a studio drummer. Other than an old cassette of the rough mixes, which I subsequently lent to my friend John, I didn't hear the tracks again for years.
I left New York in 1984 and never realized that some of our Billy Marlowe tracks had been included on Billy’s hard-to-find LP. Decades later, I retrieved my old cassette from John, then later got back in touch with Satterwhite who finally sent a copy of the LP to me. It was exciting to finally hear the songs and the mastered production after all those years.
And now here it is 2012, and there is a Billy Marlowe CD. Alas, only recently did I hear of Billy's passing. No one ever said that the music business was easy or fair, but I clearly remember being thrilled to have known and worked with Billy for that period of my involvement. I can't wait to hear the CD. Hurry up, Steve!!
Doug Hinman, Warren, Rhode Island
November 2012
NEW BIO notes from Billy Marlowe's sister, Tricia, written on October 12, 2012
Many of my earlier memories of Billy are the memories of a self-absorbed teenager who idolized her big brother and the life he led, which was decidedly “un-Midwestern” despite our upbringing [in Kansas]. He was the oldest of five; I was the youngest, and we shared a special bond.
My sister, who lives with her family in New Mexico, was here this week; I filled her in on "the Billy Project,” and we shared tons of memories. One of her clearest memories is saying to Billy in exasperation one day, probably during the tumultuous late 60’s and early 70’s, “God, Billy, when are you going to grow up?” He answered, with complete sincerity and seriousness, “Never, I hope.”
He was a great athlete, a star tennis and basketball player through high school. I remember him hitting tennis balls up against the garage door for hours on end, and he rode his bicycle 12 miles each way to tennis practice. He continued playing tennis at Hutchinson Community College for two years, and he placed in the National Junior College Tennis Tournament.
I think it was during his time at Hutchinson Junior College that he became serious about music. He picked up an old guitar somewhere, and I can’t picture him without seeing the guitar strap around his neck.
We moved from Hutchinson to Saint Marys, Kansas (population 1,600) in 1965, after our dad lost his Kansas Congressional race to Bob Dole in 1964. I think Billy was enrolled at Kansas State University in Manhattan, Kansas, by then, which was about 25 miles from our new home in Saint Marys. I may have the chronology a bit wrong---I was probably about 12, so Billy was about 21 or 22---but I remember walking with him to the edge of town, where he hitchhiked a ride to Manhattan. He carried only a pillowcase filled with clothes and his guitar, which he called “Louise.” I clearly remember him hugging me, and telling me that he loved us all, which I thought was kind of odd. Years later, I realized that he knew then that he was going to Canada to avoid the draft, and he couldn’t be in touch with us for a while. It was several years before we saw or heard from him again.
He was also a very talented artist; he did some painting and sculpture. He was majoring in fine arts at Kansas State University, and getting more serious about his music.
Billy heard a different drummer than the rest of us siblings did, growing up in Kansas. We all lost touch with him from time to time, but he always found back to us. He was an especially wonderful son to our parents, and a prolific letter writer. He and our mother were particularly close. Billy would send us demo tapes of his songs, and I remember her sitting at the kitchen table, well into her 70’s, repeatedly playing the tapes over and over on an old cassette player so she could write down the words.
Backtracking to Billy’s time in Canada: We didn’t hear from him for a long time, and we didn’t even know where he had gone. My parents were sick with worry. One night late, we got a phone call from an anonymous friend who simply said that Billy wanted us to know he was in Canada and was safe, but that he couldn’t contact us. That was all. My brother John describes my parents’ reaction in detail in his eulogy, so I won’t repeat it here. [The eulogy will be posted on this site.]
Lots of ugly stuff happened after that with Billy and Barbara---drugs were an issue, and struggling just to live on the streets---but the good stuff was that Charissa was born in 1968 and Marlowe in 1970. In 1972, my parents, who were then within a few years of retirement, went to Canada and, with Billy and Barbara’s blessing, they brought Charissa and Marlowe home to live with us in Kansas---me, mom and dad; my siblings were in college by then. Drugs were a problem, and also Billy couldn’t come back to the States because of the draft evasion. Barbara came to stay with us shortly after that, but Billy had to stay in Canada.
When it appeared that amnesty was being given that fall, Billy rolled the dice and finally returned to the States. He was arrested at the Chicago airport and jailed, got out on bail and came to us in Saint Marys. He was awaiting what we all understood would be a very short sentence, but he drew “a pure sonofabitch of a judge” (my dad’s words), and they took him away right on the spot, for more than two years (first briefly in Texarkana, Texas, and then to Sandstone in Minnesota). I recall that Barbara returned to Toronto with the children briefly for some rest and rehab; then Charissa and Marlowe returned to Kansas to live with me, mom and dad for a couple of more years. They were some of the best years of my young life; I finally had the little brother and sister that I had always wanted, and I truly believe that their time in Kansas (and the trauma of their young lives before that) has helped make them the good, strong people they are today. They returned to St. Marys for several summers while growing up.
Here are some excerpts from letters to our parents:
March 1972, Sandstone Prison:
“I’m here at Sandstone, Minnesota, now. Sandstone is about 80 miles north of Minneapolis. Sandstone is a better place than Texarkana. For one thing, it’s not in Texas. For another, they use it as a transfer joint for all federal prisoners, and it’s a bit like a bus station. They have better facilities here – better music equipment, anyway. And like I say, it’s not in Texas. My guitar was here when I got here, safe and sound. Thanks for sending it.
1972 or 1973, Sandstone Prison:
”There’s a limit to the number of letters one can write here, and there’s a definite lack of much to write about. I play guitar every day, and on every Thursday night the country-and-western club has a concert. I sang in it last week, and all the convicts yelled and stomped their feet and shouted for more.
“I’ve been playing a lot with a guy who used to play in one of the bands that traveled with the Johnny Cash road show. He says I shouldn’t have any trouble getting on a concert tour. I didn’t figure I would anyway, but it’s nice to hear a good musician say it. It’s nice sometimes not to have to be your own confidence.
“I’ll leave you with the happy note that I have it on good authority, from a reliable source, that every convict gets a hundred dollars when he gets out.
June 1972, Sandstone Prison:
“The main reason for this letter is to apologize to mom for letting Mother’s Day get by me. People get like prairie dogs in here. They scurry about down below and only once in a while pop up to see what’s going on outside. I’ve been prairie dog-like the past few weeks, and when I popped up this time, Mother’s Day was two days old. So I wish you the best of Mother’s Days, mom.
“We have a really smoking little band in here. I play lead guitar, and we have a bass, drums, and a horn section. I do some singing, and we have some good singers. Sometimes we get the whole joint rocking.
1972, Sandstone Prison:
“Dear Dad: Just got your #16 newsletter, and it struck me, every one of the several times I read it, how well you write. If, as some people say, I have the ability to say a lot with a few well-chosen words, I inherited it from my father. [My dad wrote weekly newsletters for the Kansas Cooperative Council and routinely sent them to Billy.]
Mid-1970s, Minneapolis:
“Everyone here is fine, except for Watermelon Sam, the cat. He looks like a Bowery bum because Marlowe trimmed his whiskers with the scissors.
“We got the package with the fishes. I don’t know if I should tell you this, but 20 minutes after Marlowe opened the package, I caught him floating all the fishes in the bathroom sink.
“I’ve been getting a few more jobs but still not enough to make any big money. I played a weekend at Winona, Minnesota, at a small college there. Winona is on the Wisconsin border on the Mississippi. It’s pretty bluff country, much like the land around Manhattan [KS].”
Mid 1970s, New York:
“Finally, things have turned. Or rather, they seem to be turning. I think I mentioned that I was taking a course at Nassau County Community College about the technical aspects of the music business. It was $120 well spent because a few things have come of it. As it turned out, I was the only seasoned musician in the class, and we used one of my songs as an example of how to arrange a tune at a pre-recording session. We didn’t have the time to really get what I wanted, but I got the chance to hear the tune with a full band and a three-girl vocal section; plus, I learned that I have a knack for getting people to play what I hear without actually telling them. The trick is, for one thing, of course, to pick good musicians. If it were possible to pay who I wanted to play with -- the kind of money that caliber of musician gets -- Dad would have his new pick-up truck.
“What I found was that a well-written song will almost arrange itself and a suggestion here or there is enough. Now that I think of it, I’m not really as sure as I thought I was about how to get people to play what you or I hear without really telling them. Just like life, isn’t it?"
“One of the guys in the class has aspirations to be a manager and booking agent. He manages one band and has been helping me out. He gets 10% of the take, so it’s in his interest to work his butt off. I have a steady Saturday night gig at a club in New Hyde Park and a sound man, and, for the first time in my sweet short life, some good equipment.
“I’ve been trying to put a band together---I have to laugh – I’ve been trying to put a band together for 15 years. Before I get carried away and wax poetic about putting bands together, let’s just say that putting a band together must rank high on the list of things that require a combination of love, cunning, force and patience. For instance, I have a guitarist friend who has been playing since he was seven. He is sensitive, creative, intelligent and has his musical roots in the same place as I do – and he has the stage presence of a mole. No matter what Frank Zappa says, I know I’m not in this game only for the money.
“More news: remember if you can Rory McNamara, an English friend of mine who once called the house. He made an album (I have told you this but this is where it stands now) in Belgium with nine of my songs on it. I have the tapes of the final mix and it’s not bad. Not the way I would have done it, but all in all not bad. Pop, it’s a little like hearing someone give nine of your speeches; you’d like to interrupt sometimes, but it’s too late. The album hasn’t been released yet, but I do have a publisher now, and am joining BMI (the music organization that collects whatever money your music makes). So the music quest is moving at least, which makes me easier to live with, I’m sure.
Mid-1980s, Atlanta:
“The enclosed folder is my press kit. I’ve met some musicians and done some taping. Our first job is December 15. I’m working with a piano/guitar player. In January, he has a pretty good contract for one of the subdivisions they seem to be building there. I get the music jobs, and he gets the painting jobs, and we work for each other. I guess a paint brush is the last refuge of a desperate musician. [Billy often made ends meet by painting houses.]
Mid-1980s, Atlanta:
“I went with a $1,000 check in my pocket to the post office. They had only $100. I went to a branch office downtown. The guy said, “ID.” I gave him my Kansas driver’s license and my Social Security card. He said, “You have to have a credit card.” I said, “This is absurd. No wonder this country has a $3 billion dollar deficit.” He said “You know, you’re right,” and cashed it. I said, ‘Whoa.’
“I bought a tape recorder for $50 that can make copies of tapes, a pretty good deal. Got some strings and some more harps. I go into shock every time I pay $16 for a harmonica; the first time I bought one, it was $3.50."
“By the way, I need a dictionary. Writing songs can make you stupid and ruin your spelling.”
Late 1989, Dunellen, New Jersey:
“There is always a certain amount of joy being around little kids. David [Billy’s grandson] is taking his first steps. He takes four steps, then falls down because he is so proud that he forgets to walk, and then plops down on his butt."
“Last night the weather went down to 5 degrees. Set records all over New Jersey. I think I’ll set up a business. I’ll say, ‘Weather’s fine,’ and the next day rain will come. Or, ‘Weather’s warm,’ and – bingo – a cold spell. I’m sure there’s a living in there somewhere.
MORE BIO INFORMATION FROM TRICIA
Billy was born in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, on May 25, 1943, and died on August 13, 1996, in Dunellen, New Jersey, at the age of 53 – two days before Marlowe’s 26th birthday. He was living with Charissa at the time. Barbara was living in Toronto; they had separated years before (I don’t think they ever officially divorced. For that matter, I don’t even know if they were ever legally married. But who cares?).
Here is an excerpt from a letter from our dad to my brother John, who was 17 months younger than Billy. I think it gets my attention because even though Billy’s lifestyle was so totally foreign to my parents and to all of us kids, they never stopped supporting him, loving him:
=======================================================
September 9, 1971:
“It’s true that the travails that Billy and Barbara have been through this summer may shock them into amending their lives. During our stay in Montreal, Billy and I had several little heart-to-heart talks. In the two years prior to his leaving for Canada, we were unable to communicate, and I realize that much of this was my fault. I showed a colossal misunderstanding. But this time, I saw flashes of the old Billy, a quite different deal. I got the definite impression that he was thoroughly sick and tired of the drug culture and environment in which they were living. I don’t believe he is on drugs, at least not hard drugs. What disturbs me considerably is the “John Brown,” fanatical belief that he can hit the big time as a musician and songwriter. God knows, I would do nothing to dampen a man’s dream of greatness. But a dream is no true incentive unless it is tempered somewhat with the harsh facts and cruel realities of life. Admittedly, great harm has been done by parents who insisted on mapping and charting their children’s lives. But Steinbeck, Hemingway and a host of others disproved the theory that the way to achieve renown is to lock one’s self in a garret and suffer to fame.
“As I understand it, Billy has broken with his old crowd and is thinking of moving to Toronto where the atmosphere seems better for musicians. I get the feeling that he is trying to rechart his course. But why must the boy choose the crosses he chooses to bear? Barbara, in one of her lucid moments, can be a charming person. She is keenly intelligent, and there is no doubt she loves her children and Bill. But when she is using, she is a sad case. She walks blindly along in a weird, swirling fog. At 28, she appears to be a much older woman, but enough of that.
“The kids are another matter. You met Charissa a year ago. She is a beautiful child with the face and heart of a Helen of Troy. In the twinkle of an eye, she can go from the clinging vine to Tiger Lady. She is highly susceptible to compliments, and highly protective of her little brother. William Robert Marlowe, who you have not met, is another rare jewel. ‘Moe,’ as he is generally known, spent his first birthday hiding from the Montreal police in a vacant flat. Like Charissa, he has a physical beauty that causes strangers to turn for a second look. He can’t quite walk yet, but he is a veritable speedster on hands and knees. In the flash of an eye, he can turn the thick Sunday paper into a rat’s nest. He is a cheerful fellow, a confirmed clown, and a bit of a ham with a rollicking laugh. He is, in short, a most remarkable baby.”
=====================================================
Our dad died in July 1994, and that fall our mom moved to Lawrence, Kansas, where my brother John and his family lived. In August of 1996, I got a call from Marlowe, who said that Billy was in the hospital, with some undisclosed ailment, but most likely nothing too serious. I drove from Kansas City (where I lived my adult life from 1976 to 2000) to Saint Marys to tell our mother, and then made plans to fly to New Jersey the next day. I remembering calling the hospital from the airport, as I was about to fly out, to check on Billy’s status, and being told that "Billy has passed away.” I drove in shock to Lawrence, Kansas, and my brother John and I broke the news to our mom. Worst day of my life. I flew to New Jersey the next day and helped Marlowe and Charissa make arrangements. He was cremated there, and we held a memorial service in Saint Marys. In my brother John’s eulogy of Billy, he mentions a Gary---the young man that Billy brought home to live with our family when he was in high school. Gary came from god-knows-where to attend the memorial. A year later, we all traveled to Long Island for another memorial service with some of Billy’s friends arranged by Sam and Lorenzo---the couple who wrote the letter to our mom, also enclosed.
Several times during the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, Billy scraped together enough money to take a bus from New York to Kansas, to spend time with me in Kansas City and with our mom in Lawrence. Lots of late-night talks. He always wanted to know if I was seeing anyone, and if so, were they ‘good men?’ Apparently they weren’t good enough; I didn’t get married until the age of 50, about 8 years ago.
Billy was a perpetual optimist, against all reason; he laughed at and enjoyed life’s ironies, even when they weren’t on his side. He loved and respected his parents; he was endlessly tolerant of life’s foibles and ironies; he loved his children deeply. He lived a hard life. He was extremely humble, and extremely talented. A few hours before his death, he said to his son Marlowe, “I’ve written a few good songs. I’m ready to go.”
Tricia
in Maryland
My sister, who lives with her family in New Mexico, was here this week; I filled her in on "the Billy Project,” and we shared tons of memories. One of her clearest memories is saying to Billy in exasperation one day, probably during the tumultuous late 60’s and early 70’s, “God, Billy, when are you going to grow up?” He answered, with complete sincerity and seriousness, “Never, I hope.”
He was a great athlete, a star tennis and basketball player through high school. I remember him hitting tennis balls up against the garage door for hours on end, and he rode his bicycle 12 miles each way to tennis practice. He continued playing tennis at Hutchinson Community College for two years, and he placed in the National Junior College Tennis Tournament.
I think it was during his time at Hutchinson Junior College that he became serious about music. He picked up an old guitar somewhere, and I can’t picture him without seeing the guitar strap around his neck.
We moved from Hutchinson to Saint Marys, Kansas (population 1,600) in 1965, after our dad lost his Kansas Congressional race to Bob Dole in 1964. I think Billy was enrolled at Kansas State University in Manhattan, Kansas, by then, which was about 25 miles from our new home in Saint Marys. I may have the chronology a bit wrong---I was probably about 12, so Billy was about 21 or 22---but I remember walking with him to the edge of town, where he hitchhiked a ride to Manhattan. He carried only a pillowcase filled with clothes and his guitar, which he called “Louise.” I clearly remember him hugging me, and telling me that he loved us all, which I thought was kind of odd. Years later, I realized that he knew then that he was going to Canada to avoid the draft, and he couldn’t be in touch with us for a while. It was several years before we saw or heard from him again.
He was also a very talented artist; he did some painting and sculpture. He was majoring in fine arts at Kansas State University, and getting more serious about his music.
Billy heard a different drummer than the rest of us siblings did, growing up in Kansas. We all lost touch with him from time to time, but he always found back to us. He was an especially wonderful son to our parents, and a prolific letter writer. He and our mother were particularly close. Billy would send us demo tapes of his songs, and I remember her sitting at the kitchen table, well into her 70’s, repeatedly playing the tapes over and over on an old cassette player so she could write down the words.
Backtracking to Billy’s time in Canada: We didn’t hear from him for a long time, and we didn’t even know where he had gone. My parents were sick with worry. One night late, we got a phone call from an anonymous friend who simply said that Billy wanted us to know he was in Canada and was safe, but that he couldn’t contact us. That was all. My brother John describes my parents’ reaction in detail in his eulogy, so I won’t repeat it here. [The eulogy will be posted on this site.]
Lots of ugly stuff happened after that with Billy and Barbara---drugs were an issue, and struggling just to live on the streets---but the good stuff was that Charissa was born in 1968 and Marlowe in 1970. In 1972, my parents, who were then within a few years of retirement, went to Canada and, with Billy and Barbara’s blessing, they brought Charissa and Marlowe home to live with us in Kansas---me, mom and dad; my siblings were in college by then. Drugs were a problem, and also Billy couldn’t come back to the States because of the draft evasion. Barbara came to stay with us shortly after that, but Billy had to stay in Canada.
When it appeared that amnesty was being given that fall, Billy rolled the dice and finally returned to the States. He was arrested at the Chicago airport and jailed, got out on bail and came to us in Saint Marys. He was awaiting what we all understood would be a very short sentence, but he drew “a pure sonofabitch of a judge” (my dad’s words), and they took him away right on the spot, for more than two years (first briefly in Texarkana, Texas, and then to Sandstone in Minnesota). I recall that Barbara returned to Toronto with the children briefly for some rest and rehab; then Charissa and Marlowe returned to Kansas to live with me, mom and dad for a couple of more years. They were some of the best years of my young life; I finally had the little brother and sister that I had always wanted, and I truly believe that their time in Kansas (and the trauma of their young lives before that) has helped make them the good, strong people they are today. They returned to St. Marys for several summers while growing up.
Here are some excerpts from letters to our parents:
March 1972, Sandstone Prison:
“I’m here at Sandstone, Minnesota, now. Sandstone is about 80 miles north of Minneapolis. Sandstone is a better place than Texarkana. For one thing, it’s not in Texas. For another, they use it as a transfer joint for all federal prisoners, and it’s a bit like a bus station. They have better facilities here – better music equipment, anyway. And like I say, it’s not in Texas. My guitar was here when I got here, safe and sound. Thanks for sending it.
1972 or 1973, Sandstone Prison:
”There’s a limit to the number of letters one can write here, and there’s a definite lack of much to write about. I play guitar every day, and on every Thursday night the country-and-western club has a concert. I sang in it last week, and all the convicts yelled and stomped their feet and shouted for more.
“I’ve been playing a lot with a guy who used to play in one of the bands that traveled with the Johnny Cash road show. He says I shouldn’t have any trouble getting on a concert tour. I didn’t figure I would anyway, but it’s nice to hear a good musician say it. It’s nice sometimes not to have to be your own confidence.
“I’ll leave you with the happy note that I have it on good authority, from a reliable source, that every convict gets a hundred dollars when he gets out.
June 1972, Sandstone Prison:
“The main reason for this letter is to apologize to mom for letting Mother’s Day get by me. People get like prairie dogs in here. They scurry about down below and only once in a while pop up to see what’s going on outside. I’ve been prairie dog-like the past few weeks, and when I popped up this time, Mother’s Day was two days old. So I wish you the best of Mother’s Days, mom.
“We have a really smoking little band in here. I play lead guitar, and we have a bass, drums, and a horn section. I do some singing, and we have some good singers. Sometimes we get the whole joint rocking.
1972, Sandstone Prison:
“Dear Dad: Just got your #16 newsletter, and it struck me, every one of the several times I read it, how well you write. If, as some people say, I have the ability to say a lot with a few well-chosen words, I inherited it from my father. [My dad wrote weekly newsletters for the Kansas Cooperative Council and routinely sent them to Billy.]
Mid-1970s, Minneapolis:
“Everyone here is fine, except for Watermelon Sam, the cat. He looks like a Bowery bum because Marlowe trimmed his whiskers with the scissors.
“We got the package with the fishes. I don’t know if I should tell you this, but 20 minutes after Marlowe opened the package, I caught him floating all the fishes in the bathroom sink.
“I’ve been getting a few more jobs but still not enough to make any big money. I played a weekend at Winona, Minnesota, at a small college there. Winona is on the Wisconsin border on the Mississippi. It’s pretty bluff country, much like the land around Manhattan [KS].”
Mid 1970s, New York:
“Finally, things have turned. Or rather, they seem to be turning. I think I mentioned that I was taking a course at Nassau County Community College about the technical aspects of the music business. It was $120 well spent because a few things have come of it. As it turned out, I was the only seasoned musician in the class, and we used one of my songs as an example of how to arrange a tune at a pre-recording session. We didn’t have the time to really get what I wanted, but I got the chance to hear the tune with a full band and a three-girl vocal section; plus, I learned that I have a knack for getting people to play what I hear without actually telling them. The trick is, for one thing, of course, to pick good musicians. If it were possible to pay who I wanted to play with -- the kind of money that caliber of musician gets -- Dad would have his new pick-up truck.
“What I found was that a well-written song will almost arrange itself and a suggestion here or there is enough. Now that I think of it, I’m not really as sure as I thought I was about how to get people to play what you or I hear without really telling them. Just like life, isn’t it?"
“One of the guys in the class has aspirations to be a manager and booking agent. He manages one band and has been helping me out. He gets 10% of the take, so it’s in his interest to work his butt off. I have a steady Saturday night gig at a club in New Hyde Park and a sound man, and, for the first time in my sweet short life, some good equipment.
“I’ve been trying to put a band together---I have to laugh – I’ve been trying to put a band together for 15 years. Before I get carried away and wax poetic about putting bands together, let’s just say that putting a band together must rank high on the list of things that require a combination of love, cunning, force and patience. For instance, I have a guitarist friend who has been playing since he was seven. He is sensitive, creative, intelligent and has his musical roots in the same place as I do – and he has the stage presence of a mole. No matter what Frank Zappa says, I know I’m not in this game only for the money.
“More news: remember if you can Rory McNamara, an English friend of mine who once called the house. He made an album (I have told you this but this is where it stands now) in Belgium with nine of my songs on it. I have the tapes of the final mix and it’s not bad. Not the way I would have done it, but all in all not bad. Pop, it’s a little like hearing someone give nine of your speeches; you’d like to interrupt sometimes, but it’s too late. The album hasn’t been released yet, but I do have a publisher now, and am joining BMI (the music organization that collects whatever money your music makes). So the music quest is moving at least, which makes me easier to live with, I’m sure.
Mid-1980s, Atlanta:
“The enclosed folder is my press kit. I’ve met some musicians and done some taping. Our first job is December 15. I’m working with a piano/guitar player. In January, he has a pretty good contract for one of the subdivisions they seem to be building there. I get the music jobs, and he gets the painting jobs, and we work for each other. I guess a paint brush is the last refuge of a desperate musician. [Billy often made ends meet by painting houses.]
Mid-1980s, Atlanta:
“I went with a $1,000 check in my pocket to the post office. They had only $100. I went to a branch office downtown. The guy said, “ID.” I gave him my Kansas driver’s license and my Social Security card. He said, “You have to have a credit card.” I said, “This is absurd. No wonder this country has a $3 billion dollar deficit.” He said “You know, you’re right,” and cashed it. I said, ‘Whoa.’
“I bought a tape recorder for $50 that can make copies of tapes, a pretty good deal. Got some strings and some more harps. I go into shock every time I pay $16 for a harmonica; the first time I bought one, it was $3.50."
“By the way, I need a dictionary. Writing songs can make you stupid and ruin your spelling.”
Late 1989, Dunellen, New Jersey:
“There is always a certain amount of joy being around little kids. David [Billy’s grandson] is taking his first steps. He takes four steps, then falls down because he is so proud that he forgets to walk, and then plops down on his butt."
“Last night the weather went down to 5 degrees. Set records all over New Jersey. I think I’ll set up a business. I’ll say, ‘Weather’s fine,’ and the next day rain will come. Or, ‘Weather’s warm,’ and – bingo – a cold spell. I’m sure there’s a living in there somewhere.
MORE BIO INFORMATION FROM TRICIA
Billy was born in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, on May 25, 1943, and died on August 13, 1996, in Dunellen, New Jersey, at the age of 53 – two days before Marlowe’s 26th birthday. He was living with Charissa at the time. Barbara was living in Toronto; they had separated years before (I don’t think they ever officially divorced. For that matter, I don’t even know if they were ever legally married. But who cares?).
Here is an excerpt from a letter from our dad to my brother John, who was 17 months younger than Billy. I think it gets my attention because even though Billy’s lifestyle was so totally foreign to my parents and to all of us kids, they never stopped supporting him, loving him:
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September 9, 1971:
“It’s true that the travails that Billy and Barbara have been through this summer may shock them into amending their lives. During our stay in Montreal, Billy and I had several little heart-to-heart talks. In the two years prior to his leaving for Canada, we were unable to communicate, and I realize that much of this was my fault. I showed a colossal misunderstanding. But this time, I saw flashes of the old Billy, a quite different deal. I got the definite impression that he was thoroughly sick and tired of the drug culture and environment in which they were living. I don’t believe he is on drugs, at least not hard drugs. What disturbs me considerably is the “John Brown,” fanatical belief that he can hit the big time as a musician and songwriter. God knows, I would do nothing to dampen a man’s dream of greatness. But a dream is no true incentive unless it is tempered somewhat with the harsh facts and cruel realities of life. Admittedly, great harm has been done by parents who insisted on mapping and charting their children’s lives. But Steinbeck, Hemingway and a host of others disproved the theory that the way to achieve renown is to lock one’s self in a garret and suffer to fame.
“As I understand it, Billy has broken with his old crowd and is thinking of moving to Toronto where the atmosphere seems better for musicians. I get the feeling that he is trying to rechart his course. But why must the boy choose the crosses he chooses to bear? Barbara, in one of her lucid moments, can be a charming person. She is keenly intelligent, and there is no doubt she loves her children and Bill. But when she is using, she is a sad case. She walks blindly along in a weird, swirling fog. At 28, she appears to be a much older woman, but enough of that.
“The kids are another matter. You met Charissa a year ago. She is a beautiful child with the face and heart of a Helen of Troy. In the twinkle of an eye, she can go from the clinging vine to Tiger Lady. She is highly susceptible to compliments, and highly protective of her little brother. William Robert Marlowe, who you have not met, is another rare jewel. ‘Moe,’ as he is generally known, spent his first birthday hiding from the Montreal police in a vacant flat. Like Charissa, he has a physical beauty that causes strangers to turn for a second look. He can’t quite walk yet, but he is a veritable speedster on hands and knees. In the flash of an eye, he can turn the thick Sunday paper into a rat’s nest. He is a cheerful fellow, a confirmed clown, and a bit of a ham with a rollicking laugh. He is, in short, a most remarkable baby.”
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Our dad died in July 1994, and that fall our mom moved to Lawrence, Kansas, where my brother John and his family lived. In August of 1996, I got a call from Marlowe, who said that Billy was in the hospital, with some undisclosed ailment, but most likely nothing too serious. I drove from Kansas City (where I lived my adult life from 1976 to 2000) to Saint Marys to tell our mother, and then made plans to fly to New Jersey the next day. I remembering calling the hospital from the airport, as I was about to fly out, to check on Billy’s status, and being told that "Billy has passed away.” I drove in shock to Lawrence, Kansas, and my brother John and I broke the news to our mom. Worst day of my life. I flew to New Jersey the next day and helped Marlowe and Charissa make arrangements. He was cremated there, and we held a memorial service in Saint Marys. In my brother John’s eulogy of Billy, he mentions a Gary---the young man that Billy brought home to live with our family when he was in high school. Gary came from god-knows-where to attend the memorial. A year later, we all traveled to Long Island for another memorial service with some of Billy’s friends arranged by Sam and Lorenzo---the couple who wrote the letter to our mom, also enclosed.
Several times during the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, Billy scraped together enough money to take a bus from New York to Kansas, to spend time with me in Kansas City and with our mom in Lawrence. Lots of late-night talks. He always wanted to know if I was seeing anyone, and if so, were they ‘good men?’ Apparently they weren’t good enough; I didn’t get married until the age of 50, about 8 years ago.
Billy was a perpetual optimist, against all reason; he laughed at and enjoyed life’s ironies, even when they weren’t on his side. He loved and respected his parents; he was endlessly tolerant of life’s foibles and ironies; he loved his children deeply. He lived a hard life. He was extremely humble, and extremely talented. A few hours before his death, he said to his son Marlowe, “I’ve written a few good songs. I’m ready to go.”
Tricia
in Maryland