Part 2 -- Here We Go!, The Old Waldorf shows of '77, Steve Perry's reveal, and the week I'll never forget.

Part two can be read as a standalone, but there are names and background info in Part one that might be a little helpful to know before reading on.

Continuing...

Following a journal entry describing Nebraska thunderstorms and the every moment awe of what we were doing, I wrote, "As George Harrison said, it's all too much." In my early Buddhist, let's rock and roll heart and mind, Gonzo and I were indeed living in each moment. The trek, the arrival, and now the shows all felt like I had chomped onto a live wire – one of low amps and gentle voltage – and I was diggin' the current flowing through me. Full disclosure: the weed enhanced that, obviously. but, that was the culture. On the back of Journey's first album cover was a direction to play the album "loud," and close to that little ditty was the then name of Journey's management company: Weed High Nightmare.

I include that not to promote any use or mis-use of recreational anything, but instead to convey some of the color and feel of the time and place.

Picking up right after describing our arrival with Bubba at sound check, and with nary a paragraph break in sight, I go right into the shows.

The Old Waldorf was a small venue; I know there are many artists and roadies who worked the room, and I would have said the capacity was a few hundred, but according to this post about the venue's history, it was 600. It was also a sit down at a table room. The show featured many of the Next album tunes, a favorite of mine because, to me, it's the band doing some great work in a musically transitional point of their career.

There are entries about a couple of unfortunate incidents during the shows, but I've decided not to include the details. There were at least three passouts, two in the audience and a very young girl in the dressing room restroom who, after we ascertained that she didn't need to go to the hospital, we arranged to be taken home in one of the band's limos.

I worked dressing room door security for the shows. Someone would have done it certainly, but at some point Gonzo and I offered to do dressing room security and Bubba said great, and I was at the door as guests arrived. Gonzo was nearby as a very nice woman with matching smile approached, I asked to see her pass, she took a moment to pull it out of her purse and I opened the door for her. I turned back to the next person; it was Herbie, the band's manager, and the lovely woman his wife.

"Herbie!, Geez, why didn't you say something?"

"It's alright, it's okay. Good to see you guys."

Those little moments. Bubba would eventually share with me how Herbie saw Bubba, he said "I saw Harkins and Gonzo, working the door." Bubba explained how we'd come cross country to see everyone, to which Herbie replied, "They drove out here to see us and they're working security?" We already had a decent rep with everyone based on our work ethic at the shows, but this was the kind of thing – road trip, sweat work at the gigs, now working this show – that resonated with Herbie and his vision. All of it would come to bear later when the band flew us to New York and Bubba offered us our jobs.

That night, as when I first met the band at the Waukegan Ice Arena soundcheck, I gained some insights into the behaviors and work ethics around young musicians who were 'in' the industry as serious, professional working musicians. I know it sounds a little idolatrous. I don't have an issue admitting that, because I'd found myself in a place and situation that I could have never envisioned: 'working' for a a San Francisco band, Columbia recording artists, whose music enthralled me and, by fortune, the gregariousness of their road manager, and the acceptance of the band and the crew, I was observing how it all worked.

There was nothing in my life as comparable as the education I was receiving (which is kinda funny, considering I'd dropped out of art school to further this other education). As I mentioned early in Part One, by the time Gonzo and I are at the Old Waldorf gigs we were known to the band, and I'd had some of my first insights at those earlier gigs, often little flashes, but their impacts stay with me to this moment. There was the time at a Midwest show's soundcheck that I asked Neal, in an obtuse fashion, if he'd like to smoke a joint, and he responded "Not right now, man, I got work to do." The flash was, oh, this ain't about having fun with your garage band, and it doesn't matter that we're in this quonset hut shaped ice arena, this is about work. There had been times in the dressing room, just me and the band, and I witnessed band discussions, never angry, but not always just shootin' the shit, and the flashes were, huh, stuff happens and you gotta talk this shit out, you can't always be right, you might be right or wrong and we'll make it work, now let's go play (in later years I did witness some very uncomfortable episodes; maturity and diplomacy don't always co-exist with personality and creativity when ascending the mountain of success).

As a guitarist, I couldn't not be in awe of Neal, but he and the rest of the band were such good guys it became easy to put that awe aside and just hang with them. Gonzo and I had great relationship with Ross because he, like us, had a humorous perspective on everything (and I dug his bass chops), and on the road we hung with Gregg in his motel room many times, watching the tube until the late hours, a thing the crew called 'doing the night shift.'

It was Gregg in a couple of Old Waldorf dressing room incidents that gave me a more insights into him as a person and player. There was a moment before one of the shows, the dressing room packed with family and guests, that something said in a conversation had him go, "Wait, wait! Here!" He reached over to the Rhodes keyboard close by, looked down at the keys, positioned his hands and played a few bars of some beautiful, ballad kind of tune. Then he went back to the conversation. It was simply a joyous, pretty moment. (Another impromptu Rolie performance occurred one day on the band bus in '79, the tour with Thin Lizzy. In the heart of New Orleans, trying to make our way to the hotel, the bus driver found himself at the edge of sizable plaza, unable to make the tight left turn required to drive around it. There was then a discussion through the bus doors with a local cop, and the decision was that he would lead the way and the bus would follow him across the middle of the plaza. So, the cop walks in front of us, and the driver slowly takes the bus down the several steps, people all around us have stopped to watch and at least a handful of them are fans who now start to parallel our path, and it's a goofy scene in and around the bus. Gregg jumps up, says, "I got it!" and runs to the back. Keep the images in mind – the crowd outside, the aircraft carrier-sized bus lumbering slowly down steps and across a walking plaza, and the overall nuttiness of a band on tour – as you hit this link, because a few seconds later Gregg played this classic circus riff on his Rhodes as our circus bus lumbered across the plaza.)

Back in the dressing room... I was reminded of something I'd noted on the road. Gregg had a slightly more cynical eye when it came to touring, shows, and the people hanging around shows. Not mean – which is obvious, given the New Orleans tale about – but a bit more, I don't know, a 'doesn't suffer fools' kind of thing, that perspective of having seen and experienced just about everything the music and concert industry, at that time, had to offer. He just had a bit more of a 'don't try to fuck me over' kind of thing.

As the girl passed out in the bathroom situation unfolded, Gregg was made aware of what was happening and some of the circumstances as to its origin (yeah, I'm skirting around some things here). He was angry, and he let his feelings about it be known, and it was Gregg that directed how the situation would be taken care of.

The performances were as good as any I'd seen. Walking through the crowd to get the band to and from the stage was a little crazy, but fans pretty much kept their hands to themselves.

Then came the encore... What I recall is Neal saying something like, "...introduce our new..." and it was either 'lead singer' or 'singer,' and – it's not in the journal so this is from memory – the band played Lights. Not sure if there was any patter between Lights and the next tune, I think they went right into it – La Do Da. Perry's voice was a revelation, and a fairly significant change for the audience. What I remember distinctly is after leading the band through the audience to the dressing room and coming outside to stand at the door, I could hear many of the comments from the crowd, certainly a mix of opinions. One distinct visual I have is of a young man nearby, arms crossed and saying aloud, "I don't knowwwww..."

There had been no boos, and the crowd loved the show but did seem a bit off balance.

I popped into the dressing room as the guys were cooling down and witnessed something about Neal that caught surprised me, not in a bad way. Amidst the talk between the band, I saw that Steve looked a little hang-doggy, Neal leaned toward him and said, "What's the matter?" I couldn't initially hear what Steve said, then I could hear him say, "...just worked so hard on that, and I..."

Whatever had happened, Steve was getting down on himself. Neal's tone in response was sincere and unconcerned. "It's okay, don't worry, we'll get it." I'd seen each band member do solid work on their instruments, mastering complexity (I once walked by Ross sitting outside the dressing room trailer of an outdoor gig as he ripped through some poppy, tonal runs, and Lynyrd Skynyrd bassist Leon Wilkeson watched him for a bit, then asked, "Jaco?" to which Ross smiled and nodded 'yes.' Ross was playing Jaco Pastorius riffs. Professionals only, please...), and certainly Neal could be virtuosic. So it was a nice moment to witness something so basic to a band dynamic, an understanding that the 'thing' of the song would come, similar to a pro athlete in a slump being told 'just keep doing it,' it'll come, it's there. ( Years on, in an article about current vocalist Arnel coming to SF and singing with the band for the first time, that the early sessions hadn't gone well. Arnel was upset, and in the article it describes Neal as counseling him in that same way, "It'll be alright, don't worry." The story went on to say the next day's session was solid.)

As described in the journal, the three nights are blurred together, and seems to pick up the day after the last show, or the following Monday.

I have no recollection as to how we knew where SF's His Master's Wheels studio was, and I think it might have been either Ross or Neal's guitar tech, Greg, who told us to stop by.

The studio was a work place, as in, there wasn't anything fancy about it, nothing like what could be imagined from only seeing photos of an L.A.-like studio room slickness. We walked in to the board room (board as in mixing console), I'm pretty sure we just walked in because the door was open. The room was small and close, we could see the studio through a window in one wall. Neal's tech was sitting, reading the newspaper ("Hey, you guys!"), Roy Thomas Baker was at the board, as was another gent that I think was engineer Geoff Workman. Baker had his back to the board so he could see and talk to Neal, sitting not far from him and playing guitar through a single Marshall cabinet. It seemed early in that day's work schedule. I think Greg introduced us to Baker, who said "Hello" in a lilting English accent and didn't say another thing to us for the next hour or two, or however long it was.

We sat and hung, during which Neal and Baker bantered about different Wheel in the Sky parts (Neal, smiling, looks at me and says, "He's cutting all my solos!"), and Neal layed down one of Wheel's rhythm tracks. Then he said to Baker, "I wrote a solo for the," and apologies for not remembering how that sentence ends. Baker said, "May I hear it please," Neal played it, there was a little discussion between them, and then Gregg Rolie popped in and Neal played him some riffs for different song.

We, or at least I, would have stayed all day, but there were a few tense moments between Neal and Baker, and we were at least smart enough to know it was time to go. As we were walking out so was Rolie – "Gotta get out of here before traffic gets nuts." – and as he went outside he said, "Have you heard any of the songs yet? Steve's doing all the vocals and they sound great."

We went to Ross' at his invitation. He and his then wife Di were very gracious, and as noted above, the view around their property in the East Bay hills was spectacular. Meeting George Tickner was a delight, and man, we had a lot of laughs. The next morning, with Di as a tour guide, we took in the beauty of Northern California, from the East Bay hills to Marin County (including Sausalito and Mill Valley, where I'd live when I moved from Illinois) and back to the Valory's, where we had dinner and spent the night.

Yeah, it was time to go, but a brief sidebar here about the above mentioned Juan. Brothers Juan and Jack Villanueva, both now passed on to that big venue in the sky, were at the core of the Journey family, going back to Santana. Jack was fun, occasionally intense, truck driver Jack of all trades, and whose later road name was Dr. Brown. There's a scene in the '80s NFL Films Journey documentary where Jack gives a slightly rambling but sincere pep talk over the CB radio about the road and what we're all striving for. For those who knew him, and knew what led to that bit, it was a chuckler.

Quick story about Jack and the trippiness of the universe, one winter, before I had moved to the Bay Area, I was walking through the snow from home in Elmhurst, Illinois to downtown, a couple of miles straight shot along a road that at one point passes under a freeway. I wore a knee-length, wool Air Force coat purchased at a government surplus store, and a derby (you can see the derby on the journal cover's small cartoon of me and Gonzo). I hear a blast from an air horn, and look up happily startled to see Jack driving a semi. His passenger rolls down the window and Jack shouts, "Michael! I can't stop, gotta go. Crazy, man!"

When I next saw Jack on the road, he told me he'd and his co-driver were taking a load of sound equipment somewhere and had to divert to the large Peterbilt dealership in Elmhurst to get something serviced. On their way out of town, "I'm tellin' this guy there's this crazy cat who works with us on the road and he lives here, and he wears a HOLY SHIT THERE HE IS!"

True.

Jack's brother, Juan, was a music version of Yoda, a provider of sage wisdom and advisor to Herbie. The two had an otherworldly bond, What a magnificent human. I mentioned him in this earlier post about Herbie's passing, and it sums him up nicely; check it out when you have a moment.

As the journal entry states, we spent our last night at Ross' said our goodbyes to Di in the morning and headed out. The last entry is from October 9th, and recounts some goofy stuff that happened n the way home. There's no epilog. It just stops.

I have a few moments in my life that I remember as life defining. The Here We Go! trip had certainly been that. We became the band's merch guys, riding in the band bus in the early days. With a Winterland Productions guy assigned to the tour, Gonzo would work inventory, Van would oversee supplies to the sellers, and I worked with cops and attorneys to deal with bootleggers. Herbie created a touring merchandise strategy that truly revolutionized what had up to then been a carnival-level, Wild West part of touring. Long after I'd gone on to be a creative services guy, someone I met who had been in the merch industry revealed that Herbie had given a no other choice ultimatum to Winterland Productions' Del Furano (massive respect for you, Del; RIP) that 'Harkins and Gonzo do our tours or you don't have us.' I know why he took that position: there was a lot of money at stake, massive opportunities for nefarious fiscal shenanigans, and our loyalty was never in doubt. Over the course of five years, three of us – myself, Gonzo, and then joined by Van Jarvis – travelled in our big rig's custom built, four-bunk sleeper cab, towing a semi full of merchandise, and we managed gross merch sales of over $4o million over that five years. After the '83 Frontiers tour, I'd slide over to Nocturne, the concert staging and video company formed by Herbie and the band, where I'd do camera work for many of the great artists of the time including Journey, Springsteen, Prince, The Police, directed by concert video pioneers Mick Anger (miss you buddy, RIP) and the still amazing Paul Becher.

I became close to the guys in the band and shared what were for me some extraordinary moments with them, professionally and personally, and a lifelong bond with many of our crew.

Yeah, man, it was and remains a great, great trip. And I remain grateful. Hope you have some great trips of your own.

MWH

Next week, a look back at my time in Japan and Australia as Michael Jackson's road manager from September to December in '87, and yeah, I'll share my perspectives on how I feel about MJ now. In the coming months, we'll be back to some of the Story and Pictures regular pieces, and a Best Jobs In the World profile of a guy who's had the same job since he graduated college almost 40 years ago, and whose workplace has a 360° view of the Bay Area. Yeah, be envious...