Souther, Hillman, Furay Further On Down The Road

It’s a wonderfully bleak day in Asbury Park, N.J. The wind is blowing in off the shore, the sun is mercifully hidden and those negative ions floating in from the salt water are working their magic.

At the Empress Motel, Mr. Hillman and Mr. Souther are already sprawled out in their respective rooms, catching some catch-up winks. Why even Mr. Furay, who completes the SHF moniker. is considerately, no, sheepishly, asking for a room away from everyone else because, since Cleveland last night, he hasn’t had a chance to shower, you see.

But wait a minute, there’s trouble in paradise. It seems Mr. Perkins has just arrived, and his throat feels about as sharp and searing as some of those notes he routinely rips off his pedal steel. And the trouble is that Mr. Perkins is a Christian and that doesn’t mean the twice-a-month-on-Sundays variety: he will only consent to a similarly inclined MD. But, for Mr. Chessler, who expects these hassles, Al’s problem is no more perplexing than J.D.’s frequent re-' quests for 500 mgs. of Pyridoxine (a B vitamin), or Chris’ early morning orders for a codeine-based cough syrup to take the edge off those high notes. So Chessler is very patient as he explains to the poor girl who answers the phones at the N.J. Medical Society, “we need a Christian doctor. And I don’t mean just not being Jewish.”

After a few minutes around them, you begin to realize that there is a weird chemistry to SHF. I mean, everyone knows that Richie Furay is a nice guy; just check out his tunes on any Poco album. Chris Hillman, a star at 19 plucking the Byrds’ bass, is generally thought of as an appropriately cynical but laid back L.A. fay-about. J.D. Souther is the unknown element and even here the advance word is that he’s the asshole of the group, distant, apathetic, a bit arrogant.

But then you check out the sidemen. A1 Perkins, guitarist extraordinaire and devout Street Christian. Paql Harris, as New York Jewish as they copne, a classical music fanatic (known to delay group departures until the symphony playing on his portable FM is over), vegetarian and keyboard devotee. Finally, the large -physically and musically-Jim Gordon, ex-Domino drummer, who looks like he regularly gets off by crushing cocktail glasses in his bare hands and snorting the residue.

Given their credentials, Geffen’s golden gab, and the rock ‘n’ roll masses’ undefinable hunger for the nouveau chic, it was natural that SHF’d be popular. In fact, it isn’t very hard to envision SHF as spiritual stepchildren of CSNY. But the former acronym has substance and the latter - aging, take-the-moneyand-run superstars - do not.

By 8 p.m., an appropriately reverent physician has been found, and A1 is gonna tough it out, stonewall his sore throat. After a torrid set by David Bromberg, which resembled Sunday morning at a Ralph Stanley bluegrass festival, Chessler grabs the mike and roars into an MC5-style intro.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome my employers, Mr. Jim Gordon on drums, Mr. A1 Perkins on guitar, Mr. Paul Harris on keyboards, Mr. J.D. Souther, Mr. Chris Hillman, and Mr. Richie Furay, the SHF Band.”

It’s instant stardom, all right. The crowd is positively shrill three songs into the set. Then, the tempo changes as Chris plays MC and introduces JD for a solo “Pretty Goodbyes.” After the song, Furay steps up and Ed Sullivans, “Real nice. Sing another love song for me, willya JD.” Then, it’s Hillman’s turn, and he reaches back to the Burritos for “Devil in Disguise,” with A1 picking some pungent banjo. Finally, it’s Furay’s turn; alone in the spots. He chills the crowd with a heartfelt “Kind Woman.” No letup into “Good Feeling to Know,” and you realize you’ve never seen Hillman this animated, roaming the stage on his tiptoes, at one point even eating out his bass, a la Hendrix. “Falling in Love” gets a midset standing ovation and even after one encore the crowd is still shouting.

But the band don’t know any more songs. Aide Ronnie Stone, ushering them to the dressing room, stops and bubbles at promoter John Scher, “Turn the fucking lights up. Let them buy the fucking record if they want more.”

Back at the Empress, the post-set decompression party is raging at the bar. Bromberg and his group have joined the SHF crew, listening to a very local three piece barband maul the hits. Gordon is almost falling out across his booth, and Chessler is feisty enough to set his foot aflame. Furay and Harris stay for a drink, and exit to fall out. That leaves Hillman, who is bemused by Souther, who is in the middle of an attempt to woo a very local female fan.

Saturday morning, three hundred miles later, we’re encamped at the Red Bull Inn, an oasis of hip neo-plastic decadence in Waterbury, Conn. Today’s raison d’etre is a supporting role at a local rockfest, guestshotting for Dave Mason and the James Gang - take the money and run.

Breakfast is late, and Hillman’s loquacious over lox and eggs. “Manassas just wasn’t happening. I should have been playing bass, Stills should have let the other guys do more stuff. Paul and I used to walk off after doing a Manassas set, look at each other, shrug and say, ‘Well, another doorknob for our mobile home.’ ”

So, why are you still at it? “Being the veteran of many top groups, working with many neurotic stars, displaced persons and mental midgets with the initials SS, DC, RM, people like that, it makes you wonder how a man can survive this long in the business, huh? I wonder myself. I’ve been fucked over so many times. Like I say, somebody out there is driving my Rolls Royce and swimming in my pool. I’ve been ripped off for ten years and I’m gonna get even with the sons of bitches.”

“But Chris, you may be a big star now.”

“I don’t feel it now. Me funds ain’t as much as they was. I’m not a rich man. I’m not a well man, either.” He was actually shaking, fork poised over scrambled eggs.

“You’ll be famous soon,” I offer, trying for an upbeat note.

“How do you know?” he mumbled morosely. “You just told me my vocals were terrible. That I hate people. That I’m no good. That Geffen did all of this. You said all that.”

Groping for a reply, I said, “But a lot of people seem to like Furay.”

Chris winced. “There’s a group called FFF, Fags for Furay, comprised of East Coast semi-pseudo-intellectuals like yourself, Sloman, that follow Furay around screaming ‘Richie Richie Richie.’ They love him, they want to touch him ... on his glasses.”

“Well, with all the publishing, and the way the record is selling, you’ll be a rich man someday.”

“Who knows,” he blurted, pushing the lox loudly off the table, nearly out of control. “You may see me hanging around the Bowery, too. Telling stories. Drinking cheap wine. Who knows?”

Richie is upstairs in his chamber, reminiscing. “I was tired of playing with Poco. It had been five years on the road, and it seemed to level off. I was getting very frustrated. Look, I think that Poco are every bit as good as Loggins & Messina and the Eagles and the one thing that Poco didn’t have that they did was the hit single. Epic couldn’t break one for us. I know we had singles on those records. So, after five years of watching people come and go out of bands and get hot, it was frustrating for me. It was getting old, I wanted a new situation. You know, I want to be successful at rock, but I want to move on to other things too, like acting. I think I’m a character actor of some sort. I know I’m a character, anyway.”

This hardly sounds like the cutesy, furry creature the media knows and loves. “I don’t know why I got that good-guy label, but I do have it; It limits me in what I really am. I don’t know where it comes from, I mean just because I smile on stage and look like I’m having a good time, I’m the nice little kid from down the block.”

“Listen, Hillman called you the John Denver of progressive rock.”

“Did he do that?” Richie recoiled wide eyed. “I don’t know what to say about that image, man. I’m a loner. I don’t like to hang out with people a lot. People can only make their own image of what they think I am from when they see me onstage. And I really do have a good time performing. I’m not a statue up there, I move around, I get into what everybody else is doing. I’m fairly acces-

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S.H.F. CONTINUED FROM PAGE 53.

sible offstage. People can talk to me, too.”

Just then, Souther rang up, looking to score some vitamins. We brought him some, interrupting his midday meal of eggs benedict, sliced bananas and milk, and hot tea with honey. A vegetoid health freak behind that fuckoff facade? “I’m not cynical, man. I have the hope of the hopeless. I have more faith than anyone you’ll ever know. I have more faith than all of those religious clowns that are crying, man.

“That’s the nice thing about being such an unapproachable cynic upfront. Then you never change. People can never say that anything went to your head ’cause you’ve been that way all along. But if it makes you feel better print that I’m a nice guy. Go ahead, destroy my image.”

Aha, a health freak nihilist?

“I just don’t care. Life is made up of little minutes. I can’t go around thinking about hours and months and years. I’m apolitical, I don’t give a shit. There are people who are great at that media manipulation and it’s good that they’re doing that. I hope they stay out of music, too.”

One more Saturday night. The bleachers are about half full as Messrs. SHFGPH take the stage, perched over the pitcher’s mound of the minor league ballpark. But they aren’t safe at, home, tonight. The monitors suck, Hillman is fuming, cops are beating on kids smoking dope. A miserable night. Quick encore, then back into the rented wagons, hightailing it back to the Red Bull for dinner. Hillman is particularly acidic this evening. He turns on Gordon. “Isn’t that Jim Gordon?” he tourists loudly. “He used to be real big in the music industry. Till the bottle got him. I remember when he made that Lay/a album with Eric Clapton. Now he eats alone.” After a few more minutes of this insanity, the boys get frisky and repair up to Hillman’s room, crowding around the icon image of Mary Tyler Moore, beaming seductively from the color set. “Jesus, am I horny,” Hillman moans. “I’m gonna go home Monday and jump on the old lady like a dog.”

Manager Bill Siddons picks up the cue and proceeds to do a pantomime grudge fuck against the room’s wall. Which prompts Chessler to fantasize on Moore. “She looks so sweet and innocent. I bet ya she’s real kinky in real life.”

At which point, Mr. Harris returns from a health food run, and stumbles on this Bunuelesque set. “Incredible,” he mutters under his breath, “What a strange crew. This ain’t a band. It’s the fucking Mission Impossible team!”