CHAPTER 1

Anything can happen on the streets of Hollywood. I’d seen some pretty wild things, but never anything so bizarre as what I saw one night on Ventura Boulevard.

As Keith and I walked out of The Bla Bla Cafe, a blast of hot night air hit us in the face. It was after 2 a.m., but the street was still awake with activity. Four drag queens swept by us, followed by a couple in disco outfits, all headed inside for a late-night breakfast. Next door, the watchdogs at Bruno's Corvette Repairs were pacing inside their chain-linked fence, barking at everything that moved—including us. Keith had played three sets tonight, and we were headed for home, exhausted. I was glad to see “Victor”, our VW van with its hippie-style, Indian print curtains, parked at the curb.

Keith had been performing at The Bla—as it was affectionately known to its regulars—for almost a year. It was a small showcase nightclub in the San Fernando Valley, just down the road from Hollywood. The Bla spotlighted showbiz hopefuls and was frequented by talent scouts from big record companies. Keith was one of those hopefuls. But tonight, he’d given it his all one more time—and now we were leaving, still undiscovered.

As Keith walked around the front of the van, I opened the passenger door. That was when we spotted a figure, looming toward us out of the dark. It was Harmony.

Harmony looked like a gruff mountain-man with his brown scraggly hair and beard. Here we were in 1974, but this guy struck us as someone caught in a ‘60s time warp. He was calm and easy. All he talked about was peace, love and living off the land. He wasn’t a close friend, but he and Keith had gotten stoned together once.

“Hey—how’s it goin’?” Keith called. He shut his door again and stepped back on the sidewalk.

Sleepily, I leaned my head back, knowing I was in for a wait. Inevitably, most of our conversations drifted toward spiritual experiences these days. Keith and I had tried a lot of things—a lot of things. Recently, we’d been looking into Jesus Christ. We weren’t Christians. Church was a dead institution to us. But Jesus did seem to be a spiritual Master of some sort, and we had a degree of respect for his life and teachings.

Sure enough, Keith and Harmony immediately began talking about the supernatural. It was just a typical conversation—for people who were into drugs and the mystical. Which was a lot of the people we knew.

“I’ve been reading about Jesus lately,” Keith was saying. “He was a pretty radical person.”

Harmony’s eyes seemed to brighten—then, slowly, a strange look came over his face. His eyes got misty and distant. Very calmly, he said, “I am Jesus Christ.”

Keith reacted like he’d been stung by a scorpion. Without missing a beat, he shot back, “Beware of the false prophets who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves!” I recognized the quote as something Jesus had said. What happened next was really hard to believe.

Harmony’s eyes grew wide. Then they narrowed to slits, furrows creased across his forehead, and his bushy eyebrows knit together. A sneer came over his usually mild face, and his upper lip curled back, exposing yellow smoke-stained teeth. Leaning toward Keith, his teeth bared, he let out a growl that started in the throat, like that of a wolf, and ended with the horrible hissing sound of a snake.

It happened in only seconds. Harmony’s face relaxed. But his eyes looked confused. Embarrassed. The hiss seemed to hang in the still night air.

My skin was still tingling from the shock. Keith had obviously been rocked by it, too. He looked from Harmony to me with wide eyes. This was Hollywood—but things like this only happened in the movies. I wondered what Keith was thinking.

It was like someone or something took control of Harmony momentarily, using him for its own purposes. Then just as quickly, it discarded him—leaving him to pick up the pieces in confused embarrassment. Dazed, Harmony mumbled something. But Keith quickly excused himself, jumped into “Victor” and shoved the key in the ignition.

As we drove home over the dark streets, we kept looking at each other in disbelief. Keith was more animated than usual. He kept saying, “Did he really do that? I can’t believe it!”

We talked about nothing else until we crawled into bed and fell asleep, sometime after 3:30 a.m.

The weird experience with Harmony did have one major effect on us. It brought some things into sharp focus. Namely, that there was, indeed, a very real spiritual realm—a realm full of power and possibly even danger. We were just coming to a deeper realization that there must be spiritual forces beyond our knowing. Had we heard a voice from that other side, speaking through Harmony? Or was it just the “voice” of the age? After all, a lot of musicians, artists and writers—the “beautiful” people—were saying things like, “You are your own god. There is no right or wrong.”

But we wondered: Is there a dark side and a light side to spiritual energy?

Keith and I had both been caught up in a search to find our “spiritual identities” for some time. We were looking for truth —whatever it was—and our search for light had taken us both on many strange paths, from Buddhism to stuff like astral projection and, of course, drugs. We were both convinced “the truth” was hidden out there somewhere like a pearl in the ocean, and that when we found it, it would fill an empty spot in our hearts. That it would make life really worth living. Until then every day held the potential of being the day of the great revelation.

At the time of our weird encounter with Harmony however, we’d been slipping a bit, losing hope, and even dabbling with drugs again—which we’d sworn off, but kept falling back into. Our spiritual ambitions never kept us out of the fog for long. In fact, the constant lure of those other “voices” had pretty well convinced us there was a dark and a light side. After Harmony, Keith, with his usual all-or-nothing manner, was determined to know how to tell the difference. Although we never forgot the incident outside The Bla, there were more pressing matters. Like Keith’s all-consuming dream.

In particular, our whole life revolved around Keith’s drive to make it big in the music business. Now that he was performing at The Bla, we lived with the constant hunger that the “right” person would walk in one night and “discover” Keith Green.

The Bla was just down Ventura Boulevard from The Queen Mary, and Keith’s audience was always seasoned with gays and straights alike. Neither camp seemed to mind the other. To be honest, it was often difficult to tell who belonged where. The biggest standouts were the drag queens, sweeping in wearing satin dresses, jangly jewels and high-styled wigs with only their exaggerated feminine gestures and five o’clock shadows shining through heavy layers of make-up to betray their true gender.

Keith’s family, and my mom, lived here in southern California. But The Bla was like a second home to us. The people, family. Even though Keith’s last set ended at 1 a.m., we often stayed until Albie, the owner, closed the doors three hours later. Keith and Albie would lift a table onto the empty stage and we’d get a foursome together, shuffling the cards for a lot of laughs and a hot game of Bid-Whist. Sometimes a gang from The Bla got together on Sunday afternoons to play softball.

Albie, who was in his forties, took pride in running a successful club and in rubbing shoulders with the “almost-elite” of Hollywood’s underside. He doted like a mother hen over his performers, and expected the audience to give each act full attention. Albie had also become a friend and mentor to Keith. That’s why his sudden ultimatum threw Keith for such a loop.

It came one Wednesday night after Keith’s third set. People -wise, the turnout had been disappointing. Wednesday wasn’t the greatest night, of course, but it was a start. Albie’s eyes were kind, his manner fatherly as usual when he came up to our table. Then he lowered the boom.

“I’m sorry Keith, but you’ve got two weeks to pack ‘em in—or I’ll have to replace you with another act.”

“You’re kidding,” Keith said in surprise. I felt a stab of rejection, too.

“I’m not. If you want your own night,” Albie said, “you gotta draw more people. I’ve got a club to run. Salaries to pay. I’m sorry, Keith, but I just can’t afford to keep losing money on you.”

	We couldn’t believe our ears. Keith went home that night deeply depressed. Even the Quaalude he took to soothe his bruised feelings couldn’t touch the real hurt—the whispers of failure. It seemed to me that the worst part about performing was having to sell yourself. Being so vulnerable. When you don’t measure up, nothing eases the sickening feeling that maybe it’s not just your “act” that isn’t good enough. Maybe it’s you.

After Albie’s ultimatum Keith sprang into immediate action. He was never one to take a challenge lying down. Starting on Thursday, he spent all week phoning everyone and anyone he knew. He almost begged them to come, telling them about all his new songs, how he wanted to see them—and how he was going to lose his job unless the place was packed. I felt embarrassed for him-—and even worse when he insisted I call my friends as well! But we were in a terrible bind.

Keith had already pitched himself to every major record label in town. That resulted in some nibbles. One company had flown us to New York. Nothing materialized. Keith had even tried to sing on a Grand Funk “sound alike” record, but didn’t sound enough alike. And there were some more nibbles-but not bites. Money was tight and getting tighter.

We’d already sold my red Triumph sports car and my prized Martin D-35 guitar. My savings account had breathed its last. So to supplement our small income from The Bla—sometimes less than $15—Keith clenched his teeth and played proms, parties and banquets. It was the bottom of the barrel for any serious artist, but the word for us in 1974 was survival. And now the threat of getting fired from The Bla Bla—a small potatoes club as Hollywood nightspots go—would be the final humiliation.

The following Wednesday, we walked into The Bla about 8:30 p.m., feeling quiet apprehension. I looked around and was struck with how empty this place could look.

The Bla was dark and narrow inside, with a small stage to the right as you walked in the front door. The bar, which was too small for anyone to sit at, ran across the back, right in front of the tiny, one-man kitchen. The most consistent thing about the decor was its inconsistency. Absolutely nothing matched. Between the stage and the bar was a collection of banged-up wooden tables. On the walls, huge dragonflies in vivid yellows and oranges hung beside oversized photos autographed by “sorta knowns.” When packed, The Bla could hold about sixty-five people, seated on chrome—and-vinyl chairs-the kind you’d find around a formica table in someone’s kitchen in the 1950s. Right now those chairs were mostly empty.

Only a few patrons sat in quiet conversation as Keith nervously eyed the stage. Albie was getting a check ready at one of the tables. The cook and the two waiters, Eddie and “Mr. Sally”, were at the back bar, the only others in the whole place. Albie caught Keith’s eye. Neither one said anything. But it was a knowing glance—tonight was it.

Keith and I sat silently in the back of the skinny little club, watching each other watch the door. We certainly looked like West Coast musicians, if nothing else. Married for only eight months, we made quite a pair. Me, in my Indian print skirt, embroidered gauze blouse and long straight hair. And Keith, wearing blue jeans and a new flowered cowboy shirt. His long curly ponytail had recently been left on the hair stylist’s floor. What remained had been layered into a new California style called The Shagfor shaggy. Even freshly cut, his hair still hung well below his shoulders. I silently admired his new professional image. Less hippie . . . but still very hip.

Slowly, in twos and threes, people started arriving. One cigarette after another was lit, and spirals of blue smoke curled gracefully to the ceiling. As the chairs filled, the noise level began to rise. Chairs scraped against the cement floor. Loud laughter punctuated conversations. Eddie, the head waiter, clipped his orders to the revolving wheel and the smell and sizzle of burgers drifted from the tiny kitchen.

Still there weren’t enough people and we knew it. “Mr. Sally” stepped over to our table to take my order, wearing his usual get up—a custom-made T-shirt with a portrait of him in a bouffant hairdo with “Mr. Sally” scrawled across the front in fancy white script and a few well-placed rhinestones. I wasn’t very hungry, so I ordered Guac-And-Papa’s—fried potato slices with a bowl of guacamole. Would any of our friends bother to show up? Keith’s first hour-long set started at 9 p.m. We had only ten minutes to go. Keith’s right leg was bouncing nervously. He was all raw energy and ready to start. More tense minutes ticked by.

“Do I look O.K.?” he asked, poking at his hair.

“You look great, honey,” I assured him.

I loved the way Keith looked. His clear blue eyes and fair skin gave him a pure, almost childlike air. And now that he’d shaved off his beard, the fact that he was just twenty years old was very plain.

“It’s 8:58,” Keith said, breaking into my thoughts. “Where is everybody?” He was all wound up and ready to pop.

I tried to calm him down a bit.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” I responded, trying to conceal my own fears. “We’ve got a little more time. . . .”

“There is no more time. This is it.” Keith shoved back his chair, with disappointment written all over him. Yet I sensed his determination. He was a fighter, and even though the odds were against him I knew Keith would give it his all.

Albie had started to pace in the back as Keith made his way to the stage and sat at the battered upright piano. He squinted into the single spotlight and, leaning toward the microphone, spoke in mock military fashion.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . . and others. I’d like to interrupt your rambling conversation for some music.”

Keith started doodling on the piano, but few people in the scant crowd paid attention. Keith fidgeted in his seat while his fingers wandered over the keys for a few moments. I could tell he was trying to figure out what to play. He finally launched into “Life Goes On”—a song he’d just written with his new friend Randy Stonehill:

Marvin was a connoisseur of twenty-cent wine.

You could see him bummin’ nickels down on Sunset and Vine.

One day his wealthy uncle passed away in Bel Air.

And now he’s sippin’from a vintage year.

Marvin’s sippin’from a vintage year!

Then the chorus:

Life goes on and the world goes ‘round.

One day you’re up, the next day you’re down.

Don’t count on good luck, there’s nothing to

say except,

‘Thank you, Lord, for another day!”

The funny lyrics and funky rhythm grabbed everyone’s attention. Keith pounded the keys in a way that sent terror into the heart of every piano teacher he ever had. I often held my breath hoping he wouldn’t miss a note, but even when he did it didn’t matter. It wasn’t perfection that drew you to Keith’s music, or to him for that matter. It was heart.

A few more tables were filling up. And to my relief, some were clapping along as Keith rolled into the second verse:

There was a famous senator that everyone knew.

One day a sly reporter found a girl in his room.

The re-election survey said that he’d make a kill—But now he’s washing dishes down at Joe's Bar and Grill.

He makes his famous speeches now at Joe’s Bar 

and Grill!

The chorus came around again and people began to sing with enthusiasm, imitating Keith’s comical gestures. Keith sang, “One day you’re up”—pointing to the ceiling. Then plunged his thumb toward the floor as he shook his head and sang, “Next day you’re down. . . .” The night was coming alive.

Eddie danced his orders down the narrow aisles, balancing tray-loads of shish-ka-bobs, burgers, and beer above his head. Mr. Sally ran a fork across the soda fountain grates, and I kept rhythm by playing my water glass with a spoon. More tables filled as Keith played his second and third numbers. I had yet to see any of our friends—but then a movement at the door caught my eye. It was our Jewish friend, Michelle Brandes, whom I recognized even in the dim light. A birth defect had left her with a pronounced limp. She made her way slowly through the smoky haze and sat beside me.

Still, I was paying far more attention to the door than to Keith. He kicked into Joni Mitchell’s song, “Free Man In Paris,” and I could tell he was starting to relax a little. Since I was wondering where all our friends were, I felt especially tuned into the message of the song.

“Free Man In Paris” tells the story of a record company exec on vacation in Paris who was tired of cranking out hit artists—”Stoking the starmaker machinery behind the popular song.” Another part says, “I was a free man in Paris, I felt unfettered and alive. Nobody calling me up for favors, nobody’s future to decide.”

Keith had become all too familiar with the “starmaker machinery”—the record companies, producers, publishers and agents—and all the fighting over “who gets what” of various royalty rights. When an artist becomes a hit, he’s a “hot property” and then everybody “loves him” as they clamor for their piece of the pie. Until then though, you just look for connections and wait for your “big break”. And the gears of the machinery are oiled with the tears of countless hopeful artists who never get their break. I loved Joni Mitchell’s music, and this song was one of my favorites. But it made me shudder.

Keith’s fear of not succeeding was overshadowed only by the fear of blowing it—of getting involved with the wrong people out of desperation.

As I glanced around the smoky room I thought, Someone could be here right now who could help Keith in a big way. But then, there were some people whose help we definitely didn’t want.

Like the guy last September. He heard Keith at The Bla and just flipped. Keith later met with him in his fancy Hollywood office, and the guy was bubbling over with “I-can-make-you-a-star” noises. Here was a voice promising the success and stardom Keith wanted. But, as Keith confided to his daily journal, a log he kept for years, there was—as usual—a string attached:

He’s very rich and he has a big name in the business. He’s also incredibly gay and I felt him vibing on me. Even though he could do a lot for me—bread and contact wise—I gave a “nay” to working with him.

And that wasn’t the first time a record company executive tried to “hit” on Keith. Then there had been the movie score. A popular director, but a pretty sleazy movie even by our standards. The more Keith got into it, the more he wanted out. Things soured on the money end, too. Keith had finished the music for two reels when he quit the project. In his journal he said it fell through “due to cheapness and underhanded tactics on their part, and lack of true desire on mine.” That was another problem—Keith's high standards.

As Michelle and I watched Keith now, I couldn’t help but think that maybe he would have been “discovered” already if he’d just been a bit more flexible. But for Keith, some things were set in concrete. Keith’s dad had been his manager for years and had instilled very high standards in him. If something didn’t feel right to Keith, he wasn’t going to do it, and that was that. His high principles were admirable, but secretly I was afraid he might be just a little too picky for his own good.

As Keith continued on with the next few songs, he squinted through the glaring stage light keeping a check on the crowd. A few more people filtered in. Several faithful friends made a two-hour drive in from the desert in Lancaster. Keith’s parents came to cheer him on. Another friend, Karen Bender, had even brought her daughter, Dawn, who had the longest braids I’d ever seen on a little kid. I was disappointed that Todd, Keith’s best friend, wasn’t able to come, but our poker-playing buddies from Marina Del Rey showed and so did a few industry friends.

Keith played for another twenty minutes before taking his first break. He finished to an enthusiastic round of applause and joyfully jumped off the stage, his blue eyes sparkling with the victory of the moment.

A full house!

As he walked over to the table, sweat glistening on his face, excitement made his usually springy steps even springier. Not only were we high on the moment, but our friend Harriet had come bearing “gifts”.

Harriet shoved a shoe box toward Keith.

“Shoes?”

“Open it.”

Keith lifted the lid. His eyes brightened. “Brownies!”

“My own special recipe,” Harriet winked. “Homegrown, if you know what I mean.”

“You put grass in them?”

“The best.”

“Eddie! Hey, Eddie! Bring me a large milk.”

Keith grabbed a handful of the marijuana-laced goodies and passed the box to some select friends in a ritual of “sharing the wealth”—patterned after Indians passing the peace-pipe. We made the rounds, telling everyone we were glad they came.

As the brownies hit bottom things began to look even more “up”. The strain left Keith’s eyes, and he was obviously soaring with the moment.

Albie walked up smiling broadly. He slapped Keith on the back and said, “You did it, kid. A great night! I’m happy for you.”

Keith’s face was one big grin. “Yeah? So when do I get Saturdays?”

Albie chuckled and shook his head. The question didn’t demand an answer—not immediately. But Keith already had his eyes on the future, on something far beyond a big night of his own at The Bla Bla Cafe.

When Keith started his second set, the haze, clinking glasses and melodic piano all merged as my mind started to drift. I stared at the funny dragonflies on the wall—savoring the feeling of success.

Somehow, though, my thoughts were pulled to our future and what might lie ahead. I just knew Keith was supposed to be up in front of a lot of people—people who were being moved by his music and what he had to say. But the problem was, it wasn’t clear even to Keith exactly what he had to say. He just felt he had a message to offer the world—something from his spiritual search. An important message. But what?

By the time Keith finished his third set that evening a decided victory was won. It was one of Keith’s best nights yet. Driving home I was still hyped from the excitement of the evening—and Harriet’s tasty brownies. My mind was hung up on a million questions.

Was this the beginning of a big break for Keith? Was he finally on a roll?

And why did someone like Keith, who was loaded with talent, need to resort to begging his friends to come hear him play? It seemed like such a contradiction, but then again there were lots of contradictions in our lives.

In areas like honesty and integrity it seemed Keith had the highest standards of anyone I’d ever met. We didn’t cheat on our taxes—but sometimes we’d take illegal drugs. Was there a difference?

And even if Keith made it in music, would we make it as a couple? As much as we liked to talk about living in harmony with the universe and each other, we sure had our share of arguments. Big arguments.

It was hard to live with so many unanswered questions, and not just regarding Keith’s career. Some of the other battles we were fighting were on an entirely different front—one that was even more vague and elusive. It was as if something was tugging at us, pulling us out into uncharted waters. Something that would change us forever.

In fact, we had no idea we were on the verge of a breakthrough much bigger than we ever imagined.

All I knew right at the moment was that this man I married sure had a lot of complex facets to his personality. In the days following our victory at The Bla, my mind wandered over the many strands that wove together inside him. I thought about the sensitive inner man, who was determined to find spiritual answers. Yet there was another side of him—the little boy who always wanted to be in show business. That side explained so much about who Keith was now. But did it offer any clues about where we were going?