Devils & Blue Dresses: My Wild Ride as a Rock and Roll Legend

awaited us.
    As we were walking away a man, who said he was a representative for Windfall Music, approached me and gave me a card. He said they would like to talk to me about my future plans and believed they might be able to help me if I wanted to “get back into the business.” I put his card into my pocket and told him I would think about it.
    I was pissed. Pissed and confused. I knew I hadn’t been working that much and I wasn’t recording, but I didn’t believe I had ever quit the “business.” In fact, I thought I was sacrificing a great deal for the business.
    Back in Detroit there was no change of scenery, no fresh start, and no work. My uncle was supporting us and we ate his food every night and drank a lot of his alcohol. The idea of going back to New York scared the hell out of me, but I woke up every morning with the same depressing realization that if I didn’t at least listen to what they were offering, I would have nothing at all. Kim and I discussed it, then I called New York and arrangements were made to fly me to the initial meeting.
    This was 1970. Windfall Music handled the group Mountain, with Felix Pappalardi, Corky Laing, and my old pal Leslie West. Mountain was riding high on their hit “Mississippi Queen” that Felix had produced and broke in America with the group Cream with Eric Clapton. And, they were managed by one of my most ardent enemies, Robert Stigwood. That in itself should have set off all kinds of alarms for me but for some reason, maybe just the gamble that there was no tight connection between Stigwood and Windfall, I chose to believe that an opportunity had arrived in the nick of time.
    I was introduced to a man named Gary who took me to an office where we had a short conversation about my recent past. It left him with the knowledge that I was desperate. He was apparently high up in the organization and stated that he was involved with one of their publishing companies, Lucifer Music. I didn’t think too much of their choice in names. In fact, if they hadn’t been as successful as they appeared to be, I would have thought it a childish choice. After I met with Gary, I waited to meet the man who would one day define the word “hate” for me. If I were to eventually prove to be a truly evil child, then this man would prove to be my mother. Before this experience was over, I would be crippled in the music business for decades.
    I was led to another office and introduced to a man named Bud Prager. Mr. Prager was fit and trim and spoke in a calm, deliberate tone. He looked much younger than I’m sure he was, and I took it to be a sign of the attributes and privileges of wealth. He lived in Montauk on Long Island, had a full head of wavy white hair, and carried an air of conceit. He was both big and little at the same time, and while there was a picture of his family on his desk, his ego blushed with infidelity. Even though Mr. Prager didn’t say or do any one thing in particular I, nonetheless, became uncomfortable with his condescending language and attitude. “A star like you,” or “A star with your reputation,” he said. I totally missed the facetiousness of his tone. His patronizingstrokes were being telegraphed from the other side of Manhattan, but my desperation chose to see it as something other than what it really was. If you toss a beggar a quarter onto the street as you walk by and otherwise ignore him, he will hate you with all of his being, but he will pick up your quarter and use it.
    He asked questions about what needs I wanted to be met in our contract, which made no sense to me at all. And he never asked if I wanted a lawyer. The dance continued. He said, “How much do you want to make a year?” I didn’t know what he was talking about so I said, “I’m sorry, what do you mean?” He smiled and said, “You know, we have to put in the contract how much you need to make a year. Then if you don’t make it, the contract is, you know, no good. How much do you want to make a year, two hundred thousand?”
    I just couldn’t imagine that kind of money. The whole conversation didn’t seem real, but it was and he kept pressing me for an answer. Finally, I said, “Two hundred thousand, that’s a lot of money. . . .” He stopped me and said, “Well then, pick a number.” The concept of projecting a future income, especially one so large, was so far removed from my reality. Plus, the idea that anyone would attempt to guarantee such a high figure