Why John Is Dead and Paul Isn’t

Originally posted October 23, 2009.

The Rock & Roll Book of the Dead
The Fatal Journeys of Rock’s Seven Immortals
Hendrix * Janis * Morrison * Elvis * Lennon * Cobain * Garcia
By David Comfort
Citadel Press/Kensington
$15.95

By Robert Rosen

Soon after reading the Jim Morrison chapter in David Comfort’s The Rock & Roll Book of the Dead, I was riding in my brother’s pickup truck when The Doors’ ancient megahit “L.A. Woman” happened to come over the radio. I first heard the song in April 1971, when Elektra released the album of the same name. It was one of those songs that you couldn’t get away from, especially after Morrison died a few months later, at age 27 in Paris. You turned on the radio and there it was, played over and over and over again, on every rock station, until it became part of the background noise. Indeed, nothing like untimely death to send a young musician’s song shooting up the pop charts. And nothing like constant radio play to make you sick of hearing even a great song by a band you admire. Which is why, on that summer afternoon in 2009, cruising down a country road in upstate New York, I was astonished to find myself struck anew by “L.A. Woman.” The song, for the first time in 38 years, sounded fresh. I heard pain and madness in Morrison’s voice that I’d never noticed before. It was subtle, but it was definitely there.

And that, at its best, is what The Rock & Roll Book of the Dead does—it gives you fresh insight into the lives and deaths of some of the greatest rock musicians of the 20th century, including, of course, Jim Morrison, and allows you to hear their music with new ears.

I met author David Comfort when he was in New York recently, promoting the book. Our conversation over lunch at the Jane Street Tavern inspired the following 11 questions.

1. How did this book come about?

The Stones foreshadowed the idea in “It’s Only Rock and Roll (But I Like It)”: “If I could stick a knife in my heart/ Suicide right on stage/ Would it be enough for your teenage lust?/ Would it help to ease the pain? … Would ya think the boy’s insane?”

No, not in Sir Mick’s case. But for Janis, Morrison, and others, their dance with “Mr. D” wasn’t just mascara and show biz. “Maybe my audiences can enjoy my music more if they think I’m destroying myself,” said Janis. And she did, just like most of the other Seven. They died for rock just as they lived for it.

So, what is the deal with rockers and death? Other books have touched on the question, but none seemed to wade past the shallow end.

“Except for death, everything else is a minor injury,” Mario Andretti, the Formula-1 driver, once said. (At least it’s attributed to him, though it may be urban legend.) These could have been the words of an extreme rocker. All are death matadors. The closer they work the bull, the more alive they feel. A head full of booze and dope, Marshalls maxed, and a hysterical crowd of 50,000 still wasn’t enough. Ironically, it was their insatiable lust for life that brought many of the Seven to early graves.

Janis said she lived on “the outer limits of probability.” Morrison believed “the path of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” The lawlessness and boundless energy of rock was irresistible to them.

That said, all Seven admitted to self-destructive tendencies. Throughout history many creative artists—whether musicians, painters, writers—have been dangerously compulsive, addictive, and suicidal. How is it that polar opposites—creativity and destructiveness—so often co-exist and feed off of each other in an artist?

Janis Joplin, backstage. Photo courtesy of Ana Pergunta.

2. Why did you choose these seven musicians? Didn’t Brian Jones and Keith Moon cry out from beyond the grave to be included?

The pressure and surreality of superfame can fuel destructive impulses. I chose these seven because they were cultural icons. Living legends. Jones and Moon were not. Though famous, Jones drowned before full creative and popular maturity; and Moon, though a maniacal drummer, was little more than a colorful lunatic.

As for the Seven: What is it about being a “living legend” which can become so alienating, so isolating, so toxic? The question is especially timely in light of today’s American Idol you’re-nobody-if-you’re-not-a-star culture.

3. You’ve said that you spent 10 years on and off researching this book. Can you tell me a bit about your research methods?

Omnivorous. I devoured everything out there—rock biographies, anthologies, mag articles, interviews, Web resources. You name it.

I soon discovered that, generally, the more recent the source, the less new information. In spite of “bold new revelations!” jacket claims, most recent bios are retreads and repackagings. The reason is simple: Since most of the stars have been dead for decades, virtually all important facts had already been mined.

So I didn’t try to track down Elvis’s long-lost third-cousin, hoping to score some nugget about the King’s preschool years in Tupelo; I didn’t interview anybody on the 1960 Port Arthur football team to find out if Janis really did take them all on under the bleachers; etc., etc. This is best left to more conscientious biographers of the future.

Wanting above all to write something substantially new and illuminating about these stars, I felt my time would be better spent collecting and analyzing the countless established facts—many unexplainably overlooked diamonds in the rough—and presenting them from a completely unique and comparative perspective.

4. Whom did you speak to? Is there anybody who refused to speak to you?

I contacted certain biographers in hope of clarifications and further detail. Some were cooperative. Others, the equivalent of the pop Swiss Guard, were not.

In a profession as supposedly uninhibited and permissive as rock ’n’ roll, I was surprised to find spin-controllers and image airbrushers rivaling those of Washington insiders.

The seven stars were worshipped as near gods. So they became mainstays of the Rock Vatican. Many insider biographers (family, friends, band members, handlers, etc.), are jealously protective of their legacy. They excommunicate anybody they sense to be a heretic.

Here are three examples of a heretic, an enemy of dogma:

-In the Church of Elvis: anybody who believes, or even considers the possibility, that the King committed suicide.
-In the Church of John: anybody who says that Lennon could sometimes be the exact opposite of what he professed to be: an all-you-need-is-love, imagine-no-possessions, working-class-hero, peacenik guru.
-In the Temple of Jerry: anybody who concludes that Garcia could sometimes be the opposite of the incarnated Buddha.

Jerry Garcia, June 26, 1994, at the Sam Boyd Silver Bowl in Las Vegas during “Eyes of the World” tour. Photo courtesy of Trent Burkholder.

5. In doing your research, you consulted a number of authors of (to put it generously) “dubious” reputation. For example, you quoted known liars, like Geoffrey Giuliano, who claims Harry Nilsson gave him John Lennon’s diaries; conspiracy theorists, like Alex Constantine, who thinks the CIA murdered everybody; enemies of the rock establishment, like Albert Goldman, whose books on Elvis and Lennon are indeed vicious and distorted; and semi-authorized whitewashers, like Ray Coleman, who describes a journey that Lennon took to Cape Town, South Africa, to visit whorehouses as a trip “to gain independence and boost his confidence.” Yet, even the worst of these books has a few grains of truth in it. How did you separate the truth from the lies? And what do you make of conspiracy theories?

Many star biographers, and even self-appointed experts, keep shit lists on their colleagues. The lists have three categories: 1. Biographers who are whitewashers. 2. Biographers who are sloppy, sensationalistic, or “dubious.” 3. Biographers who are liars, spitball artists, and Judases.

I’ve read them all but have never thrown down a book in disgust, convinced that absolutely nothing can be learned. I’ve discovered something valuable, at least some grain of apparent truth, from almost every biographer. Alex Constantine is a rare exception: though the FBI and CIA investigated Lennon, Hendrix, and Morrison, I regard his assassination theories as paranoid fantasy.

But what about the anti-Christ, Albert Goldman himself? Though his bios of both Elvis and Lennon were bestsellers, he was vilified by fans, other biographers, and stars (McCartney calling his book “garbage,” U2’s Bono singing about wanting to kill him.) While readers were apoplectic over the Columbia professor’s irreverent, even malicious, portrayals of Elvis and Lennon, they tried to discredit him on the basis of his alleged factual mistakes, not on the basis of his perverse point of view.

Goldman stated he conducted thousands of firsthand interviews. Maybe this was an exaggeration. But clearly an enormous amount of research went into his work for each of his bios. Still, Goldman has been almost universally dismissed as a liar—not just a 10% liar, but a 100% liar.

What are people so pissed about: his facts or his poisonous point of view? The latter, it seems. So why not have the intellectual honesty to challenge him on his warped perspective?

To me, Goldman is no more or less factually reliable than the star apostles and party-liners: Coleman channeling Yoko, Cross channeling Courtney, Esposito channeling Priscilla, etc., etc.

My goal was to avoid the extremes of both worshippers and detractors, and to present an impartial portrait without rose-colored glasses.

6. You’ve described yourself as an outsider. By writing as an outsider you apparently don’t have to worry about pissing off powerful people. For example, in your chapter about Lennon, you say that Yoko Ono sent him to Bermuda in a small sailboat at the height of the hurricane season, hoping he’d disappear into the Bermuda Triangle. And you accuse Courtney Love of hiring somebody to murder Kurt Cobain. Have there been any repercussions or legal threats?

Salmon Rushdie’s greatest career move, intentional or not, was to piss off the Islamics. Their fatwa, though it may have cut down on his social life, was better than a Superbowl spot for The Satanic Verses.

Rattling cages and throwing stones at glass houses has long been one of the most reliable PR strategies for writers. But I didn’t do that with Yoko or Courtney. In the examples you give, I state my conclusions as educated opinion, not as established fact. As such, First Amendment protections apply.

Yoko and Courtney, sword rattlers both, have indeed threatened authors with libel actions. But the libel bar is very high for celebrities, so they have always backed off and hunkered down. Shrewd marketers and media manipulators themselves, both know that a lawsuit against a writer will only help make his book a bestseller.

7. Even though this is a stylishly written book filled with information that many people are fascinated and obsessed with, you had a hard time finding a publisher. Why do you think that is? What’s your take on the current state of the publishing industry?

The publishing business makes the Mafia look like an equal-opportunity employer. Insiders despair about the devastating recent changes in the industry, but cronyism and nepotism are still alive and well. Regrettably, I come from milk and ice cream people. (My grandfather was president of the Borden Company.) I should have compensated for this by trying to have sex with an editor or agent, or perhaps going into psychiatry on the Upper West Side. But networking has never been my forte.

That said, over a two-year period, The Rock & Roll Book of the Dead was represented by not just one agent, but three—the first prominent, the second very prominent, the third obscure. No. 3 scored the contract with Kensington. Go figure.

Though monogamous by nature, I’ve had countless agents over the years. After they’ve taken me on, misfortune has been visited upon many. Cancer took the first; the second was run over; another developed a severe drinking problem; the marriage of another fell apart. All of which I’ve tried not to take personally, much less karmically.

So, part of the publishing purgatory for RR Book of the Dead was in unforeseen agent disabilities. The major problem, though, was what publishing people call “platform.” Platform is the author’s credentials in the field of his subject matter.

Is Comfort a writer for Rolling Stone, Spin, or Mojo? editors asked my agents. No.
Is he related to any of these stars? No.
Was he a roadie for anybody? No.
Well, who the fuck is he?
That was how the Platform Q&A always played out.

He’s a guy who’s spent a decade researching all this, my agents told them, he seems to be an obsessive/compulsive, Simon & Schuster has bankrolled him three times, and he’s got a unique voice. Just try him. In short, my agents presented publishers with the Pepsi challenge.

At this point we got into the really big problem which directly relates to the current state of publishing. Years ago an editor—say, a Max Perkins—had the authority to buy a book carte blanche. A while later, the editor had to pitch it to his colleagues, and a democratic vote was taken. Now, when a title is greenlighted by a house’s editorial board, the final publishing decision is turned over to the real literati—the Willie Lomans in the sales department.

While salespeople may not know much about rock ’n’ roll or literature, they know what moves a “unit”—platform. So now we were back to square one. The Rock & Roll Book of the Dead was greenlighted by two editorial departments at very large and prestigious houses—but it was axed by the sales departments.

8. The most surprising thing to me in the book was how miserable Jimi Hendrix’s life was towards the end. I knew nothing about the gangsters, the kidnapping, and the devastating money problems. I thought he was just a rock star who overindulged one night and paid for it with his life. What was the most surprising thing that you uncovered?

Mike Jeffery. Hendrix’s manager was the truth-stranger-than-fiction Al Capone of rock managers at the root of Jimi’s misery. Jeffery cut his teeth as a demolition expert and assassin for the British MI6. Retiring to civilian life, he became the understudy of Don Arden himself, the self-described “English Godfather of Rock” (and father of Sharon Osbourne, Ozzy’s future wife). Arden, who later managed Black Sabbath, the Small Faces, and ELO, negotiated and protected contracts with brass knuckles, Lugers, and German shepherds.

Jeffery went independent after stealing “Mr. Big’s” golden goose, the Animals, and living to boast about it. He then bought up rock clubs, torched them for the insurance, built bigger clubs, bankrupted the Animals, and opened numbered accounts in Majorca and the Caymans. Finally, he stole Hendrix’s management contract away from Jimi’s original producer and champion, Chas Chandler, the Animals’ retired bass player.

After relentlessly touring and bleeding the Hendrix Experience for two years, the former spy became a multimillionaire. By contrast, Jimi was too drugged out to realize he remained a pauper except for Stratocasters, totaled Corvettes, and mountains of coke and acid.

After realizing Jeffery had ripped him off for millions, set him up for his Toronto heroin bust, and had him kidnapped by his goons, Jimi decided to look for a new manager. Days later, his body lay on a stainless steel gurney at St. Mary’s Hospital in London. His clothes and hair were soaked with red wine, which he had never drunk. The surgeon on duty, Dr. Bannister, suctioned inexhaustible quantities from his stomach and lungs. “Someone apparently poured red wine down Jimi’s throat to intentionally cause asphyxiation,” he stated years later.

A former Jeffery associate, James Wright, asserts in his 2009 title, Rock Roadie, that the manager confessed to the murder in 1971. “That son of a bitch was going to leave me,” Jeffery said. “If I lost him, I’d lose everything.”

Jeffery collected on the star’s $2 million life insurance policy. He was reportedly killed in an unexplained 1973 airline crash over France. His remains, however, were never found. Eric Burdon and Experience bassist Noel Redding, among others, have speculated that the former MI6 demolition expert checked baggage but never boarded the flight.

“If it is possible to maintain consciousness after death,” wrote Noel Redding in his memoir, “then Jimi must be in agony.”

9. You’ve said that you’d like to follow up this book with The Rock & Roll Book of the Living Dead, which would be about people who, due to drug abuse, hard living, etc., “should” be dead but somehow survived, like Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger, Ringo Starr, Paul McCartney, Grace Slick, Ray Davies, and Peter Townshend. As Joseph Heller might have asked in Catch-22: Why is Sid Vicious dead and Johnny Rotten alive?

Rotten once called Vicious’s better half, Nancy Spungen (Courtney Love’s role model), “the Titanic looking for an iceberg.” Ironically, Nancy’s iceberg was Sid himself, who took her out with a hunting knife at the Chelsea Hotel, only to be euthanized with a hotshot by his own mother four months later.

So, why Sid not Johnny? The short answer: Johnny was lucky. And, in spite of crucifying himself for the cover of Melody Maker in ’77, the Pistols’ frontman had some sense of moderation: He went on to become a pitchman for a butter company.

It comes down to moderation or luck for the others too. McCartney and Jagger, in particular, have always been conservative. When Lennon once invited McCartney to jump off a cliff, Paul replied, “‘No, man, I’m not gonna jump off that cliff; I don’t care how good it is.” Jagger agreed. Wrote his lover, Marianne Faithfull, “Mick is so grounded as a person he never loses his footing. He can be right there next to the person falling off the edge but not slip himself.”

Richards, Clapton, Starr, and Townshend are another matter. In the day, each did his share of pharmaceutical skydiving and demo-derby driving, and admits now to being just lucky. Richards, however, also credits his survival to his mature perspective—lacking in his bandmate, Brian Jones. “Brian really got off on the trip of being a pop star, and it killed him,” he once told an interviewer. “Suddenly, from being very serious about what he wanted to do, he was willing to take the cheap trip. And it’s a very short trip.”

Interesting, Keith. In fact, Brian was drying out but got drowned in his swimming pool by his live-in carpenter. Jagger and Richards then took over the group he founded, labeled it “the greatest rock ’n’ roll band in the world,” and took the world by storm as the Stones’ “Glimmer Twins.” Then, the anti-pop star became a junkie for 10 years and miraculously resurrected from many ODs.

What then was the real survival secret of rock’s Lazarus? A new kind of inoculation. After kicking heroin, Keith confessed to snorting his father’s crematory ashes. He who is not on “the cheap trip” now says, “I intend to live to 100 and go down in history.”


Jim Morrison’s grave, Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris. Photo courtesy of Mpetro65.

10. Four of the people that you wrote about—Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain—died at 27. So did Brian Jones, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, Robert Johnson, and quite a few others in rock. John Lennon was murdered because Mark Chapman believed that by doing so, he’d write Chapter 27 of The Catcher in the Rye in Lennon’s blood. What’s the deal with the number 27 and rock ’n’ roll?

No deal. Coincidence. But rock numerologists would disagree. In fact, Hendrix, Morrison, Lennon, and even Elvis himself were avid students of Cheiro, “the father of modern numerology.” The number 9—alone or by addition (2 plus 7)—had enormous significance for all. Especially John Lennon. Cheiro called it the number of “cosmic, universal consciousness.”

11. Is there anything else you’d like to add?

I’m often asked why I include John Lennon in the book. At the time he was murdered, he had just released his first album in five years, and seemed to be optimistic and vital personally and professionally. Why do I write that he was self-destructive?

Lennon himself admitted that he had nearly killed himself with alcohol and drugs during his “lost weekend” separation from Yoko. After their reunion, his five-year “househusband” period was not a retirement, as he told the press; he admitted to friends that he was creatively dead. The fallow period tormented him so badly that he confessed to suicidal thoughts. Yoko was about to divorce him in 1980, inspiring his tragic song “Losin’ You.” He freely admitted that “I couldn’t survive without Yoko.”