An Aside with Bill Graham
Excerpt from My Husband The Rock Star

“Get the fuck off the stage! You’re on at nine o’clock, Goddamn it! Not before, not after! Nine fucking o’clock, Jesus fucking musicians!” Or, conversely it could be, “Get the fuck on the fucking stage, you’re fucking late!” a belligerent, aggressive voice would screech, arms waving, clipboard in hand. On this particular night, it was Quicksilver who scurried off the stage. Bill was good at making people scurry if he wanted them to.

The first time I saw him I thought, Jeez, what an asshole. Thank God the diatribe wasn’t directed at me.

“Who’s that?” I asked Girl

“Bill Graham,” she said, laughing and grinding a cigarette out under her boot.

“Is he always so pissed off?” Jerry asked

The three of us were leaning against a wall near the stage watching the band. Their equipment was already set up and they were checking the dynamics of the sound system before playing. It was about ten minutes to nine on a Friday night at the Fillmore. The place was filling up with people and I remember feeling humiliated for the band members when Graham screamed at them.

“Yeah, what’s his problem?” I said.

“He’s a great guy,” Girl replied to both our questions. Jerry and I looked at her doubtfully.

“Well, he is!” she reiterated “He can be the sweetest, most charming man you’d ever want to meet,” she declared, pointing to him as he stood waving his arms at the band and screeching, “Off off off the fucking stage!”

“Oh, sure,” I said sarcastically. “Real sweet.” I watched him walk off mumbling to himself.

But she turned out to be right. Bill Graham was brilliant, handsome, and possessed with manic energy. He hated ineptitude, slovenliness, and stupidity. I have a photograph of him that was taken by Jim Marshall. It’s a black and white close up of Bill. He is facing the camera, a cap on his thick black hair, grinning and flipping the bird. Quintessential Graham, smiling and saying, “fuck you” at the same time. You loved him or hated him. And I learned to respect and admire him as I came to know him a little better over the years. One time he called at my home in Fairfax, looking for Gary. I answered the phone.

“Is Gary there?” a warm voice asked.

“No, I’m sorry, he’s not. Who’s calling?”

“Bill Graham,” he replied.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Graham. I’m Shelley, his wife. You probably don’t remember me but...”

“Oh, sure. I know who you are. You’re tall, red hair…”

I was impressed and pleased at his warm attention on the phone that day. I would often times see him at the Fillmore, and later at Winterland. He’d always stop and say hello, and ask about Heather. He had an incredible memory for names and faces.
However, in those early years he had to be an ogre in order to get the laid-back, stoned, undisciplined musicians on and off the stage in an orderly way. A musician high on LSD will go on playing forever and ever, amen, as in that stoned state of mind there is no sense of time. Bill was a direct oxymoron compared to the musicians. He was grounded, sane and solid.

“Well,” I’d said to Girl and Jerry that night at the Fillmore. “I’ll remember to stay out of his way.”