Episode 4: HAIR, Spain

Absorbing the Rich Culture and Cocktails of Spain

The producer and his family weren’t the most fun-loving or personable, but sometime Rhula, the wife, would come up with a great idea. She planned a side-trip to Altamira to see the prehistoric cave paintings and asked if anyone was interested in going with her. I had only just read about the place before leaving the States for Spain. Everything I had read said it was closed to tourism and due to the delicate state of the murals would most likely never open again. It was a rare and lucky moment for us. The gates were unlocked and the generator turned on and a handful of us went for the tour of a lifetime.

UNESCO YouTube Video about the Altamira prehistoric cave paintings

Many years later a facsimile was built and opened very near the real caves. They had built an exact replica, true to the original with handrails and level floors and electric lights. Unlike the original authentic caves, humidity and human breath did no damage.  We were lucky enough to see the original paintings, so beautiful and so plentiful. The real mystery of the caves was how did the ancient Spaniards do them? They were deep down into the earth with no direct path from the outside for light to filter down and not even soot from torches, no evidence of how they were able to see down there. It was truly a sight to see.

The other great trip Rhula came up with was to a paella restaurant in one of the many places claiming to be the original town of it’s birth. We were just outside Valencia and that was close enough for me. It was an outdoors family style place with picnic tables and a giant wood-burning pit built to cook paella for 10 to 100. The whole company was there so it was a big pan, big enough to feed 25 or so. It took 4 big guys to lift the paella onto and off of the fire. It was probably the only meal all of us sat down to as a group.

In Madrid, some of us had the bright idea to break away and start a nightclub act. We would meet for dinner on our nights off to plan it. Some of us had been approached to sing in clubs or offered record contracts, but the interested parties had all gone to Occhi first. Naturally, he lied that we were all contracted to him and then he’d send them away. We thought they had lost interest until we ran into one of these entrepreneurs on a night out and heard the whole story. We wasted no time in trying to piece together a whole show, taking some of the cast with their special skills and abilities; singing, dancing, juggling, acrobatics,  or anything to make us a sellable product. Spain was ripe for such an enterprise.

Nightclubs were very popular and since we brought nudity  to the Spanish stage, we had a built in gimmick… if we could figure how to capitalize on our low standards. We thought we had finally figured it out.  One Monday night we all met up in a Japanese restaurant Steve Curry had found. Most of us had never eaten Japanese (it was 1975) and he had to lead us by the hand.  He said he’d spent a long time in Japan touring with West Side Story and was serious about all things Japanese. Along with restaurant-speak he could converse a little in Japanese.  We had been there many times before but this time we were brought into a beautiful private dining room with a long low table with built-in hibachi and a trough to hang our feet in if we needed.  We always drank great amounts of Saki and this night would be no exception.  After finalizing the group and building a loose theme for the show this was a celebration of our soon to be freedom. After that much Hot Saki it was pretty much an instant overload and something triggered someone. Soon there was food and drink flying everywhere and we were asked to leave, ending our relationship with a sweet waiter who gave us great meal discounts for free tickets. None of us could manage such a group and perform and do booking and everything that was needed to build  a nightclub venture. We were doomed from the start.

Members of the cast in Spain taken in a photo booth

We had recently lost our stage manager, Jose, who had had enough of being pushed around, leaving us alone for a short time with only Occhi to guide us. Jose was very nice and helped us a lot. He was smart, fast on his feet, super professional, always wore a tie. We all worked well together and he made Occhi do the right thing. He always laughingly told us in Spanish to get on the stage at the top of each act “Vamoose en Escenario“. Very shortly after Jose left we met the new guy.

We were told the newbie was an army man and since My Lai had just happened, we dubbed him Sgt. Calley. The nick-name was horribly accurate. He was all business, all for ordering us around and did as he was told, without any humor or emotion always a scowl on his face. He looked and felt negative. When I left the show a few months later he said I wasn’t getting any money above my weekly salary even though we were told we’d be paid for a ticket back to Madrid and then home. I got none of it and he yanked me into a private room when I wouldn’t shut-up about it threatening me with the police and all.  I don’t think he ever saw a play or concert and had no idea what Hair was about.

Someone thought it was safe to travel so off we went to Seville. I had done a little studying up and knew there was a ton to see. Seville was one of three Southern Spanish cities the Moroccans were saying they wanted back (also Cadiz and Cordoba). We stayed in a hotel inside the old walled city. The traditional Moorish ornament overwhelmed the placed in romanticism. The walls that had kept invaders out centuries ago, tall and beautifully crenelated, still stood out against the dark night sky. When you were anywhere near these walls the palm trees being blown about by the wind made a hypnotic rustling sound that I’d recognize anywhere. I had spent many an hour sitting by these walls at the entrance gate enjoying the night, talking to people, smelling the peculiar perfume of Seville and naturally looking for a “date”. But the sound of the palms is the thing I remember most.

My whole time in Spain, this was the town I spent the most time walking around, especially the city inside the walls. It was as if time hadn’t moved at all in Seville. The old city could get you lost in a minute. All low to the ground houses and narrow twisty streets and no cars. You could turn a corner and the furthest you could see was 20 feet ahead then another turn and another row of stucco houses and tiles everywhere. There were a great many tiny plazas with only a bench or a fountain and geraniums hanging all over the place. Tall palms, short bushy palms, huge fan-shaped palms and flowers and trees that covered over you and gave cool shade blocking out the sun. There were always splashing fountains, hypnotic and soothing.

People were very outgoing and approachable in Seville and were always inviting us out for drinks insisting we stay till dawn. On one of these nights out, while weaving drunkenly home, we came upon a remarkable sight. About 70 or 80  men, shit-faced drunk,  practicing for the upcoming Easter festivities. I later saw a documentary about this event, but had no idea what they were doing at the time. This was the solemn processional that paraded a huge “float”with a holy icon on it and flowers and candles and wreathes of money. The beautiful statue of the Infanta of Seville with her lace wimple, glowing fresh face, and little girl hands was one of the “floats”. The face and hands were all that was seen of her flesh and these pieces were wax and very old. The clothes were made new every year. There would be the men in their tall pointed hoods and satin robes in red, black, white and green. They looked strikingly like Klansmen.

The “floats” weighed 100’s of pounds, carried by maybe 50 men. I imagine the weight was hard to manage when sober, let alone extremely inebriated. The many extra men were there to replace the exhausted ones or on this night the ones too loaded to shoulder the weight. They all had the wine pouch native to the region all big and bloated. From under the float they would generate rivers of pee dancing over the cobblestones and down the street. We watched for about an hour and they only succeeded in moving this thing a foot or two then resting and drinking and smoking and delaying the whole thing. It was really something. Next morning we were treated to our one and only airplane ride to Barcelona.

There is a popular saying in Spain: Madrid is the capitol of Spain and Barcelona is the capitol of Europe.We arrived in Barcelona in March. Our theater there, at the top of Las Ramblas, was beautiful like a miniature opera-house with box seats and two tiers of seating. The Ramblas is famously the number one promenade spot for the city. It leads down to the waterfront and the statue of Columbus not pointing out to sea but to the city where he would return. The stroll took you past all manner of stalls with goods to buy. Clothes, boots and books, birds, flowers, cats, and dogs. There was a gigantic market building off to one side where I would go shopping for meat, chicken, spices and vegetables.

Our Lt. Calley was still trying to get a grip on managing us in the aftermath of Franco’s death. There were quite a few student demonstrations along the Ramblas at this time with marching, shouting, banners waving and all. We had been told to carry our passports when we went to dinner between shows. One night I went to the Burger King (El Rey de las Hamburgesas) for a quick dinner, across the Plaza and down the block. I was alone enjoying my meal (including Sangria) when I heard a commotion outside. Lots of yelling, then people screaming past then some people tearing inside and hiding under tables saying they were firing rubber riot bullets at them. They had succeeded in killing three people with their non-lethal crowd control rubber bullets.

Hair was very well received in Barcelona. They seemed to be a different type of audience, a lot of American kids and a lot of Spanish people who had a good grasp on English. We continued the 10 shows a week schedule and as I still hadn’t met a hash dealer. I continued to drink my cognac and chocolate drinks. By now I had them lined up on a tray 8 at a time to bring them to my dressing room before the show and at intermission then repeat as needed. Big changes were about to happen, so Occhi said. The show was going to be-all in Spanish-a Spanish speaking cast was creeping in a few at a time. One night as we were lined up and beginning to come down the aisle singing Hare Krishna to start the Be In. I thought I heard something funny coming out of the new girl to my right. We’re singing Hare Krishna and she’s singing Merry Christmas. I could feel the winds of change blowing me elsewhere.

So one night I get a message that someone wants to meet me in the lobby after the show. My friend Gregg had finally arrived from Amsterdam to take me away and I knew he would be carrying a butt-load of good Afghani hash with him and sure enough I was right. I didn’t even change out of my costume as I ran out, dragging him to my place to get really, seriously high. The first I’d smoked in months. We arrived back at the theater just as slow motion started and I threw myself down and instantly became one with the dirty carpeting down the middle aisle. So much so that I wasn’t able to rise up for my usual chair climbing, audience groping or even just walking upright down the aisle in slow motion. Crawling was tough enough. Finally I made it to the stairs at the edge of the stage.I remember looking up as the Aquarius Circle kept going and going and I kept missing opportunities to join in as I couldn’t quite rise up to do so.