No one moves to LA in the middle of July unless he is a crazy kid like me.
But I was in pursuit of the Hollywood rock ’n’ roll dream, with grand illusions that the band I was drumming for would eventually dent the pop charts, especially since our singer-songwriter recently had been contracted to a major record label.
So in the stifling summer of 1972 I rented a small bungalow high in the hills of Laurel Canyon, home to quite a few musicians and actors absorbed in the Sunset Boulevard scene, and a haven I would soon discover to be anything but good vibrations.
I had barely moved in when, after having returned from a late-night practice session at the A&M Sound Stage on La Brea, a bizarre Charles Manson-like drama began unfolding at 2:30 in the morning.
I had just put my head down on my pillow when this excruciating scream broke the stillness of the night and penetrated the open window above my bed. This sudden shriek was followed by a piercing plea for help from a very frightened and frantic couple somewhere in the canyons across the way.
“Help us, somebody, help us, please, they are going to kill us.”
Why are they yelling, I wondered. Why don’t they call the police? My questions were answered by their second desperate cry for assistance. “Can anyone help us, please! They’re outside the house. They cut the phone line. They’re trying to get in.”
At first I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, or didn’t want to. As I got up to look out the window, seeing nothing, I was immediately reminded of the Sharon Tate tragedy three years earlier, where one of my childhood friends, Gibby Folger, was among the murdered at the hands of the creepy Manson family clan. I started expecting the worst when I heard a third outburst.
“Anybody, help, please. They’ve got a gun.”
It was then when I heard a voice from my side of the canyon loudly respond, “Where are you, where do you live?”
“The last house on Oakden,” was the strained reply.
Since I was new to the area, I had no idea where Oakden was. The guy who was yelling for direction did, fortunately. “Don’t worry, we’re sending help!”
I was outside my house by this time, scouring the neighboring hills for any signs of activity. That’s when I heard six staccato gunshots crack the stillness of the morning and echo throughout the many canyons. Then nothing. Just agonizing silence.
“Are you okay?” someone called out. More silence. All appeals from Oakden suddenly ceased.
The next sound I heard put me right back in Vietnam. It was the approaching thunder of LA’s infamous squad cars in the sky. Thirty seconds later four police helicopters with oscillating spotlights burst over the ridges of the hills from four different directions, turning night into day.
At the same time, forty police cruisers using no sirens but with red and blue lights ablaze turned off Laurel Canyon Boulevard onto Kirkwood, gunning their way up the gorge, then fanning off to the various roadways and trails that snaked throughout the canyons. It was truly a lightshow of stunning proportion: Hollywood at its best. Or worst.
Within moments I could tell that police had located Oakden, as most of their black and whites began to funnel onto a dirt road directly across from my hillside post on Yucca Trails. Many would remain there for most of the morning.
Of course I, like every other resident in those hills, was dying to know what happened, so soon after the sun came up and the police left I wandered on over to the scene that I was hoping was not some kind of fiendish crime. I trudged on down the deserted and dusty lane not knowing what I’d find but looking for some kind of clue.
I found one when I got to the last house. An elderly man and woman were standing outside. They appeared extremely exhausted. I asked them if they knew anything about all the ruckus. They tried to answer, but they could barely speak. Their voices were shot. It was then I realized I had stumbled across the couple who’d been yelling for their lives hours before.
Relieved to see them both alive, having heard the gunfire and all, I asked them if they were all right. They whispered they were, and told me their frightening tale.
Unbeknownst to the pair, they had rented the house next door to some crazed drug addicts, who after being discovered, did not take to the idea of being evicted. So the druggies tried to discourage the action by threatening the pair in dreadful ways, like once leaving a bloodied pig’s head on the couple’s doorstep. The ongoing feud culminated in the morning standoff, with one of the pair firing the pistol, leaving the would-be intruders to scatter, eventually to be jailed.
As the couple went back inside their house, I marveled at their luck. Could have been so much worse, I thought to myself, while gazing at the sign at the entrance to the couple’s road. It read: “Dead End.”