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"Hello, Apple? Yes, is Paul McCartney there? It's John Phillips of The Mamas and Papas. Hey Paul, how are the guys?
Great, listen, we're going to stage a pop festival - we want the Beatles on the Board of Directors. It's non-profit.
I mean, I just feel like it's time to give something back. Don't you ? A music foundation -
scholarships, like that. Yeah, well, me, Lou, Artie, Paul, Mick and Keith. Oh, and The Beach Boys. We're talking to
Bill Graham about the San Francisco bands and . . . you will? Beautiful man . . . Oh, by the way -
love Sergeant Pepper. Yeah, OK, talk."
"Michelle, get me Mick Jagger."
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Monterey Pop was the world's first rock festival.
The board was stellar and so was the line-up. The Dead, The Airplane, Jimi, Janis, Otis, Ravi. John wrote one of
his best songs to tell the world what was about to happen and gave it to Scott McKenzie to sing.
(If you're going to) San Francisco (be sure to wear some flowers in your hair)
It went straight up the charts and thousands of 'flower children' started heading west.
My total involvement was zero. John and Michelle pretending to be married again was just too hurtful so I
limped off back to the Virgin Islands to let them frolic. Above it all on a cloud of alcohol.
Poor me, poor me, pour me another double, bartender.
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But, I knew The Mamas and Papas had to close The First Monterey International Pop Festival and, as miserable as I was,
I was not going to let down the side. The last night of the festival I drive in, just barely on time. "Where's back stage?
This way?" I turn the corner and . . . My God ! It's . . . The Who ! Keith Moon is blowing up his drum kit!
Where are the dressing rooms ? What? Under the stage ? No! It's a rock and roll feeding frenzy.
Promoters are selling off the cream of the San Francisco bands to frantic record execs.
Six figure advances for acts who, a week ago, were playing for free in the park.
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It's a sacred event, the birth of the counter-culture and the Kentucky Derby of Greed. And it's all happening at once!
I find the gang. Change into my caftan, grab a set list, take a stab at a warm-up and head back out to the wings and there's Jimi Hendrix dry-humping his amp - setting his guitar on fire - The Who, and now this ? Jimi walks off, they sweep half the P.A. up off the floor and look at us and say: "You're on !" "No man, please don't put us on after the elephants."
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We did the gig and we sounded terrible and that just confirmed what I already knew. It was over. Oh, we started work on an album, but it was over and we knew it, and the industry somehow knew it too. Everybody was talkin' and suddenly John was very concerned. He is not going to let it happen. So, one day he looks at me and says: "Mallorca." "Your orca?" "No, Mallorca, man, it's an island off Spain. Yeah, we'll all go there and rent a big house. We can get this thing back together." And we were all ready to give it a try. But where to start ?
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