Gregg Allman & Dickey Betts: ‘Nothing Matters But the Fever’
Recollected in sober tranquility, that one week with Gregg Allman and Dickey Betts, the week before Thanksgiving, had all the qualities of a spontaneous drunk; which is to say it started out belligerently, limped its way into some soggy profundities and ended up mired in a sentimentality as thick and impenetrable as one of those tule fogs that cause multiple crackups on major highways.
It, took, in fact, two weeks to discover the full reason for the initial bad feelings. Gregg Allman was in Los Angeles on the first leg of his second solo tour. After his performance on November 7th, there was a party in his honor at a full windowed, ferny bar on Wilshire Boulevard. There was enough free liquor to attract the usual crowd of publicists and writers, enough novelty in the situation to pull a few heavies from the industry.
Allman is a draw at these affairs precisely because nobody knows much of what to make of him. For years he was simply Duane Allman’s younger brother. Duane had the vision and Duane had a temper which made him easy enough to identify. Gregg played keyboard and guitar, but never with the blinding talent of his brother.
When Duane died in a tragic motorcycle accident in the fall of 1971, there was a lot of speculation in and out of the industry. Without Duane, it was said, the Allman Brothers Band would fold. In fact, the opposite turned out to be true. The band survived the loss of Duane, then of bassist Berry Oakley, always carrying through, always stronger, always tighter. The new albums continued to go gold.
When Gregg released his 1973 solo album, Laid Back, and launched an equally successful solo tour in early 1974, a lot of people again talked about the end of the Allman Brothers Band. But only months later, in the summer of 1974, the band had the most successful tour in its history, playing only to outdoor stadiums and coliseums.
In the early winter of 1974, Richard Betts had his own solo album, Highway Call, and both he and Allman were playing solo tours. No one was in a position to dispute the draw of the Allman Brothers Band. That was proved. The rumors now centered on some irremediable split between Allman and Betts which would eventually decimate the band.
The Allman band — its bitter history —seems to inspire in some a terrific urge to see the last act played out in tragedy. The urge focuses in on Gregg, and it doesn’t help that he has developed some of his late brother’s temper. At least two writers who have interviewed him say that he is often arrogant, that he is surly and reckless.
And with this kind of talk floating around the bar on Wilshire, Gregg Allman arrived at 1 a.m., about an hour late. From inside one could see the black limo, then Gregg, tall, thin, specter-like, gliding up to the door. There he spoke for a few minutes with a scruffy-looking street type. Suddenly he was angry. You could see it through the glass: the clenched fist, the contorted face.
You couldn’t hear the words, of course, but that entrance managed to confirm a number of suspicions. What the insiders didn’t know, and what it took two weeks to find out, was what had been said at the door.
First of all, Gregg Allman didn’t know that the party was for him. Someone had simply told him that there were some people he should talk to at this place. As he approached the door, a drunken man had asked him if he could go in with him.
“I don’t know,” Gregg said. “Maybe it’s some special thing and I wouldn’t be able to get you in anyway.”
“Hey,” the man said, “you can get me in. Just tell them I’m your brother Duane, rose up from the dead.”
Gregg froze. The fellow thought he had hit the right note: real knee-slapping humor. “Rose square up from the dead,” he giggled.
Which is when Gregg told him: “Motherfucker, don’t let me see your face in there or you’re a dead man.”
When Allman stepped inside the bar he found a table, surrounded himself with friends and had a few quick, stiff drinks. About half an hour later, I had a conversation with him that fell only a few yards short of a brawl.
We were introduced and Allman noted that I was the third person to talk to him from the same magazine in three years. One story he had liked. The other he despised. “What do you want to write about us?”