Big Time Boogie from Boston: The Dark Forces Behind the J. Geils Band
Eighty-five degrees. A muggy Friday night in Columbus, Ohio. The sweating cab driver makes an illegal left turn in the Dytronics Corporation parking lot and pulls up to an immense, cement, coffin-shaped motel with an imperial name. The man is a Teamster and small-time gambler. He is still chuckling over his own story about the time he put a bullet through the upper right thigh of a would-be robber, and fetches a small caliber pistol from beneath the seat to document his deed. Absent-mindedly fondling the gun, he offers to play a quick game of license plate poker, double or nothing for the ten-dollar fare. The cabbie gets an eight high to his passenger’s pair of fives. Still the visitor think’s it best to fork over ten big ones.
“Consider it a tip,” he says expansively.
The Belmont Stakes were to be run the next day and the cabbie, figuring his fare for a high roller, suggests a quick ride down the street to a place where a friend of his makes a little book on the side. The passenger refuses, claiming that he has to meet some big rock & roll stars playing the Veterans Auditorium that night.
“You ever hear of the J. Geils band?”
“Naw, never heard of ’em.”
Which is a shame, because the driver might have liked the Geils Band. In point of fact, the group’s songwriting team, Seth Justman and Peter Wolf—along with manager Dee Anthony—are in the motel’s Carnation Room lounge at this moment, asking the manager of the place if he knows of any bookies.
“No sir,” the man says, “this town is as clean as a whistle.” His motel, which is decorated like a $1.29 steak house, draws a family trade, and talk about bookies makes him the slightest bit twitchy. In the air-conditioned coolness, Peter Wolf wears a black leather jacket and sunglasses. Seth wears black slacks and a black T-shirt. His eyes are hooded, like a junkie’s, but they are quite clear and his stare is disconcerting. Anthony is older, a music business heavy for nearly 20 years now. A bear of a man, he wears a powder-blue pullover sweater, exposing crinkly iron-gray chest hair. Despite his trimmed beard and an abundance of expensive jewelry, Anthony exudes an aura of New York–Italian street savvy. There is about him the merest sort of menacing suggestion. If you cross him, his demeanor says, he’ll send a few of the big boys over to rip your lungs out.
The motel manager is not immune to the unsettling dark force of his guests and launches into a brief big-timer’s spiel about corrupt-cities-and-gangsters-I-have-known. The trio listens politely, with obvious reservation. It is Anthony who has been joking about books. He already has five bills on Secretariat tomorrow, but the horse has recently been featured on cover stories in both Newsweek and Time. Any gambler knows this ought to be the kiss of death. Anthony isn’t sure. He smells a big winner and he wants in on it.
The motel manager excuses himself and the conversation drifts back to the business at hand. The band apparently feels Dee hasn’t been giving them enough of his time and experience. Anthony is anxious to let them know that this is not the case and that he is available to them whenever they need advice, night or day. None of this is stated outright: It is, in fact, a rambling, roundabout discussion punctuated by friendly put-downs and subtle statements of position.
“Look,” Anthony says, “I give you guys five telephone numbers. If you don’t get me, leave a message. Have I ever not gotten back to you?”
“Yes,” Seth says, smiling slightly, eyes fixed in a flat, cold stare.
Wolf lightens it up. “Dee, you’re always down at your place in Nassau, hanging out with Harry Belafonte.”
It is a straightman’s line and Anthony takes it gracefully. “Belafonte? An Italian boy, huh?”