While there are endless rock and roll memoirs written by musicians, songwriters, producers and even engineers, sometimes the most entertaining come from the fringe. Not meaning that word as superfluous or crazy, but denoting tomes penned by those who circle around the music like roadies, managers, or ex-wives/groupies.
With little to lose, truths can be told and utterly unique anecdotes can flow. And that’s the case with the highly-entertaining and page-turning story of David Libert, Rock and Roll Warrior: My Misadventures with Alice Cooper, Prince, George Clinton, Living Colour, the Runaways, and More… (273 pp., $19.95, Sunset Blvd. Books, out September 23).
David Libert has spent most of his 50+ year career in music as a booking agent and manager. But he got his start as a performer and founding member of vocal harmony group The Happenings. They scored several hits in the mid-‘60s including “See You in September,” “I Got Rhythm” and “Go Away Little Girl.” Not content with just singing, Libert worked to teach himself guitar and write as well.
But the crooning combo who were a clear throwback to another era quickly became (even after attempts at hip threads and longish hair) out of step with the era’s psychedelic and harder rock. So, when Alice Cooper’s booking agent Jonny Podell suggested that Libert become their road manager (despite not having any real experience), Libert excitedly started his second act.
The bulk of the book distills Libert’s experiences on three Cooper tours for the Killers, School’s Out, and Billion Dollar Babies albums. Already a theatrical group with an image, each tour became more and more involved with props, costumes dancers, effects, and the still-in-his-show guillotine that beheaded the headliner, each and every night. And David Libert had to coordinate it all (not to mention hotel room, women and delivery of substances).
Libert says he learned a lot about the business watching Cooper’s manager, Shep Gordon (aka “Supermensch”) as he navigated outrageous press stunts and dealt firmly with everyone from venue managers to record execs to outraged parents.
Remember kids! This was the early/mid ‘70s when Alice Cooper the stage persona was not a Halloween costume for toddlers, and the man himself not a Born-Again Christian Golfer.
Thus, there are great nuggets of tour tales. Like the time Gordon arranged for popular DJ Wolfman Jack to introduce Cooper at one show, and for some reason arriving atop a real camel.
But the question that perplexed those around the evening was this: If the camel took a shit onstage, who would have to clean it up?
After some intense negotiations, Libert brokered a compromise. If the pile was “steaming,” then it would be considered a stage prop and the Stagehand’s Union would have to remove it. If it was not, that would be venue’s janitorial staff doing the honors. Let’s just say that it was not the best night to be a Union Man.
As for Alice Cooper, Libert writes he was incredibly down to earth, never wanted star treatment, and eschewed most substances save for his beloved (and much indulged) Budweiser beer. He even cared much for the live snake used on tour (dubbed “Eva Marie Snake”—despite no one knowing the animal’s actual gender). The reptile who also needed to be kept wrapped in warm blankets while accompanying the band on airplanes.
Then there was a photo shoot for the interior of Billion Dollar Babies which found the group—all clad in white—and surrounding by a baby in Cooper makeup, rabbits, and $100,000 in $100 bills (though Gordon told the press it was $1 million). Everything was going great…until the rabbits started hungrily eating Benjamins.
After getting off the Cooper Go Round and later alienating the powerful Gordon, Libert ends up booking (and later managing) Father of Funk George Clinton, his main band Parliament-Funkadelic, and its many offshoot units.
He quickly learns a lot about Black promoters, venues, and ticket buyers and how they differed from their white counterparts. For instance, Black ticket buyers often waited to the day of or day before a show to actually make a purchase, which gave a lot of people involved heart palpitations looking at presale numbers.
Houston appears once in the narrative, thanks to a Clinton show at the Summit in the late ’70s. The venue was one of the first in the nation to employ large video screens projecting the live show to the audience. Some acts were understandably wary of it being taped and then sold illegally.
Libert agreed to having the concert broadcast, but only if he could have the sole copy of a recording and maintain all rights to it. He then was able to sell that video years later to a record company looking for a promotional tool for the band—but still kept a copy for his own usage.
Libert often partied as hard—or harder—than his musician friends when cocaine was king in the ‘70s and ‘80s, becoming an avid sniffer. And he admits much of the treatment and use of women in and around a rock and roll tour would not pass muster today.
But then again, nobody forced Arkansas super groupie Connie Hamzy (the “Sweet sweet Connie” namechecked in Grand Funk’s “We’re An American Band”) to give blowjobs to everyone and anyone connected the band backstage, finally running out of men to pleasure.
Libert’s ties to musicians and drugs led him to take things a step further and actually become a coke dealer. He got off easy on his first bust, but his second sent him to prison. Though Libert says it was more like a camp in which he quickly learned to play the system, get perks, and keep himself from getting beaten up more than one time.
The book does include anecdotes about the other artists mentioned in the title that Libert came into contact with through his own booking agency. But he doesn’t really offer anything beyond what many already know: Prince is a short, demanding control freak (though Libert does like him); Runaways’ manager Kim Fowley an egotistical asshole; and Living Colour one of the greatest live rock bands of the past 30 years.
One interesting tidbit is how Libert says in the ‘80s he was offered the chance to become the manager of an up-and-coming Los Angeles-based hard rock band but needed $20,000 to prove himself and provide the group with some much-needed comforts and equipment.
He didn’t have it (it was in between coke busts), so Libert asked his brother for a loan and was turned down. The two never spoke again. The struggling band—who went by the odd name of Guns N’ Roses—went on to find another person to fill the position. They went on to do OK for themselves.
As a behind the scenes look into the rock and roll access and excess of the era, Rock and Roll Warrior is a fun and fascinating read. And the now 79-year-old David Libert—who these days rescues dogs instead of rock stars—is a more than amiable tour guide.
This article appears in Jan 1 – Dec 31, 2022.
