All language subtitles for Feats.First.The.Life.Music.Of.Lowell.George.2015.720p.WEBRip.x264.AAC-[YTS.GG - YTS.BZ]

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- [Narrator] At the
beginning of the 1970s,

a band emerged from Los Angeles.

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It was a band so eclectic and
unusual in style and sound

that almost no one could
say where it had come from.

It was a band that
instantly captured

the admiration of rock stars,
producers, music writers,

a band that radio
DJs rushed to play.

It was a band that struggled
to sell any records,

that seldom troubled the charts,

that was rarely
seen on television,

that was never called
to award ceremonies.

But it was a band that was
loved with uncommon fervor

by all that heard its music.

The band was called Little Feat.

- Yeah, they were an
incredible live band,

but that other thing that
they were putting across

while they were being a
great live band is what

made people just go
absolutely gaga over them.

And gaga is not a bad word

for the feeling that Little
Feat was able to generate

while Lowell was alive.

- [Narrator] At the center
of the Little Feat story

is Lowell George,

the group's front man and
principal song writer.

Over the course of a
decade leading the Feats,

George wore the unique tapestry,

a singular artistic vision
that ended tragically

with his untimely death in '79,

but that left an indelible
mark on the history

of rock and roll.

- Anyone who saw Little
Feat, or love Little Feat,

or new Lowell George

remembers him with
enormous affection,

and loves what he stood for,

which was something
really individual,

really different,

very sensual,

funky,

poetic,

surreal,

and funny.

- He was the guy you wanted
to hang out with, you know?

He was someone I looked up to.

The concentration, the focusing,

the intensity with which
he approached his music

was a real example.

- Lowell was

the hyperbole of anarchy

and rebellion.

He was an iconoclast.

Somehow or another, I
don't get the idea that

Lowell would've
accepted a Grammy.

I think that he was beyond that.

- He felt strongly that he knew

what music was sincere,

and credible,

and artful.

He thought that music
could change the world,

thought that he
could make a song

that would change
people's minds.

[upbeat rock music]

- [Narrator] Los Angeles, 1965,

and the rebirth of American
rock and roll is underway.

Fired by the arrival
of The Beatles

and the accompanying
waves of British bands

that had overwhelmed the
music scene a year earlier,

local musicians had
deserted the folk clubs

and coffee houses
of the early 60s,

and traded in their
acoustic guitars

for amplifiers and drum kits.

A new youth culture emerged.

Its locus, LA's Sunset Strip.

Its leaders, The Byrds.

It was the era of folk rock

and music center
of gravity shifted

from the gray
skyscrapers of New York

to the glittering
beaches of California.

♪ Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man

♪ Play a song for me

♪ I'm not sleepy

♪ And there ain't no
place I'm going to

- I was endlessly fascinated

by the music that was
coming out of California,

LA in particular.

For me, that dated back
to the first time I heard

"Mr. Tambourine Man"
on the car radio.

There was just something
magical about that sound,

the 12-string guitar
sound and the harmonies.

It certainly was the clarion
call for a lot of people

to move in the direction of

this hybrid of folk
and rock and roll.

The first few years of that,

the mid to late 60s,

you can look at it
as a fairly contained

continuum with the Springfield,
and love, and spirit.

It was this very diverse
community, but it was small,

and everyone knew everyone else.

- It was very vibrant.

Sunset Strip had
a number of clubs

that were very teen-oriented.

A few of the had no,

they didn't serve alcohol.

You know, you could
get underaged kids

to go in a place
called Pandora's Box,

which I had a band
that played there,

and another club
called It's Boss.

- The kids were up and down
the street by the thousands.

There was nothing like
it before or since.

I mean, it was the
most magical time ever.

- There was this huge
opportunity to find to talent,

to somehow, "Hey we gotta
move units, we gotta sell",

because there's opportunity.

So a lot of bands got signed,

and a lot of stuff was
happening very quickly.

Byrds being obviously
the biggest example,

but a lot of smaller bands

were part of this
local scene here.

For the brief period of time,
from mid-60s to mid-70s,

it was the reason why
everybody came here.

It was the reason why people
from all over the world

figured if they got to LA,

they'd have a shot

at musical stardom.

The few that survived
that got through,

that became these
names that we know

all these years later,

were just the very
tip of the iceberg.

There were hundreds of bands,

and The Factory was one of them.

- [Narrator] In
amongst the throng

of folk rock aggregations,

ersatz beat groups, blues
bands, and harmony singers,

Lowell George, front man
of an obscure local group

called The Factory, was
trying to make a name.

- He was quintessentially
Californian.

The George's had a great ranch.

They spent some time in Nevada.

They were part of the
early pioneer families

that pushed west and
created the frontier,

and expanded and went
beyond it, moved it,

and Lowell was like that.

So, it's fair to say

that although I didn't
know him at the time,

Lowell was equally
influenced by this new

sense of self that
The Byrds gave every

aspiring California musician.

- You know, he came from
something different to most

aspiring rock and rollers

certainly in Los Angeles.

You know, LA was full of
kids who come to LA to be

stars and to join bands.

And Lowell grew up there in
the very heart of Hollywood.

He was a showbiz
kid, you might say.

You know, and I think that
gave him an interesting take on

the rock community.

You know, he'd been to
Hollywood High School.

His dad was a
furrier to the stars.

So he was used to
the strangeness

of Hollywood Babylon I think.

And I think that
sort of comes through

in some of his writing,

maybe more just in his persona.

You know, he was a sort of

Hollywood Bohemian.

- In high school,

I remember being very
impressed with his singing.

One day on the quad,

everybody was singing
Christmas carols,

and I was really struck
by his vocal ability,

and start hanging
out with him then.

We even wrote songs then.

And the thing about him,

we understood each
other musically.

If I would try to
sing something to him,

he would sing it back to me,

how it ought to be sung.

- Some people I think
are born musicians,

and Lowell is one of those.

I think he, you know,
with enough effort,

he would be successful
at any facet of music.

He obviously played
many instruments

and played them well,

and had a great

ability to,

to write music

and lyrics.

He was terrific.

- He played the flute
in the school orchestra,

and was a stand out.

And it's interesting.

There's debate about

whether they guy could
read music or not,

and I don't think so.

But,

he could play the
flute so authoritively

it didn't make any difference.

There's an anecdote that
he once turned the chart

upside down,

played that, and
nobody, you know,

Frank Zappa would say that also,

"There's no such
thing as a wrong note,

"just play it with conviction."

And he, Lowell had a
natural ability like that.

He was great on the flute,

and only gave it up
like many things,

'cause he figured he wasn't
the greatest of all time.

- This was no ordinary guy,

this was a pretty
well-read guy who listed to

you know, Erik
Satie, and knew about

you know, imagist poets.

He was witty and
funny and lovable,

and sort of cuddly,
and women loved him.

He just stuck out.

He sort of stuck out
of the crowd in a way

that a lot of musicians
on the LA scene didn't.

- [Narrator] The
Factory, George's first

foray into the music business

was formed at the suggestion
of his old high school friend,

Martin Kibbee.

Having enrolled in and
dropped out of art school,

Lowell was working a
job at a gas station,

while developing his guitar
playing during spare hours.

Kibbee, meanwhile,
had been studying

at the University of Berkeley,

where he collaborated with
guitarist and fellow student,

Warren Klein.

On graduation,
Kibbee asked Klein

to accompany him back to LA

with the aim of looking up
Lowell and forming a band.

- We got in the
car up in Berkeley,

drove through some riots,

there was, I think it was
the Free Speech Movement

was rioting at Berkeley,

we were lucky to even
get out of there,

there was just, you know,
terror in the streets.

We got through that,
came to LA and,

it was really quite
interesting for me,

never having been
to Los Angeles.

And Lowell was staying
in Beverly Glen,

I think on Atomic
Street in an apartment.

At first, I think right
after he brought me up there,

you know, he just took
out the guitar and played

some finger picking stuff,
which Lowell really liked,

and invited me to stay with
him, sleep on his couch,

while things percolated.

I guess he and Martin
had discussed some idea

of putting a band together.

- He was enthusiastic
about doing it.

I don't think he was
in any other band

before we started The Factory.

But he would play gigs at coffee
houses and stuff, you know,

with his Goya guitar,
with his flute,

kind of beatnik, poetry stuff.

- He was playing rhythm guitar
but he had a unique style,

I thought, that was different
from anything I had heard.

And,

I really enjoyed it, actually.

And you know, he
would also play flute,

which I wasn't sure how
appropriate that was [chuckles]

for rock and roll but he did it,

and I think it was appreciated.

We used to play at
Beado Lido's, and,

he'd play flute,
harmonica, guitar,

different instruments and it
didn't matter what he played,

people would appreciate it.

I thought he was a
wonderful guy, I mean,

I really liked him.

Very enjoyable.

He...

was a great host.

He had a little hibachi,

made really fantastic
teriyaki chicken.

[laughs]

- By the time we came
down there after Berkeley,

it was already the heyday
of The Beatles, The Stones,

Jefferson Airplane.

It was a scene happening and
we very much wanted to join it.

And it virtually,

it took us like 90 days
to get a record deal,

it was unbelievable.

- [Narrator] Although in
common with most young bands,

The Factory took inspiration
from The Byrds, The Beatles,

The Who, and the other
popular groups at the time.

Lowell was heavily
influenced by black music,

and in particular, the electric
blues acts from Chicago.

♪ But it just don't work on you

- [Narrator] It was an
interest that became central

to his musical personality,

and a scene that would
run throughout his work.

- We discovered the blues, all
his wonderful Chess records.

Howlin' Wolf was a huge
influence on Lowell.

I guess his vocal style also,

Hubert Sumlin's guitar playing.

And I think the first thing
any rock band plays is

blues-based, isn't it?

You learn those 1-4-5 chord
changes and take it from there,

if you have that many, you know?

[laughs]

- We used to go see blues
shows at The Ash Grove,

here in Los Angeles.

We saw Howlin' Wolf, we went
backstage and chatted with him.

That was really fantastic.

We met Junior Wells.

He was complaining how
uncomfortable his boots here,

and I had these incredible
comfortable boots that I'd wore

and I knew right before I came
and here and just always wore

and I felt bad for him.

I offered to give him my boots,

we had the same shoe size.

He gave me his boots, and
they were just stiff as wood.

I mean, it was like wearing
Dutch wood shoes or something,

only worse because
they were higher up.

Terrible, I couldn't wear 'em.

- Howlin' Wolf was his
favorite blues band,

as he was mine.

♪ Whoa, the chain that rattles

- Although he was much more
familiar with the sound,

and co-opted black vernacular.

I decided not to,
but Lowell did.

We both had this great
respect for Howlin' Wolf.

♪ Oh, the chain that rattles

♪ Oh, they shine like gold

♪ Ooh

♪ Ooh

♪ Just like gold

- We were enthralled
by that music.

Lowell's, one of
his favorite lines

when we would
describe a musician,

and he didn't know who
this was, he'd say,

"Oh this guy's pretty good",

and Lowell would say,

"Well is he versed in the
ways of Chester Burnett?"

Howlin' Wolf's name.

Meaning, was he one of us?

Did he appreciate the
music the way we did?

And we'd say, "Well, yeah.

"Okay, he's cool,
he can come in.

"Is he versed in
the ways" was our,

that was our code, that Lowell
set up as the entry level.

If he was versed in
the ways, he's cool,

and if's not, eh.

♪ Don't laugh at me

♪ Don't laugh at me, baby

♪ Don't be laughin'

♪ Don't be laughin' at me

♪ You bet am I

♪ I may be fat

♪ Hey

♪ Don't laugh at me

♪ Don't be laughin' at me baby

♪ Don't be laughin' at me

♪ You bet am I

♪ It's time for everything

- We were doing mainly
blues and a few songs

that we started to write.

I started to write some stuff
that was kind of psychedelic.

Lowell wrote some stuff that
was kind of blues-based.

I remember one thing
called "The Airplane".

It was sort of a,

kind of a mixture
of those styles.

When we were just

in the early stages of
formulating our sound.

- We played "Hey Joe" real
loud, and stuff like that.

[chuckles]

Well, you know?

We played "Gloria" a lot,

that was one of our
favorite talents.

[chuckles]

But we didn't have
too many originals.

We played at places
like the Sea Witch,

and at Beado Lido's
with The Doors.

The Doors, we
played double bills

with The Doors all the time.

- [Narrator] Opportunities
opened up for The Factory

after the band came
to the attention

of record business
impresario, Herb Cohen.

A sometime concert
promoter and club owner,

Cohen had moved into
artist representation,

rising to prominence
on the LA scene

as the manager of the
iconoclastic composer

and Mothers of Invention
band leader, Frank Zappa.

- We first met Herb when
we auditioned for Frank,

Frank Zappa, at the
Whiskey a Go Go.

They just opened up the
club for the audition.

It was just, I think, Frank
and Herbie there to see us,

and we played for them.

Frank really liked us, and
Herbie was Frank's manager,

and who also wanted to manage us

and have us open
for The Mothers,

which we did at all The
Freak Outs and The Freak Ins

at The Shrine, and the
Earl Warren Showgrounds

in Santa Barbara.

And,

Herbie, I know he managed
some other artists also.

Screamin' Jay Hawkins
was one of them.

- He said, "I can get you
guys $1,500 in a week."

And he'd treat it as a lot
of money in those days,

and he was true to his word.

And Frank started producing us.

And if there was any strong
musical influence on us

at that point, it was Frank.

- [Narrator] Gaining the
patronage of Frank Zappa

was a transformative event
in Lowell's fledgling career.

Musical autodidact, prolific
composer and questing artist,

Zappa occupied his own universe
in the local underground.

His headquarters in the
city's Laurel Canyon

became the epicenter
of the freak scene,

an anarchic collection of
outsiders and free-thinkers

that orbited The
Mothers of Invention

and the counterculture's
lunatic fringe.

- Laurel Canyon was the seat
of the heat of the beat.

It was where
everything happened.

I had been in The Mothers
of Invention in 1965,

with Frank Zappa, and played
some real far out stuff,

outside the box,
blues-oriented but also

with a great bebop sensibility,

celebrating musical genres
which collided inconveniently

with great truth and beauty.

- Frank Zappa was a native
Southern Californian,

and that gave him a
certain slant, I think,

on the culture.

He was very bright.

He was a real virtuoso.

And he was very
influenced, you know,

not just by rock and
roll but by avant-garde,

classical music.

So he brought quite a high-brow
element to rock and roll.

The Mothers were

very different from
bands like The Byrds

or The Turtles or
Sonny and Cher.

They were such [chuckles] a
pretty heinous-looking bunch.

And,

extremely satirical,
quite, almost like dadaist,

you might say.

You know, they were,

they were sort of satirically
deconstructing pop culture.

♪ Oh, in the sky

♪ Oh, in the sky

♪ Oh, in the sky

♪ In the sky

- He lived at The Log Cabin
in Laurel Canyon, Frank.

And that was just, you
know, hippie central.

But what I'm saying is
Frank was a guy who just was

interested in doing his
music, his way, period,

and he cranked it
out day and night.

And he sought the best players.

And he didn't like drugs or
people who were, you know,

flaked out and stuff.

- In the time I spent with him,

I wasn't aware of
his abilities to

conduct, like on a podium with
a baton and the whole thing,

I wasn't aware of that,

until, when we did the
recording sessions.

And then, you know,

"What's this?"

You know, he's up on a podium,

and there was some studio
musicians on the date, and,

he sure brought them around.

He could bring authority
to the situation, you know,

as required.

I said to him, I said,

"Frank, where'd you
learn all this stuff?"

And his reply was, "Oh,
I went to the library."

- Frank was considered the
freak of the situation.

He was the freak of
Hollywood, the left field.

You know, there was the
hippies, flower children,

straights, of course,
and the freaks.

So Frank was the ultimate freak,

and he was known as
a genius immediately.

I mean, he played
such a wicked guitar,

and you could just see
him, he composed, you know,

out of the air.

I'd never seen anything like it.

Almost mysterious though,
because you didn't really know,

get to know who he was,

because he had this
incredibly freaky persona.

But everyone wanted to know him.

Everyone wanted to
be at his house.

Everyone wanted to be
a part of his world.

- The LA freaks had
nothing but contempt

for the San Francisco hippies,

who they just thought were
kind of stupid and naive,

whereas to be a
freak was much more,

I think,

subversive,

disruptive,

and satirical.

So I think The
Mothers of Invention

really set themselves up as,

in one sense, the
kind of conscience,

the real conscience,
of the hippie era.

In other words, you know,

"Don't be fooled
by all this stuff.

"A lot of it is bullshit."

- It certainly felt that we
had joined an exclusive club of

fairly advanced
[chuckles] you know,

cutting edge of the

social revolution of
the day, absolutely.

- [Narrator] The
Factory accompanied

The Mothers of
Invention on the road,

opening for them at
landmark gatherings

of hippies and freaks,

including The Freak Out at
LA's Shrine Auditorium in 1966.

Zappa assumed responsibility

for advancing the band's career,

setting up auditions for
the major record labels,

and taking the group
into the studio,

where he produced
two tracks written by

Lowell and Martin Kibbee;

"The Loved One" and
"Lightning-Rod Man".

- Well, those were the first
songs that I've written

that were ever recorded, and,

"The Loved One" was based on
the movie of the same name,

which was in the
book by Evelyn Waugh,

which was, we were big fans.

And "Lightning-Rod
Man" was based on the

short story by
Herman Melville, and,

Frank was not really into
all that literary stuff.

[chuckles]

We recorded at Original Sound,
Art Laboe's Original Sound,

the first 10 track
recorder in town.

And Frank was the most
inventive guy in the studio.

He like, tuned the piano
and played it with pliers.

He doubled the back beat
with rolled-up towel

on a piano bench, all
kinds of stuff that got us,

you know, a crazy sound.

Frank introduced us
to lots of music.

♪ The Lightning-Rod Man

♪ He wants in his soul

♪ The Lightning-Rod Man
comes in where it won't

♪ He'll make you feel safe

♪ Safe as can be

♪ Just long as you
don't stand under a tree

- He was just such a character
and such a creative mind.

If he made a suggestion,
it was good, and right,

and appreciated.

- Forget Melville.

Sing it like Elvis, or sing
it like Little Richard.

No, you know, Lowell would
sing it this way or that way.

[chuckles]

♪ He walks in the rain, yeah

♪ He doesn't get wet, yeah

♪ And maybe he knows it,
he isn't turned yet, yeah

- In "Lightning-Rod
Man", for instance,

you'll hear a few things that
are reminiscent of The Mothers

that were Frank's idea, like
the thing where the girl says,

"Lightning-Rod
Man, you're super."

[chuckles]

You know, stuff like that.

So there's definite Mothers
touches in there that

you could attribute to Frank.

♪ Lightning-Rod
Man, you're super

♪ Yeah I know

- [Narrator] Although little
came from the sessions

beyond recording experience,
the competence of The Factory

was lifted drastically
by the sudden departure

of their drummer, Kerry Slaven.

Slaven was replaced in
the band by 20 year old

Richie Hayward, an aspiring
rock drummer whose ability

made an instant
impression on Lowell.

- Our original drummer was a
guy who went to Hollywood High,

Kerry Slaven.

And he actually, we were
going through the airport

or something like, he
became a moony, okay?

Wandered off with some
girl, last time we saw him.

So we put an ad in the, you
know the free press, and,

"Drummer wanted,
must be freaky",

and Richie showed up.

- Richie Hayward auditioned

in his house in LA,

in front of all The
Mothers of Invention.

He said it was
incredibly intimidating,

'cause these guys were
still tight with Lowell.

And passed the audition,
and that, that became the,

the core of what was going
to become Little Feat.

- I distinctly remember,
when I met him,

I thought he must be a narc
'cause he was wearing like,

plaid pants and just
looked very strange

for a rock and roll guy.

You know, I was highly
suspicious of him.

A friend of ours, an artist,
Doug Etch had a party

which we all went to afterwards

and I had a conversation
with Richie where

he discussed some things
in his record collection

and we got into a
conversation about records

that we both liked, and so on.

And I realized that
my [chuckles] first
impression of him

was completely wrong.

He was just a, you know,
guy from Iowa that just

came to LA and dressed
as what he thought

would make an impression
on us, or something.

- To me, he was like
the only guy in the band

who, compared to
Lowell, in terms of

pure musical dedication
and brilliance,

and originality, although,

all those other guys fault him,

"He can't play it
twice the same way."

But that's the point.

Every time he plays it, it's
a matter of life and death

with Richie.

- [Narrator] With
Hayward in the band,

The Factory made renewed
assaults on the record business,

including publicity-seeking
appearances

on the popular television
shows Gomer Pyle and F Troop.

Herb Cohen eventually
secured them a deal

with a new MCA
subsidiary, Uni Records,

and the band put
out two singles,

"Smile, Let Your Life Begin"
and "No Place I'd Rather Be"

in the summer of '67.

♪ Smile, let your life begin

- [Narrator] Both
singles flopped,

and Lowell found himself
deserted by his band mates,

when former Mother of
Invention Elliot Ingber

invited them to drop The Factory

and join his psychedelic
rock project,

The Fraternity of Man.

- Tornado, myself and Richie
joined up with Elliot.

And I regretted that

greatly, in terms of my
partnership with Lowell,

I did not want to

leave Lowell.

I wanted Lowell
to be our singer.

I don't know why
that didn't happen.

I think there was some
mutual disappointment in,

you know, what had
happened with The Factory.

But I,

I felt bad about
it, leaving Lowell.

- [Narrator] Following the
breakup of The Factory,

Lowell joined The Standells,

a local garage rock band,
with a record deal on Capital.

It proved not to be a good fit,

and he departed after
only a few short weeks.

Between bands and
without a project,

Lowell devoted his
time to furthering
his musical education,

taking classes at LA
Community College,

and enrolling with Warren
Klein at the newly-founded

Kinnara School, where the pair
studied under the legendary

sitar player, Ravi Shankar.

- Lowell and I had both
noticed that Ravi was

moving a school here.

It was almost a given that
we were both, you know,

be going there.

[chuckles]

It was an opportunity
that was not to be missed.

I mean, aside from
the instrument itself,

interest in the sitar, you know,

the idea of studying Indian
classical music for its

musical value was
very important.

I remember myself thinking,

"This will be an easy
transition, 'cause
I play guitar."

[laughs]

But the sitar is just a
completely other deal and

quite painful in the beginning,

before you develop
really good callouses.

Physically demanding, but just
wonderful, wonderful music.

I mean, so inspiring that
you don't mind the pain.

But it does require an
incredible dedication,

time-wise, and physically,

and I stayed with it
longer than Lowell did.

- [Narrator] Without a gig
since leaving The Standells,

Lowell was handed an
opportunity by his old mentor,

Frank Zappa.

The Mothers had lost their
vocalist, Ray Collins,

and Zappa asked Lowell
to fill the vacancy.

Although he would
ultimately end up

as the band's rhythm guitarist,

joining sessions in '68
for the studio albums

Burnt Weeny Sandwich and
Weasels Ripped My Flesh.

- He wasn't a
great singer, then.

He became a great singer.

He was really becoming a
great singer at that time

when he was with Frank,

but I don't think
he was there yet.

He wasn't Ray.

Ray was a great singer.

- I think Lowell
took it as a lark.

I think he was just
intrigued, like everyone was,

to hang out in that world,
and to be part of that scene.

And it probably wouldn't have
suited him in the long run.

Frank was a very
difficult taskmaster.

He was very hard on his people.

Most of them, they say that
that was a very important time

in their lives, because
Frank was so hard.

He pushed them to things
they didn't believe

they could ever do.

And I'm sure he was
doing that with Lowell,

and it wasn't really
in his nature.

And plus, he really wanted
to be his own person.

He was a little
stifled in the group.

- They were both very
strong personalities.

And musically, I don't think

they would really
see eye to eye.

They,

their tangents probably touched.

Their sense of
absurdity touched.

Their sense of irony
in music touched.

But I think overall,

Lowell was more of a songwriter

mentality, and
Frank was more of,

for lack of a better word,
an orchestral thinker.

- He was like our guru.

And I think Lowell tried to
model himself after Frank,

because Frank, on one
level, was, you know,

a harsh band leader,
a disciplinarian, who

gets what he wants
out of the group,

and they're doing his stuff,
and that's it, you know?

And you're fired or,
"Okay, that's good."

And Lowell

wanted to be that way.

I mean, he saw the,

you know, the point of all that.

But he was not that guy.

You know, I mean, he wasn't,

to inspire that
discipline in others,

you gotta be that
disciplined yourself.

And Lowell was always
a little, you know,

not that organized,
or on top of it, or...

But I should say, he
was more inspired.

Certainly a better singer, a
better songwriter than Frank.

Frank was the first one
to recognize it, you know?

I think Lowell wrote "Willin'"
and played it for Frank.

And Frank said, "Start
your own group."

- He obviously got kicked out
because he was a pot head.

He had to hide that incredibly,
extremely large fact

from Frank Zappa.

[laughs]

So, that's why he was,

that's why he left,
but musically,

Frank loved him in the band.

- [Narrator] Though Zappa
had been an important

and paternalistic
influence on Lowell,

it was clear that The Mothers
were not the right frame

for his career.

After the recording
sessions, a few shows,

and a first attempt at
production with one of Zappa's

side projects, the
most important event

during Lowell's
tenure with the band

proved to be a chance
encounter with a young pianist

from Ventura, Bill Payne.

Payne had arrived in LA in 1969,

with designs on
joining The Mothers.

He had contacted one of Zappa's
labels, Bizarre Records,

in the hope of
gaining an audition,

but was instead advised
to seek out Lowell George,

who was in the process of
getting a new band together.

The pair immediately hit it off.

- Both of them had advanced
ideas about time signatures and,

you know, they wrote
complicated, unusual structures.

They weren't like
normal pop songs.

And they both shared
that view, so they,

I don't think they had to
bring one along, you know?

They both were in the same
place, as far as that went.

And they both were
really good songwriters.

So, I think they
maybe even, you know,

like a, maybe like a little
bit of a challenge in a way,

to please the other.

- Billy Payne was

a virtuoso keyboard player.

That kind of funky slip note
rock and roll piano playing.

I mean, I think Billy Payne was

an incredibly important part of

what made Little Feat great.

He may have ultimately
wanted to be a lot more

than a rock and
roll piano player.

The fact is, he could
play that almost sort of

funky tone, country,
rock and roll piano that

was essential to the
early Little Feat sound.

- [Narrator] As their
personal friendship

and musical
relationship developed,

Lowell presented Payne
with a primary assignment;

To join him in the rescue
of his former band mates.

The Fraternity of Man were
recording their second album,

in an atmosphere of
chaos and collapse.

With band leader Elliot
Ingber unable to hold

the sessions together,
Lowell and Bill Payne came in

to help rescue the project.

After the dust settled,
Fraternity was no more,

and Lowell had managed
to poach Richie Hayward

as the drummer
for his new group.

- By the time we were ready
to do the second album,

the band was kind
of in disarray, and,

Elliot brought in a whole
bunch of other musicians.

I mean, just, you know, there
were five or six other guys

that played on it.

I think the band was really
falling apart at that stage.

- Elliot had a,

he was dating this girl
named Airborne Michelle.

They called her that because
she was a Scientologist,

and had been sighted floating
five feet off the ground down

the sidewalk on Fountain Avenue.

And he tried to break up with
her, and quit Scientology,

and this was all just about
the time pot pills came in

or whatever, and he
was taking notice.

But Michelle,

we recorded at T.T. and G. with
Tom Wilson as our producer,

she drew a pentagram in
the hall, on the floor,

and burned candles
and was going, "Fail!

"Fail!"

[chuckles]

And so Elliot is on pot pills
and I remember he was like,

talking into his amplifier.

Tom Wilson's going, "What?"

He thought the amplifier
was talking back to him.

They literally carried him out.

And so Lowell and Billy
replaced him to finish it.

- I had lost command,
command and control.

And then at that point,

Richie being the capable and
talented drummer that he is,

or was,

loomed largely in Lowell's
mind as being, you know,

something that he should, if
he wanted to flesh out his,

if he wanted to
flesh out his vision,

he would turn to Richie,

because evidently he hadn't
run into anybody else

who could, who was that
up the line, talent-wise.

- [Narrator] When Lowell George,
Bill Payne, Richie Hayward

and former Mothers bassist
Roy Estrada formed Little Feat

at the turn of the 1970s,
they collided with a drastic

aesthetic shift that had
begun to sweep rock and roll.

The celebratory optimism
of the counterculture

had by the late 60s
transfigured into doubt,

and introspection, at the
promise of large-scale

social change slipped
further out of view.

The ongoing war in Vietnam,
political assassinations,

Nixon, Manson, and
the desolatry collapse

of Haight-Ashbury's hippie dream

under drug-induced depredation

had led many in the
counterculture to pause,

and question themselves.

It was a condition that
was reflected in music.

The large productions
and psychedelic heat

of the Sergeant Pepper era

had given way to a
back to roots movement

with Bob Dylan, The
Byrds, The Grateful Dead

and The Rolling Stones
all releasing acoustic,

roots-oriented albums.

The band emerged as the
most influential group

of their generation, and
their melange of country,

folk, soul, and
traditional musical forms

ushered in a new
popular sensibility.

- In the second half of the 60s,

you go from

folk rock to something
a bit more eccentric,

a bit more druggie, I
think, you could say.

So you go from kind of Mr.
Tambourine Man to, you know,

Trout Mask Replica and Hot Rats.

It's a general
kind of, you know,

weirdness that comes into
the scene, Strange Days and

Weird Scenes in the Gold Mine.

And I think by '69 when
the Manson killings occur,

this, a general

sense that music has become
a bit kind of warped.

It's interesting, it's
become quite interesting,

but quite sort of warped
and quite druggie,

and quite heavy and quite dark.

- The back to roots
movement I think

germinated from a
couple of places.

One was that whole

hippie ethos of back to
nature, stripping things back,

and the idea of authenticity,

which also was found in
folk music prior to the

development of folk rock.

It had always been sort
of an underlying factor.

You know, when The Band
appeared in Credence

around the same time,
it made such a strong

representation of that
kind of stripped-back

direct, populist

expression of rock
and roll that,

it became undeniable.

♪ Corn in the fields

♪ Listen to the rice when the
wind blows 'cross the water

♪ King Harvest has surely come

♪ I work for the union

♪ 'Cause she's so good to me

♪ And I'm bound
to come out on top

♪ That's where she
said I should be

- It was all part of
the fabric, you know,

The Band records sound like,

it has all of these influence
of Appalachian harmonies and

all, different kinds of stuff.

You know, a little,
tiny bit of funk stuff

where the bass
would play it and,

it was soulful stuff,
for white guys.

♪ The smell of the leaves

♪ From the magnolia
trees in the meadow

- All of that stuff
was coming from

essentially the same place.

I suppose the locus of it
was the Troubadour Bar.

You would see bands come
in there and do like

three-night runs.

I remember seeing The
Average White Band,

and then Little Feat, the
first time I'd ever seen them.

There was this kind
of roots thing that,

that was clearly
reminiscent of The Band,

and also a touch of kind
of southern soulfulness.

I didn't know where these
guys were from at the time.

I found out they were from LA.

- [Narrator] Interest in signing
Little Feat was widespread.

Zappa wanted the band
to join his rock star

in Straight Records.

Former Byrds producer
Terry Melcher

explored the
possibility of a deal.

And local label Lizard came
forward with a formal offer.

However, Russ Titleman,

a singer/songwriter who
had befriended Lowell

at Ravi Shankar's Kinnara School

suggested that they
approach Warner Bros.,

where label chiefs Mo
Otin and Lenny Waronker

had gained a reputation
for running a risk-taking,

artist-friendly business.

- They had these
great songs that were

a little off-center.

So Warner Bros. was the
perfect place for them.

I had been going
and listening and

hearing how great the
songs were and, you know,

how great the whole vibe was,

and so I said, "Look, you
know, you don't want to sign to

"Lizard Records.

"Why don't we go over to
Lenny Waronker's office

"at Warner Bros. and, you
know, play a couple of songs,

"see what happens?"

So we did.

Me and Lowell and
Billy went over there.

And they played "Willin'" and
they played "Truck Stop Girl"

and one or two other songs.

And Lenny looked
at me and he said,

"That's great, go upstairs
and make a deal with Mo."

- [Narrator] The
Warner's deal came with

Russ Titleman attached as
Little Feat's producer.

And in August 1970, sessions
commenced for the band's

eponymous debut
album, to be released

with the Lowell
George/Roy Estrada track,

"Hamburger Midnight"
as lead single.

- I mean, they were
such a good band,

it was easy to
record the tracks.

You didn't have to struggle.

Lowell was the leader.

You know, he was so
excellent in the studio.

He knew what he wanted,
he knew how to get it,

he knew, certainly one of
the great players, you know?

But Billy, you know, Billy
was kind of the rock.

He had the key, you know.

He had the,

the magic combination, you know,

with all that crazy time
stuff and great playing,

and there was a lot of
that desire to capture

what was great
about the live band.

You know, "Hamburger
Midnight" is kind of wild and,

you know, like all the
harmonies were live.

We just did it.

And then it was kind of
my idea to add strings on

"Brides of Jesus" and put
the piccolo trumpet on the

"Crazy Captain Gunboat Willie".

That was kind of The
Beatle part of it,

trying to orchestrate
things and make it...

By that time, the
band had come out.

And I was so blown
away by that record.

I mean, I still think
that those two records are

two of the greatest
records ever made.

I kind of wanted it be kind
of like a band record, only,

you know, it wasn't
really like a band record,

but it was kind of
like a band record.

It had that energy,
first of all,

it had that energy for sure.

Some of the things that are
on there were, are demos.

"Truck Stop Girl" was a demo,

"Willin'" was our demo.

- The debut album, is you
might say, it's kind of less

funky, less syncopated,

it's less black,

it's more Stones-y,
more bandish, I think.

You know, it's of a piece with
a lot of musics being made

in that time, which is it's,
there's a lot of white artists,

a lot of white bands
who want to be black,

and Lowell, you know, like
Dr. John, like Mike Jagger,

like so many, really was,
I think he was very black.

There was something very,

very hip and black
about Lowell George,

and that's already apparent
on that first record, I think.

- Affluency in the blues,
from a white person,

that I had experienced
very rarely,

with no pretense,

naturally, clothing
a white musician,

a deep understanding
of the black experience

and point of view.

I'd seen it with Mose Allison,

and I saw it in Lowell George.

I saw it in Ry Cooder.

- [Narrator] And this
impulse surfaced on the album

in the form of a six
and a half minute

Howlin' Wolf medley, in
which Lowell showcased

the full range of
his blues vocals.

- That vocal is so, I mean,
Lowell at his best, you know?

And we want it
sound old, you know?

So like we had the slap on the
mic, which was in the room.

You know, that's how
those old records,

you know, all Ray Charles'
records, all those old records

sounded like that because
of that, they're all live.

♪ I wore my .44 so long

♪ Lord it made my shoulder sore

♪ I wore my .44 so long

♪ Lord it made my shoulder sore

- Lowell could do a
great Wolf impression,

which he did from time to time.

The end fade out of "Cold,
Cold, Cold", the harmonica part,

it's right out of Wolf.

I mean,

it's the stuff that
we grew up loving,

that he would insinuate into
some of those early records,

and I think that his wanting
to do that medley was just,

it was a natural.

It was the music that
really turned us on.

This music was important to him.

It was important to
everybody around him.

That was consistent
with who he was,

that this was a big
part of his life,

the blues was an important
part of his life.

- And he had cut his hand

that day, I think.

Came in all wrapped up.

Played anyway.

- [Narrator] The
Howlin' Wolf medley

was also notable for an
appearance by Ry Cooder

on slide guitar.

Lowell had injured his hand,

while building a model airplane.

But feeling competitive
in the company of Cooder,

he insisted on playing.

The accident and the
subsequent session

proved to be a key event
in the development of

Lowell's trademark
slide guitar style.

- Lowell loved model airplanes,

and he built them,
and beautifully.

As a matter of fact, it
was his left hand for,

when the propeller fell off the,

the clamp for the
model airplane,

Lowell put up his left
hand to protect his face,

because it flew into his,

flew into him, and in doing
so, he injured his hand.

So this

became the mitigating reason

that he put so much
devotion into just

bottleneck guitar.

And he, like Ry
Cooder before him,

became an exponent
of slide guitar.

- Certainly to this day,

Lowell is known as
this slide genius,

which I think he was,
in many respects,

'cause he really invented a
sound that he wouldn't have had

without the misfortune of that

little model airplane accident.

This is his, that he gave to
Elliot and I absconded with it.

This is one of Lowell's slides.

It's an 11/16th Craftsman
spark plug socket wrench.

And you can, the
grooves are in there,

to go in the spark
plug to pull it out.

It's a spark plug puller.

And the whole idea was,

when you lost it, you
go into a Sears Roebuck

and you could get another one.

So, Craftsman was the
brand name, the Sears name,

and so he was
playing with these.

Very heavy, too, 'cause
I play a lot of slide.

It's very heavy, so it
required a higher action

on the guitar, so it
wouldn't hit the wood.

So his action was
set up kind of high

with heavier, medium
gauge strings,

or medium-heavy, I'm not sure.

But just the sheer
weight of this thing

caused it to create a
good, sustained sound.

And,

he was, it almost seemed
like he was fully formed

as a slide guitar player.

- I don't use bottle neck.

A bottleneck is, you
know, this, whew,

cut that off, and you have
to find a very specific

kind of bottle.

♪ I said blow away, blow away

♪ This cruel reality

♪ And keep me from its storm

♪ Suspicion has crept in

♪ And ruined my life

♪ I'm messed up, and
hassled, and worn

♪ Yes and my sweet China White

♪ She ain't here tonight

♪ Whoa and cocaine, yow

♪ Has robbed me blind

- [Interviewer]
Is that difficult?

[interviewer speaking
foreign language]

- This is a simple piece.

Two notes, bass notes, yeah?

[bass note ringing]

And top note.

[top note ringing]

- Lowell's whole thing was to
just hit a note and hold it.

So in order to hold that
note and have it sustained,

you had to have some sort of a,

a piece of outboard equipment
and make that happens to,

[imitates slide guitar notes]

and that's what Lowell really
brought to the table that,

as far as I know, nobody
else had done before him.

I might be wrong on that,

but it's the first
time I was aware of it.

- [Interviewer] Can you,
can you show some more

different thing,
difficult thing?

- Now, Ry plays, Cooder plays--

[slide guitar music]

- Part of what Lowell did
with that sound, to get it,

was this very
heavily-compressed audio signal

through hardware compressors,
just crankin' 'em

to where the signal
is equalized,

the loudest signal
and the softest signal

are the same volume.

And it creates this
very even, sustained,

and it's very much a
signature of his sound.

You heard him on the
song "Roll Um Easy".

These notes just last forever,

and that's part of the function

of what this compression does.

- I mean, people don't
point out that he,

unlike any other
slide guitar player,

tunes his guitar up a step,

rather than down a step.

Okay, tuned it up to an A,

rather than down to whatever.

It's kind of dangerous, you
expect the strings to break

and poked you in the eye, but,

that's why he's a step
higher than any other

slide guitarist, and
he has a unique sound.

I mean, he doesn't
sound like anybody else.

- [Narrator] Together
with an advancing

technical virtuosity, Lowell
was coming into his own

as a songwriter.

Alongside his co-writes
with Bill Payne,

the album featured
several George originals,

most significantly, the
first version of "Willin'",

a song that fast
became a standard

in American roots rock, and
a Little Feat signature.

- "Willin'" showed
up on that record.

That was the first of the
two times they recorded it

in the studio, and that
was a classic road song.

That became the calling
card for the band

and for Lowell in particular,

because it was
covered so frequently.

That was the message to
the critics at least,

because nobody else
heard it, that,

"Oh, this was a
serious songwriter,

"and a writer/artist
fronting this band."

♪ Out on the road late at night

♪ Seen my pretty Alice
in every head light

♪ Alice

♪ Dallas Alice

♪ And I've been from
Tucson to Tucumcari

♪ Tehachapi to Tonapah

♪ Driven every kind of
rig that's ever been made

♪ Driven the back roads
so I wouldn't get weighed

♪ And if you give me

♪ Weed

♪ Whites

♪ And wine

- That kind of proto-Americana
in the original version

of "Willin'", "Brides of Jesus",

you know, the
writing is very good,

the lyrics are
interesting and vivid

and quite eccentric, I think.

So, it's very much

setting out Lowell's
store, I think.

It's not as if you listen to
that first record and think,

"Well, you know, that was
an interesting first effort

"but then, you know", I think
it's all there, if you like,

the groundwork is
there on that record.

- [Narrator] However, on its
release in January, 1971,

Little Feat's debut was
almost universally ignored.

Despite piquing the interest
of some in the rock press,

sales were abysmal, and Lowell,

unhappy with the record's sound,

took issue with Russ
Titleman's production.

- You know, the project started
out positive and grand and,

you know, very egalitarian
and very friendly.

And then, you know, to wind
up like, to wind up like that.

[chuckles]

But you know, the record,
it's a great record.

You know?

I sort of felt, I argued for it.

I said, "Look,
this is what it is,

"this is what this record is.

"And, you know, if we're going
to cut a bunch more stuff,

"we've already spent
all this money,

"they're gonna get
mad at us, you know?"

I was wrong about that, but
I didn't know it at the time.

But, I loved the
record as it was.

And Lowell didn't.

I'm sure he loved part of it,

but he wanted it to
be more sophisticated.

We got in huge fights.

So our relationship broke down.

- Little Feat never made life
very easy for themselves,

you know?

They didn't write hit singles.

You know, Lowell was damned
if he was going to do anything

overtly commercial, and
therefore, you know,

what was this record?

It's one thing to be
The Rolling Stones,

making an album
like Sticky Fingers,

but that has, you know,
"Brown Sugar" on it.

Little Feat has the same
kind of mixture and blend

of influences and genres, but,

it doesn't have a
hit single on it.

And I think, people
probably just didn't know,

you know, what
pigeonhole to put it in.

You know, DJs didn't know
really where to place it.

And maybe Warner Bros.
didn't get behind it

in the way they could have done.

- [Narrator] Warner
Bros.' primary reflex

was to consider dropping
Little Feat altogether.

The band were handed
a timely lifeline

by songwriter and
composer, Van Dyke Parks,

with whom Lowell had developed
a close, personal friendship.

Parks had an A and
R role at Warner's,

and advocated fiercely
for the group.

He collaborated with
Lowell on a new song,

"Sailin' Shoes", which
was to be included

on his forthcoming
album, Discover America.

The label had been keen
on "Sailin' Shoes",

and Parks used it in leverage
in improving their attitude

towards Little Feat.

- About the time that Lowell
had finished his first record,

which left Warner Bros.
with a vacant stare,

they had no idea
what to do with it,

and Lowell was
abandoned basically.

And he was between
projects, as it were.

I'd warmed to him,
he was so bright,

he came over to my house,
he'd fix Chinese food.

He was quick to tell me that
he'd won a brown belt in judo.

I was aware of his physical
prowess, and his intellect.

Kant,

or Nietzsche, great
philosophers, Socrates,

all these dead white guys spoke
to him with their theories

about how to live

a life that was
instructed by principle.

Both of us were
left of Karl Marx,

and we were members
of the same team

within a trojan horse,

and we were determined to
enter the music business,

and transform it and
bring it good intent.

I loved Lowell like a brother.

So, I decided finally to
jump camp, as it were.

He tested my loyalty and,

I stopped hiring Ry Cooder
on dates I had produced,

and I hired Lowell George
as a slide guitarist.

You could hear him on "FDR in
Trinidad" in my second album.

I was

recording that album
when a Japanese group

came into the studio at
Sunset Sound, unannounced,

and said they wanted
me to produce their,

the California sound, which
had now migrated to Japan.

I left the control
room for a moment,

while those Japanese
people stood there,

there must have been eight,

I think three or four in
addition to the group.

I told them I didn't
have time for them.

And when I came back
into the control room,

Lowell was standing
there with his hand

around an open attache case,

and the attache case was
filled with $100 bills.

And Lowell was smiling at
me, broadly, and he said,

"I think we can make
music out of this."

So, I gladly surrendered
that opportunity to Lowell.

We did one song together,

wrote one song called
"Sayonara America".

Fair to say it was a
great pleasure to us

because it became the
number one hit in Tokyo.

♪ Sayonara America

♪ Sayonara Nippon

♪ Sayonara America

♪ Sayonara Nippon

♪ Ya ya ya ya

♪ Ya ya ya ya

- I got 'em another record.

I did that.

I coerced Warner Bros.

I know I did that.

I coerced them.

I withheld "Sailin' Shoes".

- [Narrator] Warner's comfort
level was further raised

by the reappearance of
former Factory bassist,

Martin Kibbee, who
returned to LA from Europe

with a new song, "Easy to Slip",

and began a writing
partnership with Lowell.

Taken together, "Sailin'
Shoes" and "Easy to Slip"

persuaded the label
that there might yet

be some commercial
potential in Little Feat,

and they agreed to
finance a new album.

- They were on the verge of
being dropped by Warner Bros.,

but I had "Easy to Slip"
and they liked that one.

I started working with 'em
based on that, I should say.

It was a song that
I'd written because

I broke up with my first wife.

And he liked it,
and so did they.

I mean, it wasn't like,
there was no plan.

It was written for
personal reasons, not

based on any
commercial calculation.

♪ Well my whole world
seems so cold today

♪ All the magic's gone away

♪ And our time
together melts away

♪ Like the sad melody I play

- You listen to "Easy
to Slip", and tell me

that's not the sound
of America in 1972.

Listen to anything from Pogo.

Listen to The
Eagles' first album.

"Easy to Slip" would fit
perfectly on the debut album

by The Eagles.

"Easy to Slip" would
fit perfectly on

any of the first two or three
albums by Jackson Browne,

who was a contemporary
of Lowell George

in the LA music scene.

♪ It's so easy to slip

♪ It's so easy to fall

♪ And let your memory drift

♪ And do nothin' at all

- "Easy to Slip",
right in your face,

is something that's got
some kind of Californian

radio punch to it.

It could almost
have been a kind of

Crosby, Stills, Nash
and Young track, so,

I think there's a
clear attempt to

create something that's got
some sort of Top 40 potential,

in a way that obviously
the first album didn't.

- We would go to a coffee
house at 10 in the morning,

you know, drink 10 espressos
and write songs all day.

Morning, noon and night,

that was all we were up to.

And we would come up with
an idea, a lyrical idea,

you know, what the
song was about.

He would go away and work on it,

and he would come back
with it worked out

with having written it.

And, it was written.

If there was a guitar solo,
he would play that solo,

take, you know, "Rock and
Roll Doctor" for example,

that's written.

He'd play that note for note
every time he played it.

And that's why it holds up,
that's why it's memorable,

he thought it through.

It wasn't an improvisation.

He didn't like
improvised bullshit,

but he was not
overwhelmingly prolific.

It was tough for him.

- [Narrator] Little Feat's
sophomore album, Sailin' Shoes,

released in May, 1972,
exhibited a fuller sound

and sharper identity
than it's predecessor.

Aided by the clear
development in songwriting,

the sure touch of Warner
staff producer Ted Templeman,

and iconic cover art from
illustrator Neon Park,

the record met with
unanimous critical praise.

Though sales remained
disappointing,

the band were beginning
to attract a fan base,

and their appeal reached beyond
America for the first time

with Sailin' Shoes gaining
particular traction in the UK.

- I was delighted
to hear that record.

As soon as I put the
needle on side one

and heard "Easy to
Slip", I thought,

"Okay, this is it.

"This band, this is my band."

The rest of the album showed
that Lowell wasn't the only

capable songwriter.

Bill Payne was also
beginning to show his chops

and Payne and Hayward did
one of their signature songs

in "Tripe Face Boogie".

The album set up I think the,

the basic parameters

in terms of songwriting
of what they would be

from that point onward.

♪ Lady in a turban

♪ In a cocaine tree

♪ Does a dance so rhythmically

♪ She's cryin', and a singin'

♪ And having a time

♪ And gee that
cocaine tree look fine

♪ You've got to put
on your sailin' shoes

♪ Put on your sailin' shoes

♪ Everyone will start to cheer

♪ When you put on
your sailin' shoes

- Some songs Lowell George
is at his absolute best

when it's really low key.

I mean, I love
bad Lowell George,

I love the sort of almost
acoustic Lowell George.

I just thought the acoustic
slide solo on "Sailin' Shoes"

I think is one of
the greatest moments

in the kind of Little Feat
ever did, I really do.

- The Neon Park
cover, that was the,

that was the first instance,
a visual instance of

what would be the,

I think the term that they
used was cartoon consciousness.

The idea that you could
create a fantasia within

the three or four
minute rock song,

that you could take it anywhere.

Artistically ambitious
without being

in the least bit pretentious.

- [Narrator] Sailin' Shoes
proved to be the last album

from the original
incarnation of Little Feat.

Roy Estrada, feeling that
there were better gigs

to be found elsewhere,
jumped ship to join

Captain Beefheart's Magic Band,

before the record had
even been released.

The loss of Estrada
presented an opportunity

to reconfigure the band, and
take Little Feat's exploration

of roots music further south.

Together with local musician
Paul Barrere on second guitar,

Feat recruited
bassist Kenny Gradney

and percussionist Sam Clayton
from southern soul ensemble

Delaney and Bonnie.

The expanded lineup brought a
greater range to their sound,

and introduced a new set
of musical influences

into their repertoire.

- They were missing,
live, some pieces,

'cause they couldn't pull
it off as a four piece,

not the way I think he heard,

or the way maybe they heard
what these songs could be,

and so it was a logical
outgrowth to add,

add another musician or two,

just to try to get some
sense of what it sounded like

on record, live.

They, I mean, the power was

just breathtaking, when
you heard that big band,

'cause there was so much
coming off of the stage.

- It became biracial,
for one thing.

And that element of blackness
that had been hinted at

and certain of their earlier
songs on the first two records

really became pronounced
from that point on.

- The fact that, you know,
two fifths of Little Feat

were African American,

I don't think it was significant

to any of us at the
time, but looking back,

I think it was
hugely significant.

I think Little Feat was
way ahead of its time

as an integrated,
multicultural, multiracial band,

and I just don't think we
realized the significance

until years later.

- [Narrator] With the
band reconstituted,

Lowell sought to
exercise greater control

of the Little Feat
sound and direction.

When work on a new album,

Dixie Chicken
commenced in late 1972,

it was with Lowell producing

and in sole charge
of the sessions.

Keen to encourage greater
freedom and experimentation

than Warner appointed
producers had allowed,

he invited a host of other
musicians to participate,

including Bonnie
Bramlett, Bonnie Raitt,

and Danny Hutton on vocals,

and future full-time Feat's
member Fred Tackett on guitar,

Lowell's artistic vision
dominated Dixie Chicken.

Seven of the album's
10 songs listed George

in the writing credits, while
the band's musical dexterity

finally proved able
to match his ambition.

- With Dixie Chicken,

we had finally
discovered our sound,

after like a 10
year voyage that,

as far as I was concerned,

this is what Little
Feat's sound should be.

- There was this
cartoon consciousness,

this almost
intentional gauchery.

Lowell called it droite gauche.

His ability to go places
that were just taboo,

and he continued that in
his songwriting signature,

"Fat Man In The
Bathtub", "Willin'",

"I've been from
Tucson to Tucumcari,
Tehachapi to Tonapah",

he fell in love with
alliteration, with
word play, with,

with powers of deception
in songwriting.

Later on, we wrote the
song "Cheek to Cheek",

which became a stammer
to "Chiquitita".

I would say that Lowell was a
more powerful influence than

the musicians around him that
had expected he would be.

He was a benevolent dictator,
but he was a dictator.

♪ My sweet chiquita,
what are you up to

♪ My Juanita

♪ Put my money in
your meter baby so it

♪ won't run down

♪ But you caught me
in the squeeze play

♪ On the cheesy side of town

♪ Throw me a dime,
throw me a line

♪ 'Cause there's a
fat man in the bathtub

♪ With the blues

- Little Feat's sound changes
dramatically and radically

with the third record,
with Dixie Chicken.

That's obvious from the word go.

You didn't hear like, congas
on the previous two records,

I don't think, so straight
away, you're into something

that's just blacker and
funkier and more street,

and,

the New Orleans influence
is very much more

to the fore, you
know, to the rhythms,

the sort of second line grooves.

It's Lowell really getting
into funk and R and B

in a way that he hadn't
quite had the tools

to make that happen before.

♪ I've seen the bright
lights of Memphis

♪ And the Commodore Hotel

♪ And underneath a street lamp

♪ I met a southern belle

♪ Oh she took me to the river

♪ Where she cast her spell

♪ And in that southern moonlight

♪ She sang this song so well

♪ If you'll be my Dixie Chicken

♪ I'll be your Tennessee Lamb

♪ And we can walk
together down in Dixieland

- Not only did Little Feat
become black as well as white,

but it became female
as well as male.

In a very real way, I
think that was part of

Lowell's inclusivity.

There's some sort of
male/female connection

that's really at the
essence of his music.

It's deeply romantic
without ever

feeling in the least
bit sentimental.

- [Narrator] One of the most
prominent characteristics

of Dixie Chicken was
the band's assimilation

of the New Orleans sound.

New Orleans had a unique
musical tradition,

one that had begun to
make a pronounced impact

on rock and roll
since the release

of Dr. John's Gumbo in 1972.

A virtuoso pianist
and Louisiana native,

Dr. John had started out as
a session musician in LA,

before launching a
career as a solo artist.

Though he remained
relatively obscure, Gumbo,

a collection of classic
songs from New Orleans,

had proved to be
hugely influential

and a number of
high profile artists

had developed an interest in
the city's musical heritage.

Dixie Chicken included
a cover of legendary

New Orleans composer Allen
Toussaint's "On Your Way Down".

And a strain of
Louisiana R and B

ran throughout the album.

Gradney and Clayton
in particular

had brought an innate scent

of the region's distinctive
rhythms to Little Feat,

and that quality became
a persistent feature

of the group's sound.

- The New Orleans
R and B sound is

really a mixture of the kind
of R and B you might hear

anywhere else in America,
including, you know,

Memphis and Chicago.

And something that's just more
unique to the place itself,

which comes from the kinds of
rhythms that you would hear

at Mardi Gras, the marching
bands who would play

in a kind of

very syncopated
second line star,

as it was known.

And it's difficult really
to define what that is,

only to say that the kind
of accents and the rhythm

is slightly off, it's closer
to something almost Caribbean,

one might almost say Brazilian.

It's a kind of rhythm that
sort of repeats on itself,

and you hear that obviously
in the great New Orleans

records of, you know,
Professor Longhair.

But you also hear it
in the soul singles,

that Allen Toussaint was
producing in the 60s.

It's a very distinctive kind
of almost jerky sort of rhythm,

which you then
hear in, you know,

you hear it in "Dixie Chicken",

you hear it in "Fat
Man In The Bathtub".

- Not just, you
know, American black,

but a lot of Caribbean.

You know, and then you
have the French, I mean,

New Orleans music is a
wonderful melting pot.

The music, it's
why it's so unique,

it's got all these
different styles in it.

And Lowell was very
influenced by that,

by Allen Toussaint,

and so when he got that,

he got a little bit
more of what he heard

and what he wanted, so the band
rocked more in its own way.

- They just took it all in.

It just became yet another
part of who they were.

So, okay, there's blues,
there's New Orleans,

there's the singer/song,
there's the country thing,

there's all this stuff
at play at the same time.

And maybe that's part of the
reason it was confusing for

the average record
buyer who wants,

"I want a rock and roll record."

Well you're not gonna
get it from Little Feat.

You're gonna get all this stuff.

- They were growing
with each record.

And there's a danger in that.

Every record artist faces
a dilemma of success.

Suppose a record
becomes a success.

Well, the promotion men
would want the next record

to sound exactly like it,

so that it would be
easy to merchandise.

Well, Lowell, kind of like
my friend Harry Nelson

found that unacceptable.

And he created
his own game plan,

and they would have to adjust.

And you see this
foment throughout
Lowell's short career.

- [Narrator] Although Dixie
Chicken was Little Feat's

most ambitious and
mature album yet,

it failed to make any impression

on the record buying public.

Lowell became
increasingly despondent

of what he considered to
be no less than sabotage

on the part of Warner Bros.,

complaining that the
label failed to engage

sufficient promotion,
and were unprepared

to rouse themselves in
support of the band.

- When he to record stores,

the record was
not in the stores.

So,

you know, I'm not saying

we were so great they fouled
us up or something but,

somehow, I don't think
Warner Bros. really

took advantage of what they
had there with that group, no.

- Lowell was like a
desperado, waiting by a train.

He'd do anything
to get attention,

and so he put on a chicken suit,

and he went around
every [chuckles]

every radio manager
that he could find.

It kind of represented
a laughable matter,

absurd theater, and yet, in
every comedy of that sort,

there's something
fundamentally tragic.

He would do anything
to promote the group,

and you see through this
fabric that Lowell created.

As the group advanced
from album to album,

Lowell became more and more

Little Feat incorporated.

He became more and more obsessed
with everyone else's needs.

He was tremendously concerned
with the people around him,

and I know it sounds
vulgar to say it,

but he was
economically-driven, but not

in self-interest.

- This, you know, this stuff
doesn't drop out of the sky.

You have to have a game plan,

and then the member
of the band have to be

willing to execute the plan.

And, one of the things that
Little Feat was suffering from

as Bill Payne and Paul
Barrere complain about

in interviews that
I've done with them

is that there wasn't a plan.

It was kind of

anarchy.

- [Narrator] The subsequent
tour was no less disappointing,

with Warner's again failing
to stimulate the attention

of music fans.

After wrapping up his road
commitments with Little Feat,

Lowell spent much
of the next year

deploying his talent in the
service of other artists,

including producing a
forthcoming Bonnie Raitt album,

and traveling to New Orleans
where he played guitar

on both Robert Palmer's debut,

and a Meters record
overseen by Allen Toussaint.

A restless musical spirit,

collaborating and assisting
on a variety of projects

became an increasing feature
of Lowell's activity,

but it came with a cost.

Although he evolved
into an influential

and important part of the
wider music community,

the extensive
workload took a toll

on both his health and his
productivity as a songwriter.

- One of his gifts
was the ability to,

to pull inspired performances
out of the people

he worked with, and that
was true of Little Feat

and it was true of him
in the studio as well.

- He was producing the
third, Bonnie's third record,

Takin' My Time, and he
came up to me and he said,

"Freebo, space is a place."

I'll never forget it.

Basically what he was
trying to tell me to do was

don't play so damn
much, you know?

Play less.

Space is a place.

The older I get, the
more I realize the wisdom

of those words.

But you could hear it
in his music back then,

and you could always
hear it in his writing.

Like for instance,
he has a song called

"Rock and Roll Doctor",
and there's a line in it,

♪ Two degrees in
be-bop, a PHD in swing

♪ He's the master of rhythm,
he's a rock and roll king

[imitating rhythm]

I mean, all that space
from one vocal line

through another vocal line.

- Linda Ronstadt, for
example, and Bonnie Raitt,

they learned everything
they could from Lowell about

the way to approach
Melisma, Anacrusis,

musical identity,

deliver the blues.

Lowell was a great
vocal instructor,

and a lot of people
learned from him.

And he influenced a
lot of people with,

with his trans-racial

effortlessness.

Basically, his study of
failure, the dispossessed.

- You know, I felt he ought
to spend more time writin',

and I don't think
he found it fun,

and I think he
found it hard work.

It was a lot easier
for him to show up in

somebody else's session,

Jackson or Bonnie or whatever,

he would have fun, he'd show
up, he'd play great guitar.

You know, he seemed
to be so busy,

he didn't have time to write.

And that bothered me.

I kept trying to corner
him, and it was tough.

- [Narrator] However,
fresh ideas for Little Feat

remained on Lowell's agenda.

A new song, "Spanish
Moon", had been worked up

during band rehearsals in '73.

Van Dyke Parks produced
a recording of the track

with the intention that
it would be the precursor

to a full Parks-produced
Feat's album.

Warner's, however, refused
to sanction such a proposal,

fearing that any
Parks/George collaboration

would quickly exceed its budget.

After a fierce argument,
the label got their way.

♪ It froze on the ground

♪ Down the street I heard
such a sorrowful tune

♪ Comin' from the place
they call the Spanish Moon

- "Spanish Moon".

Strangely, autobiographic.

Most powerfully, autobiographic.

And kind of like
Toussaint's elegy,

"Yes we can, I know we
can, I think we can",

it just sits there

on a fundamental

hypnotica,

describing a great event,
a ballad as it were.

It's not Marty Robbins,
it's not Johnny Cash,

it's not Emerson or Thoreau,

it's not Robert Service,
but it tells the tale,

it talks Lowell's walk.

It reveals the man.

And I enjoyed very
much producing that

session for Lowell.

- [Narrator] Though
"Spanish Moon"

remained an isolated recording,

the opportunity to produce
a full Little Feat album

appeared in the form
of a cut-rate deal

on a small studio, in Baltimore.

Relationships within the
band had become strained

over the preceding year,

and relocating to Blue
Seas Studio in Maryland

offered the chance
to rebuild a way

from the pressures
and temptations of LA.

A further attraction for Lowell

was the studio came
with a young engineer,

George Massenburg, whom
he had recently met

during his session work
and guest appearances.

With a mutual interest
in studio technology,

Lowell had built a
rapport with Massenburg,

and gradually became
persuaded that the way forward

was to leave California
and decamp to Baltimore.

- It came hard for
him to leave town.

He wanted so much, and it was
under advice from his lovely

manager, Bob Cavalo,
that he leave town,

that he went to Maryland
to find a country redoubt,

to get out of the swill
of Hollywood for a while.

And,

get another perspective.

- He was the coolest
guy that I had met

up to that point in my life,

and I met a lot of people,

but he was by far the
coolest guy ever, you know?

You pretty much got
an answer just by,

you know, a gesture or...

And he had great stories.

He had stories about everybody.

He loved to fish, he had
stories about fishing.

And,

he was just beginning

to experience this wave of

popularity that came
from doing Sailin' Shoes,

then Dixie Chicken.

Dixie Chicken, you know,
took off in Great Britain

in like a wildfire.

But nobody knew much
about it in the States,

except for this little area
where these guys played

in Baltimore, Washington,
where they were

a really important musical act.

You know, they would book Lisner

and the Warner Theatre and,

people would just go
nuts for Little Feat.

- [Narrator] Working
with Massenburg,

Lowell spent ever more
time at the studio,

looking to enhance his ability
as a technical producer,

and searching for ways
to develop and extend

the Little Feat sound.

- He got really into
recording techniques,

and where to put a microphone,

what kind of microphone to use

and what kind of limiter,

and he was big into
experimenting things,

and I think George Massenburg,

I think, I know was a
huge influence on him

because of George's, you know,

vast knowledge of things
that most of us mortals

have no concept of.

George is, that's what he does.

Seeing the studio as an
extension of his guitar playing

and his singing was
logical for him, I think.

It was, it was
part of who he was.

For a lot of people, the
studio was very off-putting.

It was intimidating.

And I think there was
a comfort level for him

in the studio that not
a lot of people was.

Matter of fact, I think
it was very comfortable,

maybe more comfortable in
the studio than out of it.

- And the ears he
worked with were,

were quite good.

But, mostly,

there was

a limitation to what he,
how he could turn his dream

into a sound, how he could
realize this sound in his head,

and that's, that's
what it's all about.

It's, we hear this sound,
and we're just trying to,

trying to hear in real life
what we hear in our heads.

And that was Lowell.

It was Lowell musically,
and it was Lowell sonically.

It was the beginnings
of what we called

hot pressing, hot
pressing the tape,

where he'd play guitar and
we'd take it with a direct,

it would sound very thin
and weaselly and he'd say,

"Oh, okay."

You know, always the cool, cool,

cool cigarette,
rip the filter off,

tap tap tap, you know,

little mountain of

you know what, and...

"Turn it up."

But he really wanted
explanations of everything.

He really was able to follow
technical explanations,

and to question,
"Why do you do this?"

We would break through
on misuse of technology.

We'd mic rooms.

We'd mic guitar cabinets
in funny places.

I mean,

it became fashionable to do
all of these things later,

but years later.

And Lowell drove
that by just pushing

wherever he saw weakness,

wherever he saw, in sincerity,

or confusion,

or,

a lack of one's ability
to explain something,

simply and clearly.

He would go for the throat.

He'd rip you apart, in
the coolest way ever,

with a minimum number of words.

- [Narrator] The
sessions at Blue Seas

for Feats Don't Fail Me Now

took place in an
atmosphere of hope.

Lowell traveled to Baltimore
with his partner Liz

and their children.

Heavily pregnant with
their daughter, Inara,

Liz made a home in a rented
house near the studio,

while Lowell once again
assumed production duties

and the responsibility
for marshaling the band.

In contrast to Dixie
Chicken, however,

far more space was afforded
to the other Feats,

as the group embarked

on their most collaborative
effort to date.

- Lowell had his kids
there, Liz and kids there,

so Lowell would have
to do things with kids,

and it left the rest of us
some time to play around.

But it was loose.

What was the atmosphere in
the studio at Blue Seas?

It was relaxed.

The guys felt like
they could try things.

- They

collaborated, I
think, more than,

than ever before, or after.

It, the album feels

really taut in terms
of its intention

and its execution.

- Did Lowell drive
the production?

Yes, he did.

But I think he established

a line in quality control

where the performances
had to be,

and the word is authentic.

He would experiment
with something

until it really, really,
really felt right,

and the business had
no patience for that.

The band barely had
patience for it.

♪ Semi-smokin mama

♪ You got to give me some

♪ I heard you got the biggest,
the biggest truck in town

♪ Right on through to Baltimore
you got to love me now

♪ Got to do me gently, well
it's feets don't fail me now

♪ Feets don't fail me now

- It sounds like a
greatest hits album,

starting with "Rock and
Roll Doctor" which is

a quintessential Lowell
rock and roll song,

and then "Oh Atlanta"
which is as close to a hit

as they got, and Bill
Payne wrote that.

It was just a band
hitting on all cylinders.

And I think, feeling
really good about itself.

If there was ever a moment when

the band in the
studio really cohered,

I think it was Feats
Don't Fail Me Now.

- "Rock and Roll
Doctor", I think,

was so extraordinary, you know?

I don't think anyone
had ever heard anything

quite like "Rock and
Roll Doctor" before.

I'm not sure that anyone's
ever done anything

quite like "Rock and
Roll Doctor" since.

I think it's one of the
sort of 10 funkiest pieces

in music ever recorded.

♪ Now things got worse,
yes a serious bind

♪ At times like this it
takes a man with a style

♪ Like you cannot often find

♪ A doctor of the heart
and a doctor of the mind

♪ If you like country
with a boogie beat

♪ He's the man to meet

♪ Oh yeah

♪ If you like the
sound of shufflin' feet

♪ He can't be beat

♪ If you wanna feel real nice

♪ Just ask the rock and
roll doctor's advice

- I mean I know that in
Europe, certainly in England,

Little Feat suddenly were the
band to talk about, you know?

They were the band on
everybody's lips, including,

you know, Jimmy Page's lips.

Everybody was saying
that the Little Feat

were their favorite band.

- [Narrator] Feats
Don't Fail Me Now

proved to be the band's
breakthrough album.

It made the US Top 40,
and brought Little Feat

the commercial success
that had eluded

all their previous work.

Warner Bros. finally put
a push behind the group,

organizing a three
week tour of Europe,

featuring Little Feat
on a bill that included

six of the label's acts,

headlined by the
Doobie Brothers.

The tour served to confirm
the Feat's soaring popularity.

They stole the shows,
with audiences demanding

extended encores and heckling
the arrival of the Doobies.

- Little Feat opened for
the Doobies at Wembley,

and came off stage and went in a

"Feat, Feat, Feat" chant.

About 40 or 50,000 people,
"Feat, Feat, Feat".

And Pat and the band came
out, the Doobies came out,

and starting playing,
"Feat, Feat",

and they just got louder.

And, oh they were
just as loud as

an audience can be.

And 25 minutes into
the Doobie's set,

they don't know what to do.

Pat or Michael,
came off stage and,

asked Bill, "What
did you guys do?

"What's going on here?"

And that record set that up.

- Their show at the
Rainbow Theatre in London

in January '75, which I
was lucky enough to be at

as a sort of snotty
little 15 year old.

You know, me and Elvis
Costello and everybody else,

you know, we were all there,

the entire sort of pop
rock fraternity of London

was queueing up to see Lowell.

You know, he was
just the cool guy

that we wanted to see.

Afterwards, we really
wanted Little Feat

just to come back on
and play more songs,

and we just didn't
want the Doobies

to come on at all.

The Doobies were good
in their way, but,

there was just something
greasier and dirtier

and funkier about Little Feat.

That really all
started to come through

with that record.

Little Feat are one of
those sort of, you know,

band's bands, you know?

They were one of those bands
that every other band emulated.

- [Narrator] But Lowell
was starting to show signs

of burnout.

As Little Feat looked to
build on the success of

Feats Don't Fail Me Now,

with a new studio album,

his songwriting and
general productivity

began to drop precipitously.

Bill Payne and Paul Barrere
became increasingly prominent,

picking up the slack and
contributing the lion's share

of the new material.

- I don't think he was,

his health was good
maybe at that point.

We don't need to
discuss the abuses.

The touring.

I think he was tired, you know?

I think that there was,

this was a non-stop world
that these guys were in and

he had been carrying,

largely, the songwriting
with collaboration,

but mostly his involvement
with somebody else

for something for, what
now, five, six years.

- You know, Lowell
is just starting to,

you know, kind of abuse

drugs and drink

in a way that perhaps had
been manageable before,

and was no longer manageable.

I think it was difficult
for the others.

I'm sure they were doing
their share of chemicals.

No one wasn't in that
era in Los Angeles but,

you know, Lowell was really
abusing these substances

in ways that I think

Billy isn't.

And,

they really started to diverge.

They started to look at
the music very differently.

You know, Billy wants
to do something more,

more ambitious, and he is
listening increasingly to

music by the likes of Weather
Report, you know, fusion.

They're having fights,
aggressive or passive
aggressive over

the fiefdom of Little Feat.

And I think Lowell starts,
you know, by all accounts to

just retreat a bit,
doesn't show up,

he's just not as present,
he's not as interested.

He's starting to think about
other things that he might do.

- [Narrator] Sessions
for The Last Record Album

were tense and laborious,

interrupted by injury
to Richie Hayward

in a motorcycle accident,

and marred by the growing
distance between Lowell

and his band mates.

When it was finally
released in November, '75,

most critics wrote it
up as a step backwards,

although the band's
constituency in the UK

remained enthusiastic.

Despite the tepid
reception, however,

The Last Record Album
shipped more units

than any of its predecessors.

- Lowell's habits in the studio
led to an agonizingly slow

unfolding of a production.

So on

"Down Below the Borderline",

where it's Sound
Factory West and

Lowell has his four track
tape recorder set up

in the other room, and he
would disappear into this room,

cutting tape.

Lowell was

not afraid of anything, and
a lot of the odd grooves

that he came up with came
up with his cutting tape,

where he couldn't get Richie
or Sam to play something,

he'd get them to play it
then he'd go cut tape,

and say, "No, no,
more like this."

So, that's a rather
slow process.

And he wasn't able
to share his vision,

where it was going
in his mind's ear,

just because he was
going on instinct.

You know, the band wasn't
very happy working like that.

I think Lowell was challenged by

the expectation of his coming up

with another Dixie Chicken.

He didn't know how to get there.

That wasn't really
something that he wrote.

He didn't sit down
to write that groove.

That's something that was
given him by the gods,

through Richie, in my opinion.

The guys may argue, or
this may be overstated but,

Lowell

couldn't hit, couldn't press
a button and get a groove,

couldn't hit a button
and get a feel.

He tried, you know, through
all of this technical,

his emerging mastery of
editing and studio technique.

It didn't tell a story

kind of all by itself.

♪ I've been down

♪ But not like this before

♪ Can't be 'round

♪ This kind of show no more

♪ All, all that you dream

♪ Yeah it comes to
shine in silver lining

♪ And clouds, clouds
change the scene

- It's not very strong.

There are moments on it, what,

"Mercenary Territory"
has some moments.

"Long Distance Love"
is on the record.

Lowell does have
some moments on it,

but you just, you don't feel
that he's present in the way

that he was in the
previous records.

♪ Hello, give me missing persons

♪ They said what
is it that you need

♪ I said oh, I need her so

♪ She said you've got
to stop your pleading

♪ 'Cause no matter what you do

♪ Even pray to heaven above

♪ All you'll ever
get from her is

♪ Long distance love

- "Long Distance Love"
is probably the thing

that he really worked
the hardest at.

Dialing in

the harmonies, his guitar,

and it's Valerie Carter
and that took days to get.

His vocal took days to get.

And it's an extraordinary track.

And we spent hours doing,
I did this with Billy,

we spent hours
doubling Kenny's bass

on a many mold an
octave down every

nuance in the bass part.

And getting that guitar sound,

getting that lead sound
that slow, slides out.

Lowell was very much into that.

But as far as coming up with
a new track, not so much.

- [Narrator] By the time of
Little Feat's next record,

Time Loves a Hero, the distance
between Lowell and his band

had become pronounced.

Having assumed
greater responsibility

for the group's output,
Payne and Barrere

were naturally
inclined to explore

their own musical interests,

whether or not they
corresponded to Lowell's tastes.

Payne in particular had recently
become heavily influenced

by the excursions of the
preeminent jazz fusion ensemble,

Weather Report.

Warner's had already
recalled Ted Templeman,

the producer of Sailin' Shoes,

to take charge of the recording.

And with Payne and
Barrere interested

in taking a more cerebral
jazz-inspired direction,

Lowell's presence on the
album was barely visible.

- I think the band got
out of his control.

And what he was hearing,

which maybe he
couldn't articulate,

wasn't what he liked.

But it was a business
at that point,

and a commitment, and this
is a band of brothers.

I mean, like it or not,

they loved each other
and hated each other

and everything in between.

The horse maybe got
away from him, you know?

- Will, when he wanted
something out of the band,

he was as authoritarian as,

as Frank.

And Frank was the
ultimate authoritarian.

And it, you know, when
you're in the studio

and when you're looking
at something small,

when you're growing
micro-aurals.

Van Dyke Parks called it,

"Masturbating tiny
baby squirrels."

Lowell would want it perfected.

And, you know, the guys,
particularly Billy,

wanted to feel it a
little different way.

And so there were huge fights
between Lowell and Billy.

The source of Lowell's

distrust of the band,

and in particular
Bill, is he didn't see

Bill's jazz direction
as being authentic.

But that thing is
Bill's journey.

And there were a lot of
places in Bill's journey,

musically, where he and
Lowell would meet up.

But that's Bill's direction.

See, the best groups
I've ever worked with

have extraordinary stress,

and the stress in the
group has a lot to do

with creative energy.

And groups explode, they
fall apart from this

tremendous tension.

But that's what makes music.

- Broadly, you can
say that Lowell's

tastes inclined
towards, you know,

funk and soul and,

you know, that kind of
blues-y slide guitar thing,

that earthiness that
we talked about.

And, Billy's increasingly,

was veering off in the direction
of something more complex,

definitely more influenced
by players like Joe Zawinul.

He was obviously a
key influence on him.

And yes, you start to hear that,

you start to hear it on
The Last Record Album,

and then increasingly,
Time Loves a Hero.

You hear these two elements,

which could have worked
quite harmoniously together,

but they didn't, primarily
because Lowell just

really didn't like it,
thought it was sort of wanky

and self-indulgent.

Billy, quite reasonably,
doesn't see why Little Feat

can't encompass
something that's more

experimental and jazz rockish.

It really culminates
around something like

"Day at the Dog Races",
but even before that,

on the cover "Day or
Night", or "The Fan",

there are sort of showcases
for Billy's talent.

And Lowell would increasingly
make a point of, you know,

walking off stage while
Billy did his thing.

And not in a very gracious way.

- When they toured behind that
record, they were incredible.

And that material
came to life on stage.

I remember seeing them at
Santa Monica Civic in '77.

Those excursion kind of
songs, the pain stuff,

with Lowell fully
committed to them on stage,

because he did, he
wasn't gone for good,

he did make his comeback and
you could see that on stage

very clearly, man,

they were just
impossible to resist.

- The deal was, as you know,
that he made with Lenny was

he would get a solo record,
Lowell would get a solo record,

if he would step back and let
Ted produce Time Loves a Hero,

and let the band come
up with material.

So Lowell was more interested,

I think more interested
in Thanks I'll Eat It Here

than he was in
Time Loves a Hero.

I mean, he showed up
to sessions, he played,

he took it on the road,

but he was waiting for
his solo record to do,

to redeem himself.

- [Narrator] Time Loves
a Hero split opinion,

with audiences quick to
discern the schism between

Lowell's classic Feat sound,

and the new direction
taken by Payne and Barrere.

However, fans stuck
with the band,

and many were enthusiastic
about the jazz fusion

and longer extensions.

Record sales remained buoyant,

and the subsequent tour
was a roaring success,

with two shows taped for
Waiting For Columbus,

an album that
gained a reputation

as one of rock music's
seminal live recordings.

But the specter of discord
still hung over the band.

Lowell devoted all his energy
to his debut solo album,

Thanks I'll Eat It Here,

as rumors circulated
that he would leave

Little Feat for good.

- Lowell was constantly
leaving the group.

Lowell was so beleaguered
by the burden of

leading the group, that he
desperately wanted a way out.

That's the nature of,

I think, a successful
collaboration,

is to find out that the person
in the room that you're with,

that you have the value of
dialogue with, is dead wrong.

And I think [chuckles]
more and more, Lowell knew

that he was right, it
was self-confirmational,

that's what plunged him
into doing a solo record.

- I think he finally had
achieved what he wanted

in the sense that
Warner Bros. gave him

everything that he asked
for to do this record.

He had Wally hide his
truck at his house.

He was happy.

You know, the idea
that he was depressed,

having problems artistically
is just totally wrong.

I mean, he had every
expectation of becoming,

I think, a big star.

- Well, he had made
a deal with Lenny

to make that record, Lenny
would pay for the record,

and Lowell started
recording it with,

sometimes with the guys, but
more often with other drummers,

Jim Keltner, who's
big on that record.

Dean Parks played guitar.

And he got to work with other
players, doing his thing,

but better in his mind,
better able to take direction.

Lowell didn't have
to listen to anybody.

He was doing it on his

own time, on his own schedule.

"Himmler's Ring" was,

was kind of a oopah, oompah
band, you know, his tuba and

Lowell was just going
out to the edges

of what he could imagine
to do with these tracks.

And I think he loved that.

♪ Himmler's Ring

♪ Ain't that ring
a wonderful thing

♪ Don't that skull
and crossbones shine

♪ Some day that ring's
gonna be all mine

♪ Himmler's Ring

♪ Don't that ring
make you want to sing

♪ Now ain't that
monogram so fine

♪ Some day that ring's
gonna be all mine

- I remember really
looking forward to it,

and then listening to it
a couple of times and then

not [chuckles]
listening to it anymore.

It didn't give me what
I wanted from him.

It just felt like whatever
that magical quality was,

that effervescence that had been

so defining an
element in his music.

It just wasn't there
to the same degree.

- Lowell had somewhat
lost touch with his,

you know, muse or
his musical animus.

And, I like elements
of that record.

But, you know, it's a bit
of a cop out, you know?

If someone as great and as
brilliant as Lowell George

is gonna make a solo album,

shouldn't it be a little
more daring and interesting,

and individual

than that?

You know, it's an album that
almost anyone could have made

in Los Angeles in the
last half of the 70s.

You know, anyone who loved
Allen Toussaint, and Ann Peebles

and hung out with Jimmy
Webb and Van Dyke Parks.

It's very much one of
those LA records where,

you know, lots of
pals are sitting in

and dropping by the studio
and adding backing vocals and,

you know, it has its moments.

I mean, "Twenty Million Things"

is one of the greatest ballads
that Lowell ever wrote.

I mean, it's absolutely
exquisite, beautiful,

and distinctive and if there'd
been a bit more of that

on the record, I would have,

it would have made
me very happy.

- [Narrator] Thanks I'll
Eat It Here finally surfaced

in March, 1979.

The reception was tepid,

with many feeling that a
stronger debut could be expected

from an artist of
Lowell's stature.

While noting that the
record only included

a few original
George compositions.

Little Feat had a
contractual obligation

to deliver a studio
album to Warner's

and session commenced in
April for Down On The Farm,

but speculation over the band's
future continued to mount,

with the press variously
reported that Lowell

had either quit, been fired,
or dismissed his band mates.

♪ But I got twenty
million things to do

♪ Twenty million things

- I was hearing the opposite.

I was hearing that he was
getting his shit back together

and the other guys were

encouraged by the

improvement that they
thought they saw.

- What one can say about
Down On The Farm is

Lowell didn't miss much, really.

I mean, this,

yeah, it sounds very tired and

afterthoughtish,
and unsatisfying.

You know, I never play it.

I don't think there's
any great moments on it.

Maybe "Front Page
News" has a kind of

pale echo of,

of Lowell at his best
but, beyond that, it's,

it's a pretty bland
and dull record.

♪ They all asked about you

♪ Down on the farm

♪ The cows asked, the pigs asked

♪ The horses asked, too

♪ All want to know why
to the city you moved

♪ Changed your name to Kitty

♪ What's come over you

♪ It ain't true, it
ain't true, Linda Lou

♪ Say it ain't true, Linda Lou

- It was not a great
album, but it was an album

that was full of
encouraging signs and,

you know, that might have been
wishful thinking on my part.

You know, again,

it wasn't something that
I kept going back to

as I had the early stuff,

right through
Waiting For Columbus.

But I thought, as
a stepping stone to

a recovery [chuckles]
I guess is a good word

as you can have, that
it was promising.

There was the belief among
people who were around the band

or who loved the band that

there was gonna be a
happy ending, and it was,

it was just a, you know,

it just ripped everybody's
heart out instead.

- [Narrator] In
the summer of '79,

with Down On The
Farm awaiting mixing,

Lowell put a band together and
took Thanks I'll Eat It Here

out on the road.

On the 29th of June, just
a few shows into the tour,

Lowell George collapsed

in a hotel room in
Arlington, Virginia.

The cause of death was later
given as heart failure.

He was just 34 years old.

- Well, the day before he died,

I'm working on The Complex and,

building The Complex,

and I get a note
from Harry Grossman,

and it says, "Lowell George
wants to tell you a joke",

and I didn't call him back,

and that night he died.

Maybe it was the next day,

but I heard about it
from Harry Grossman,

we were in the production
trailer back at The Complex,

and Harry came in and said,

"You know, I have
some really bad news.

"Lowell George died."

I said, "How?"

He said, "Heart attack."

But we all knew

that it was more
than a heart attack.

And,

as

oh, who was it?

Said it, Peter Lorre,
"I miss him every day."

For 20 years, I miss
Lowell George every day.

What it said for me is to
take every relationship

a little more seriously,
at least to face

how important that
person is to me.

You know, we all thought
we'd live forever.

Lowell thought
he'd live forever.

You know, he'd had
motorcycle accidents.

He had fucked up his
back on a motorcycle

doing wheelies on
Pacific Coast Highway.

And you just don't,

you just, you're just
blindsided by it.

But yeah, miss him every day.

- I heard about Lowell's
death in New York one morning.

It was before dawn.

The phone rang.

I answered it.

"Lowell's dead."

I waited about two
hours, and that

gloaming that came,

the crepuscular dawn setting in.

Finally I dared call Mo Ostin,

the head of Warner
Bros. Records.

Warner would breeze.

I said, "Mo, Lowell died."

Without missing a beat,
he said, "Was he insured?"

I said, "I doubt it."

He said, "I'll look into that."

Now, this is not
for me to assume

that maybe Mo Ostin

committed the most innocent
felony of his life,

but all I know is that
Lowell's family survived,

with difficulty,

because Lowell
didn't get that much

financial gain from all
of the time and energy

he put in to helping bid
Warner Bros. a fond adieu.

- I was,

I was very sad, and
I wasn't surprised.

I, the last time I had seen him,

it was just before he
went out on that tour,

as a matter of fact.

There was an artist that
I'd mentioned, I said,

"You know, I think she'd be
great for you to produce.

"I think you guys should
really get together

"when you get back.

"Oh yeah, great."

So there was some planning
of what would happen when,

when he can return,
but he looked terrible,

and everybody knew it.

There was an inevitability
to what had happened.

- Artists hang on,
by a slender thread,

forced into performance.

Lowell,

that's what killed
Lowell, the forced march.

He was in the front
line of a forced march,

outrunning his supplies.

A great general,

whose ambition outreached
his ability, ultimately.

So, I can't help but
question the ethics

of the record company
that sent him gladly

to his death.

- You know, I think about

ultimately, the waste of it.

And I was mad.

There was a time,
not long afterwards,

I just got angry
about it, you know?

"This seems really
unfair", and, you know,

silly, stupid.

"You're smarter than that.

"How could you let that
happen", you know, but,

sometimes the power of,
certainly the drugs,

the lifestyle, it
got bigger than him.

- The guy loses that battle,

and it's a battle with himself.

And, you know, and then
you start thinking,

"Well, the thing that,

"the thing that made it great

"might have been the
thing that killed him.

"If there's something
in that chemistry of

"you know, pushing,
pushing to the edge

"and wanting to go beyond it,

"that manifested itself

"in positive and you know,
devastatingly negative ways."

- [Narrator] In the weeks
following Lowell's death,

the stars of American music
lined up to pay tribute

to a beloved friend
and peerless musician.

A memorial concert at
The Forum in LA was held

as a benefit for
the George family,

with Jackson Browne, Emmylou
Harris, Linda Ronstadt,

and Bonnie Raitt among
the guests that joined

Little Feat on stage.

For Feat, the journey
came to a halt.

Following the release
of Down On The Farm,

the band members went
their separate ways.

The would not reform for
the best part of the decade.

- Lowell is one of
a handful of artists

who are never gonna get in the
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,

despite the fact that
they've moved the needle

to a far greater
degree, artistically,

than a lot of people
who have been inducted.

And it has to do with the band's
lack of commercial success.

For someone who
could affect people

as strongly as he did,

I think he's a shoe-in.

That just makes it a little
more melancholy, you know?

The fact that,

the fact that the people who,

the people who know
are so far outnumbered

by the people who have no idea.

- If only musicians
were allowed to vote,

Little Feat would have
been in the Hall of Fame

20 years ago, 25 years
ago, on the first ballot.

It's a doggone disgrace
that Little Feat is not

in the Rock and
Roll Hall of Fame.

And from what we can tell,

there doesn't seem to
be much of a groundswell

to make that happen.

The line forms
behind me, right now.

Little Feat, Rock and
Roll Hall of Fame.

- [Narrator] As
the years passed,

Lowell's legacy came
into sharper relief.

Discovered by successive
generations of musicians,

his work became ever
more influential,

distinguished as unlike
anything else in the idiom,

a truly distinctive voice
in rock and roll history.

- He had a unique signature

as a musical personality,

as an artist, that,

I think as time passes,

shows even

greater amounts of depth

that I think for a lot
of younger artists,

it recognize as, this is a
person of great importance.

- For Lowell, it had to
be great, had to be great,

had to be self-evident
on hearing it

that it was great and
authentic and great.

So that's to me his legacy,
and his legacy repeated is

that if it's not great,
then fuck it, then go home.

Do it again, you know?

'Cause that's Lowell.

If it wasn't great,
do it the fuck again,

not after the first take,

we can fix it in Pro
Tools, as the saying goes,

but do it the fuck again.

And if it's not
right, do it again!

And do it again,
and do it again,

and if you're there all
night, you're there all night,

and then go into the next
day, and do it again.

You know?

Yeah, that's Lowell.

- This is his legacy.

There was no one like him.

There's nothing stale
about the humor.

Farce is very
difficult in music.

Absurdism can get very tiresome.

Lowell was capable of

putting a margin of those
nuances in his work,

and still inviting
another inspection.

As a friend,

he's irreplaceable.

How can I miss him
when he won't leave?

[gentle acoustic guitar music]

[upbeat rock music]