Living the Blues. Adolfo de la

      Shortly after being released on bail pending trial, Skip and John came to the Tomcat Club to hear me play. They'd heard about me from good reviews I got playing with Bluesberry Jam in a concert at UCLA, as well as the guys in Sot Weed Factor, who visited their office looking for a manager.

      Boy, had Skip changed. The clean-cut, preppy agent in the corporate suit I met three years ago now had long hair. He was wearing a funky hippie outfit, doing drugs and managing Canned Heat. He'd come a long way from William Morris. On my break, they asked me to sit at their table.

      "You do know there's something else happening besides this kind of place?" asked Skip, gesturing at the Tomcat Club. "There's a movement out there. A true musical revolution. Guys like Jimi Hendrix. You want to be part of that don't you? Canned Heat's looking for a new drummer. How would you like to play with Sot Weed Factor or Bluesberry Jam and open for Canned Heat in its next LA appearance? Then Bob, Alan and the guys can hear you play."

      They arranged for Bluesberry Jam to open for Canned Heat at a little place on Ventura Boulevard in the Valley called the Magic Mushroom. We were a little uptight that night because Canned Heat was already the Los Angeles blues band and people were talking about them with respect.

      It was a magical evening. There were drugged-out hippies in paisley and stripes, silk and bellbottoms, chains and headbands, flower wreaths in their hair, dancing and blowing this shiny dust in the air. There was a gang of beautiful women, called Vito's Dancers, who showed up as a group at parties and rock shows, 10 to 20 of them, wildly dressed, with Vito leading the pack. Any place they went became a party.

      Bluesberry Jam opened and we played a hot set. Can't say as much for Canned Heat, which had just gotten out of that Denver jail. Throughout the years, the band has played brilliantly most of the time, with occasional off nights, when the guys were just terrible. Not bad, but terrible. Really sucked. Always black or white, never grey, that was the band's character.

      Maybe it was destiny that this was one of the rotten nights. And maybe it had something to do with the pressure they were putting on Frank about his drumming. And he didn't even know that I was there auditioning for his job.

      When it was Canned Heat's turn, I noticed Frank tried to play the way I played, a strong aggressive rhythm instead of his usual laid-back jazz style. That's the worst thing a musician can do, try to make an instant style change. You might be able to work at it and do it a year later, but nobody can spin on a dime and pick up a new style in a night.

      When Sonja and I got home that night, we were both really excited. Around 3:30 in the morning the phone rang. It was either Skip or John, I don't remember which one, but I recall the words:

      "The guys really enjoyed your playing. They'd like you to rehearse with them tomorrow, so they can make the final decision on your replacing Frank. Okay with you?"

      I didn't sleep that night. I lay in bed, holding Sonja, unable to believe my luck. I was getting a shot with the best band in LA, a band with a record contract.

      My friends in Mexico sarcastically told me I was trying to be a "god," but I never expected it. I thought I'd come to the States and play funky, black music with people who knew the music well, but I didn't let myself dream of becoming any sort of star. That was too unrealistic. Suddenly, it wasn't so farfetched.

      Around three the next afternoon, I showed up at John Hartmann's house in Canoga Park, a ranch with horses stabled outside. (Skip and John were already starting to live the good life.) Under my arm, I'd tucked LP's by Junior Wells ad Buddy Guy, two blues masters from Chicago. I always brought records to rehearsals for the other guys to hear, to adapt arrangements from, things like that. I didn't realize the impact this simple act would have. I didn't know that Alan, The Bear, and Henry were such avid musicologists and record collectors. I didn't know they were so deep in the same music I had been possessed by since I was a kid drumming on cookie tins In a Mexico City Garage.

      The Bear told me, a long time later, that as I was setting up my drums, he was thinking: "I've already heard you, I know how you play. But those records under you’re arm, that’s your ticket into this band. A drummer who doesn’t come with a jazz attitude or with any other kind of baggage but the blues. That's our drummer, the guy who's going to get us where we want to go."

      We played blues standards and I had no trouble fitting in. When we finished, I remember Henry looking at the other guys. He didn't want to make up his mind on the spot. Henry was still a good 'ol boy, a southern racist back then and he thought only a southern white guy could have the right feeling. It took him a decade to lose that crap. But in the minds of Alan and The Bear and Larry, I was in. Skip and John took me by the arm and led me outside. We leaned against a rail by the horse corral.

      "The guys want you. What do you think about joining Canned Heat?" Without hesitation, limited English and all, I blurted out what I really felt, a line that became attached to me - my mantra, my battle cry - when the others heard it:

      "I was BORN to play with Canned Heat."

      A salute from the Bear In front of the first Canned Heat Van

      At the Tomcat club with my brand new 1967 Pontiac Firebird 400 4-Speed.

      Buddy Miles brings Larry his birthday cake at the Kaleidoscope, 1968. John Hartmann looking on.