Free Devils & Blue Dresses: My Wild Ride as a Rock and Roll Legend by Mitch Ryder

had begun out of the trunk of a roaming vehicle that scoured the distant rhythm and blues enclaves of the Southern United States in search of raw black talent at a shamefully and disgracefully discounted rate. It’s original parents were members of the Ertegun tribe, a Turkishaffair with excellent taste and a deep love for the soulful creations of America’s descendants of slaves.
    As we entered Mr. Crewe’s offices, I recalled the last time I had seen him. He had come to my parents’ house in Michigan as they acted out the Detroit version of Mom and Dad artist management to secure their signatures on the contracts he would need to make us all stars. At that time he was subdued, polite, conservative, and businesslike.
    Now we were ushered into his Manhattan offices that overlooked Broadway and what was approaching us was a prototype for a good-looking, shamefully engaging, un-leashed, flamboyant screaming queen, the likes of which we could only have hoped to see in some B movie with weak distribution. He slowly looked us over with the gazing manner of a belly-full wild animal that regrettably identified the meal it neither had time nor appetite for. He then small-talked his way through a greeting the way an extremely busy man might talk to his children after Mom unexpectedly dropped them off at work. We were hypnotized.
    We were then sent off to what was to become our home, a rundown hotel a block off 71st and Broadway in a section of town locals referred to as Needle Point. Our home was called The Coliseum House. There were two people at the desk when we checked in: a gimpy doorman who dragged his leg when he walked, and a skinny, unattractive girl. As the lonely months came to pass she would take on a new aura, mysteriously becoming much more pleasing to the eyes of the band. As hard as I try to remember, I swear I never saw another guest there the entire time of our stay, which lasted well over a year.
    Up an elevator––which moaned, bumped, and rattled––we came to a jerking stop. Our foot-dragging doorman then slowly led us down a dark, musty hall until we came to an old door with at least seven different coats of paint. I knew this because the door was chipped enough to reveal all seven colors. Behind that closed door was our sanctuary: one living area with a couch and a table, one bathroom, and two bedrooms with two beds in each. There was only one working light in each room, which was fine, as the cockroaches liked it that way. Johnny and Earl shared one of the bedrooms, while Jimmy and I shared the other. Joey slept on the couch in the main room with the understanding that we would all rotate for couch time. Yeah, right. It didn’t matter. We were a group and we had come here to conquer.
    Jimmy McCarty, our guitar player, liked to play records late into the night and because of our close proximity, I was subjected to his addiction. He favored jazz guitarists at the time and after listening sessions usually came practice sessions. Many nights I sank into a deep sleep with the sound of his great talent surrounding me. It is ironic that today he is one of the premier blues guitarists in the world. Jimmy liked to arguejust for the sake of arguing, which made for many lively discussions between the two of us, but it was hard to stay angry with him because of his appearance. Jimmy was, and still is, a tall, slender good-looking man with a full head of hair. But, his particular kind of tall and slender always reminds me of a newborn giraffe standing up for the first time.
    Our neighborhood became the place to explore on weekends. We preferred weekends because there were fewer people to deal with. The city was quieter then, too, except at night when tourists came over for the club action and shows. We sometimes visited the Hudson River and watched the floating garbage, or traversed the weed infested and littered cross streets as we struggled to keep our balance trying to find a flat spot on the blacktop. That