Dude Made it to 78, Not to Mention the Three Oscars

Published by Rick on Tagged Uncategorized

Okay, so it’s Name Drop Time again. But reading about Jack Nicholson’s 78th birthday, then also seeing the disparaging press lining up to take a shot at how his life of excess has taken its toll, I think yeah, he doesn’t look the sex god he might have looked not so long ago, but so what? He’s lived a life that many of us would have killed our own mother to have experienced. I got to meet the man in 1976, when he was at one of many creative peaks, when he was exactly half the age he is now.

A little background as to how this incredible meeting of mortals to immortals came about: Through Rick & Ruby’s friendship with the San Francisco rock band The Tubes, we got to know this very eccentric German artist Wilfried Såtty, whose works had appeared in Rolling Stone and a few LP covers. I had little understanding of art then, and can’t say it’s that much better now, but something about Såtty’s (pronounced “Sutty”) vibe transcended all that.

Såtty lived in a three-story building in San Francisco’s North Beach in the 1970’s, and used his home to throw major parties on the average of 4-5 times a year. Many of San Francisco’s elite tended to show up at these parties, and he booked us to play his parties for little more reason than he thought we related on some unknown wavelength. Most of the action in his parties happened in the basement, which was carpeted to cover the sand floor that would have otherwise been there, as we were only a few hundred yards from the bay. We would meet several Bay Area legends, not even knowing it until after we’d met them. In one particular instance, a very large man walked through our crude stage set-up to get to the stairway leading to the street level because he had no other possible way to get there. We actually had to stop playing to allow him to get through. At first I thought, “Who IS this fat fuck,” but it turned out to be Tom Donahue, who weighed 400 pounds and was one of San Francisco’s radio legends. When people told me later of who he was, I was pleased that 25-year-old me with attitude didn’t tell him to go use the rickety spiral staircase like anyone else.

On the night Jack Nicholson was there, in springtime 1976, I remember walking up to him before we performed, and very awkwardly saying to him how much I admired his work. He’d just won an Oscar for “Cuckoo’s Nest,” and Michael Douglas, who co-produced the film, was also at this party, since he was spending a lot of time up there filming episodes of “Streets Of San Francisco.” My initial encounter with Jack was what you’d expect from every worshipper-idol contact, i.e. I’m going “Er-um-ah, you’re really great,” and him being gracious by saying thank you, but not offering anything more.

Things changed after we performed. After that, Jack decided he wanted to hang with us, but then he was clearly on whatever substance was floating about on the night. I didn’t really care how fucked up he was, I was just wondering how we were going to handle our new fan without going all google-eyed. In retrospect he was a totally likeable human being. There was no mention of my previous awkward encounter with him, since it appeared we had established rapport through whatever the heck it was we did. There was a total innocence to it, and even though my partner was female, and he was Jack Freaking Nicholson, there was no flirtation on any level. No, he genuinely appeared to respect us for the performers we were. I scarcely remember what sort of stuff we did on stage back then, but I’m sure it wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of artistry. This was our first major encounter with a star of such magnitude, and he continued to get more brilliant as years went on. We never met him again, but we could at least say we’d been in his presence and got his endorsement.

That was probably the peak of the maybe six performances we’d done in that crude venue. We continued to see Såtty from time to time, but his story has no happy ending. That North Beach house became less of a haven by the 1980’s, and though Såtty still lived there, he and his wife had split, and he tended to spend his time reminiscing over the days only 5-6 years previous, when he and his house were both in their heyday. He had developed a severe drinking problem, and in 1982, he was found dead in the stairwell of his mini-palace, having injured himself in a fall from one of his spiral staircases. Since no one was around to respond, by the time anyone noticed he was in trouble, it was already too late. This was too often the sad story with many of the lovely people we knew from back then. Too many didn’t realise the party would have to eventually end, but we fortunately did, which is why we’re still here.

April 26th, 2015



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