But he could not let it go. The criticism drove him wild. He was troubled, as I said. He had no identity. He didn't know what he wanted because he did not know who he was. He wanted to ditch his glasses for contact lenses. "But the glasses are part of the shtick," I told him. "The glasses are great!" I mean, if you're getting hitters out with screwballs, keep throwing the screwballs. That's the sportsman's way.
The first danger sign came in 1979, when John was on tour in Europe. I got a call from one of my assistants on the road. "John is unhappy," he said. "He's talking about firing you."
I got on a plane, went over. I stood with John outside the Inn on the Park in London. He had his head down and paced, the way he did whenever faced with an onerous task or crisis. He stammered. He said, "Look, Jerry. You know how I feel about our relationship, but I think I am going to have to let you go."
"Let me go? Why?"
"Well, it's this tour. I mean, nothing is right. The hotels stink, and the food is no good, and the venues are just awful, and the sound systems are terrible, too. The band is furious. Nothing is right."
I said, "Look, I just got off a flight from LA. Let me get some rest. Then let's talk it over in four hours."
"What's going to happen in four hours?" he asked.
"Well, maybe I can fix these problems," I said. "Think of all we've been through. You can give me four hours."
"All right," he said, "four hours, but I am deadly serious, Jerry."
"I know you are, John."
That night, we went out to dinner after his show.
I said, "Look, John. Before we eat, I want you to know I've taken care of the problem. Things will be different from here."
"You took care of them? How?"
"I fired Ferguson."
"You fired Ferguson? Who's Ferguson?"
"There has been trouble with the hotels, with the food, with the venues, with the sound systems? Well, Ferguson was in charge of all of that. He's been fired."
"Really? You fired Ferguson."
"I did. And I think you will notice the difference right away."
We started eating, talking, being brothers again. I was brooding, looking down.
"What's the matter, Jerry?"
"Well, I'll tell you, John. I'm feeling bad about Ferguson. Sure, he screwed up, but he's not a terrible guy. And now he's been fired, and he won't have his salary and he won't have his bonus and it's right before Christmas. For godsakes, John, Ferguson has a family!"
We sat in silence, eating. Finally, John threw down his napkin and said, "Darn it, I feel bad about Ferguson, too!"
Some time went by. I was eating, drinking, looking around. It was one of those stolid British restaurants, with brass on everything and waiters coming and going with pints of ale.
I said, "Look, I have an idea. Let's say, instead of firing Ferguson, I just move him into another part of the business. Away from people."
"Hide him, you mean?"
"Yeah, hide him. In the business, just not out front, definitely not working with artists."
"Yeah, that's a great idea," said John. "I would feel a lot better about that, it being so close to Christmas and all."
"Good," I said. "I will call LA tomorrow and take care of it. Ferguson 's wife is going to be so relieved."
There really was nothing wrong with the hotels, food, venues, or the rest. John had just gotten himself in a tangle and needed to stand up for himself. Which was why we fired Ferguson. I also knew that John was very compassionate and would eventually blame himself for what happened to Ferguson, which was why we hired him back.
The next night, on the way back from the show, I asked John, "So how was the venue, how was the sound?"
"Oh, much better," he said. "I could tell the difference right away. I'm glad we could fix it without firing Ferguson."
Of course, there was no Ferguson.
Jerry Weintraub Presents
By this time, Concerts West had become perhaps the most important company in the industry, known for its live shows and productions. John Denver was just one of many talented artists who made me a force. I did not handle all these people personally-I had partners, employees-but I was sitting over everything, experiencing the entire scene.
I loved and appreciated all my artists, and still do. There was, for example, Bob Dylan. He was a god to his fans, but to me he was just another smart, Jewish kid from the provinces. Yes, he is brilliant. I don't think he has any idea just how brilliant. The man can break your heart with a turn of phrase. But to him it is just another day of work, which is how I treated it, too. Not even a priest wants to be revered when he's away from the church. He wants to go home and have a drink, knowing the lights will stay on and the bills will be paid. And that was my job. After all, an artist like Dylan has enough fans. A man to mind the store, to keep the books, that's what he needs.
And then there was Led Zeppelin, who we signed in the midseventies. Once you start working with the Presleys and Sinatras, other people, the superstars and up-and-comers, come looking for you. It's called momentum, what people mean by the phrase "cooking with gas."
"Jerry Weintraub?"
"Yeah?"
"You've got to help me!"
"Why?"
"Because I've got dreams!"
"All right, my boy! All right."
Zeppelin was wild. Our first concert with them was at Nassau Coliseum on Long Island. They were bitching after the show about the sound system: It did not have enough channels, not enough speakers, blah, blah. It was so loud the place was shaking. I was worried about a cave-in or structural disaster. But no, they wanted bigger, louder, more decibels, more, more, more. When these guys played "Stairway to Heaven," they wanted to build an actual stairway to heaven. The next day, I went around with a few of my guys and gathered every box on the island. We painted them black. I can still smell the fumes from the spray-paint. They made me high. We brought the boxes to the Coliseum and stacked them in huge piles on either side of the stage, hundreds of these goddamn things.
"What the hell are these, Jerry?"
"What do they look like? They're the goddamn speakers, schmuck. You want loud, you're gonna have loud."
That night, Zeppelin exploded onto the stage as if they'd been shot from a cannon, like clowns at the circus, danced and screamed and made a lot of wonderful noise, reveling in the mighty power of this wall of speakers, which, of course, were not connected to anything. If you expect loud, loud is what you are going to hear.
A lot of the time, these guys made demands just to be demanding. These were rock stars. They needed to say "Screw you!" to whoever was cutting the check or wearing the suit. It's part of the job description.
One afternoon, before Zeppelin was scheduled to play at Madison Square Garden, I went into a men's store on Fifth Avenue and picked up a gorgeous suit that had been tailor-made for me in London. I tried it on for the mirror-hand-stitched, double-breasted, beautiful-put it in a bag, and carried it to the arena, where I hung it in a closet in the dressing room, with a note pinned on the front: WEINTRAUB! HANDS OFF!
I went out front to watch the show. The lights went down, the announcer spoke over the sound system: "Now, the loudest, most dangerous rock band on earth…" The crowd went nuts, Zeppelin came on stage. Jimmy Page, John Paul Jones, Robert Plant. John Bonham, the drummer, came out last. He was wearing whatever crap those guys wore, but over it he had on a beautiful blue jacket.