“Listen, putz, that ‘spread,’ as you might so mendaciously call it, in the Green Room is a shonda. You have the great Bill Graham, the great Grace slick, the great Jerry Garcia, and the great Bill Graham coming to do your fakokta show and there’s–what? A Cheeeeeese plate? And plastic bottles of soda pop? How dare you treat artists such as this with such contempt? They could have done a national program and zip, zop: all the publicity done. But, no: they appear on your rinky-dink little show, with its rinky-dink chairs, and its rinky-dink host.
“Setting the backstage ambience, mood, whatever: this has always been Bill Graham’s ace up his sleeve. When Tito Puente played for me, in honor of his Puerto Rican heritage, I turned the heat up really high. When Led Zeppelin came to town, I allowed them to beat several of my employees nearly to death. When Clapton headlined, I made sure that anyone with a darker complexion than a paper bag was out of his sightline.
“Wonderful guitarist, terrible racist, Eric Clapton.”
…
“The great Grace Slick has passed out. Go to commercial, or you’ll never work in the music business again.”
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