Bido Lito!

Gene Clark - The Caged Byrd

On 22nd of December 1965 The Byrds entered RCA’s Hollywood studio to record Eight Miles High, a startling new composition of such brazen audacity and vision it threatened to drop rock music on its head, splitting it’s cranium into infinite possibilities. With it’s hybridised cocktail of Indian ragas, free-jazz and near gregorian harmonies, it’s like exhuming the fossilised missing-link between folk-rock and full-blown psychedelia, though the reel would lay imprisoned in tin for 22 years, bound by the contractual conditions of their Columbia record deal.

Arguably the apex of The Byrds canon, Eight Miles High remains only a polaroid of what could have been; Gene Clark’s lush melodies ravaged by the frenzied virtuosity of Roger McGuinn and David Crosby. As The Byrds sat perched on the vanguard of greatness, events were unfolding that not only threatened their consolidation of gate-keepers of the zeitgeist, but the very existence of the band itself. Within months, a re-recorded version would be banned from the radio in a knee-jerk storm of drug-induced moral panic, worse still, it’s architect Gene Clark was no longer a Byrd...

On the surface the official explanation ran like an excerpt from a Spinal Tap glossary of rock cliché; ‘musician-leaves-due-to-personal-reasons-brought-on-by-nervous-strain’ and in Clark’s situation, it was all too true, though beneath the statement’s thin veil lay a chilling flight phobia triggered by a plane crash he witnessed as a boy. In 1966 as Columbia attempted to catapult The Byrds to the zenith platform occupied by The Beatles and The Stones, a promotional juggernaut commenced, starting with a television special hosted by New York disc-jockey Murray The K. With the pressure brewing and the grim thought of criss-crossing the world cooped in a jet, he arrived at the airport in a terrible state. Minutes before the flight’s departure in a scene reminiscent of Final Destination’s white-knuckle opening, a petrified Clark bailed.

With his absence queried by a puzzled host, one may have expected a musketeeresque ‘all-for-one-one-for-all’ stance from the band though they were in no mood for spin, “he broke a wing”, retorted an acerbic McGuinn. As off-the-cuff as the statement sounded it was also knee-deep in connotation, not only openly mocking Clark’s chronic fear of flying, but publicly hinting at the simmering resentment towards him. “I got the impression that Gene was never regarded as a first-class Byrd”, publicist Derek Taylor remembers. “I don’t think it was the flying. He was not taken seriously enough”. It’s no coincidence that Clark’s paranoia escalated in tune with mounting aloofness from the other Byrds, even growing suspicious that McGuinn was attempting to oust him by teasing his phobia.  Crosby’s behavior was even more damaging. “David understood that 95 percent of why Gene left could be brought back to him” insists manager Jim Dickson. “Not so much directly but including the politicking and snide remarks”. In every successful band there exists a hierarchy, a sense of individual acceptance that unifies.

The Byrds were desperate for parity with The Beatles and The Stones but more importantly, they were desperate for individual acclaim. “I guess we were real jealous that he’d had so many songs on the albums that we all wanted his air time”, admitted McGuinn years later. With Clark gone, McGuinn and Crosby duly filled the songwriting vacuum releasing Fifth Dimension that year though it was a muddled affair, strewn with traditional covers and lackluster originals. As for Gene Clark, life would get very dark indeed; persecuted by the cruel hands of fate he would live out his days dwelling in the crumbling palace of exile...

(To be continued)