From the Pandemic...

After realizing that this Blog still existed, I invite you to read of an incident with Helen Reddy in 1973.

I was asked recently about the private plane that Helen Reddy and her band and husband Jeff were on from Philadelphia, on its way to Los Angeles, that almost didn't make it. Here's the story as I can recall it after all these years.

I was introduced to Helen the first night I moved to Los Angeles by my friend and her pianist, Tom Hensley. A few months after that introduction I became Helen's drummer, following Larry Brown, who was and still is a wonderful drummer/engineer/Producer.

At the beginning of those touring days, Helen had a hit with "I Don't Know How To Love Him" and we were booked in Utah for many college dates. The bookers thought that Helen was a quasi religious singer and perfect for their squeaky clean audiences in the many Mormon based colleges that required three airplanes to reach from LA. When we arrived on site for these gigs, the college promoters were met with a rag tag group of hippy musicians and a lead singer who didn't shave her underarms. Needless to say, hilarity ensued. The months went on, the gigs got better. Helen shaved. We flew to Europe for the Midem Festival and a small date at Ronnie Scott's in London. I left to join the Association for a while and then returned to The Helen Reddy Summer Show on NBC with Nelson Riddle, Carnegie Hall and a long list of live concerts.

Jeff knew George Carlin well, and as a result, we traveled a bit in George's private plane, a Jet Commander with call letters WW0069 or Whiskey Whiskey 69 on the radio. Following a gig in Phiadelphia, the band of myself, Dick Horn, Dave Parlato, Mike Warren, Paul Cowsill and Helen and Jeff boarded the plane for Los Angeles. We always wanted to get home as soon as possible. Occasionally Jeff and or Helen would get the opening act on a concert to let us open for them, so we could leave earlier. Anyway, we take off from Philly and settle in for the flight home. We knew there would be a fuel stop between along the way. Dave Parlato, Helen and myself began a game of Scrabble on the small table. Helen and Jeff were facing us, their backs to the front of the plane. Dave Parlato, myself and Mike Warren were in the rear row bench seats Dick Horn was on the the window and in from of him was Paul Cowsill. An ice chest of soft drinks was in front of Mr. Cowsill, on the floor. We were told there was a line of thunderstorms over the Midwest and that we were diverting to another airport for our refueling stop.

Our Scrabble game was fast and furious and Dave Parlato was winning, for the first time ever in all our matches. Suddenly over Illinois a hard bump shook the plane. We looked at each other and timidly continued our game. Jim Croce had died in a plane accident a few weeks earlier and was on our minds. Seconds later, the plane began to descend...very fast and at a very steep angle. Mike Warren, who hated to fly, was in a fetal position in his seat. The plane's descent was so rapid that we were actually weightless. I had neglected to put on my seat belt and was now on the ceiling, which was quickly coming apart, losing tiles as we descended. The ice chest began to float in the cabin. Jeff was moaning and Helen was saying it would be all right as she knew it was not her destiny to die in an airplane. 14, 000 feet straight down and the veteran pilots somehow found some clear air and got us level, and not a moment too soon. We landed at Moline Illinois' Quad City Airport. We came to a stop on the tarmac. Quickly exiting the plane, we took our belongings and thanked any and all deities that we had been spared. The inside of the plane was a wreck. There would be no flight the rest of the way that night in the Jet Commander.

We checked into the local Holiday Inn at the Airport and Jeff arranged flights home the next day on a commercial airliner. Preparing for bed, I took off my trousers and two Scrabble tiles fell to the floor. They spelled HA.