Capital Crimes

2

John Wallace “Jack” Jeffries, a natural Irish tenor prone to baby fat and tantrums, grew up in Beverly Hills, the only child of two doctors. Alternately doted upon and ignored, Jackie, as he was known back then, attended a slew of prep schools, each of whose rules he violated at every turn. Dropping out of high school one month short of graduation, he bought a cheap guitar, taught himself a few chords and began thumbing his way eastward. Living on handouts, petty theft, and whatever chump change landed in his guitar case as he offered renditions of classic folk songs in that high, clear voice.

In 1963, at the age of twenty-three, usually drunk or high and twice treated for syphilis, he settled in Greenwich Village and attempted to insinuate himself into the folk music scene. Sitting at the feet of Pete Seeger and Phil Ochs, Zimmerman, Baez, the Farinas was educational. He had a better shot actually jamming with some of the younger lights- Crosby, Sebastian, the heavy girl with the great pipes who’d begun calling herself Cass Elliot, John Phillips who’d do a favor for anyone.

Everyone liked California Boy’s voice but his temperament was edgy, pugilistic, his lifestyle an all-you-can-smoke-snort-swallow buffet.

In 1966, having failed to snag a record deal and watching everyone else do so, Jeffries contemplated suicide, decided instead to return to California, where at least the weather was mellow. Settling in Marin, he hooked up with two struggling folkies named De

In what subsequent armies of publicists termed a “magical moment” Jeffries claimed to be munching on a double-cheese extra-large and admiring the duo, while realizing something was missing. Rising to his feet, he hopped on stage during a spirited a capella delivery of “Sloop John B” and added high harmony. The resulting melding of voices created a whole much greater than the sum of the parts and brought down the house. Word of mouth seared through the Bay Area like wildfire and the rest was music history.

The real story was that a speed-shooting promoter named La

Jack Jeffries’s response to Sokolow’s greeting and attempted power shake was, “Fuck you, man, I’m busy.”

La

Now, Sokolow figured, if three edgy temperaments could coexist…

One thing about the official version was true: word of mouth was instantaneous and super-charged, nudged along by a new electric thing called folk-rock. La

An Oedipus Records scout listened to them lead in for Janis on a particularly good night and phoned LA. A week later, La

The trio’s first three singles made Top Ten. The fourth, “My Lady Lies Sweetly,” hit Number One With A Bullet and so did the LP, Crystal Morning. Every song on the album credited the trio as writers but the real work had been done by Brill Building hacks who sold out for a flat fee and a strict nondisclosure pact.

That exposé was among the almanac of allegations listed in La

Six subsequent albums were pe

De

Mark Bolt moved to France, bought vineyard land and turned out some decent Bordeaux. Marrying and divorcing four times, he sired twelve children, converted to Buddhism, sold his vineyards and settled in Belize.

Jack Jeffries chased women, nearly lost his life in a helicopter flight over the Alaskan tundra, vowed never to fly again and bunked down in Malibu, overindulging in any corporeal pleasure at hand. In 1995, he donated sperm to a pair of lesbian actresses who wanted a “creative” kid. The match took and one of the actresses gave birth to a son. Jeffries was curious and asked to see the boy, but after the first few visits where Jeffries showed up toasted, the mothers termed him unfit and filed a cease-and-desist. Jack never fought for contact with his son, now a high-achieving high school senior living in Rye, New York. Rug-rats had never been his thing and there was all that music yet to be made.

He slept till three, kept a small staff that pilfered from him regularly, drank and doped and stuffed his face with no eye toward moderation. The residuals had trickled to a hundred G a year but passive income afforded him the house on the beach, cars and motorcycles, a boat docked in Newport Beach that he never used.

From time to time, he sang on other people’s records, gratis. When he performed, it was as a solo act at local benefits and venues that got smaller and smaller. Each year he put on more weight, refused to cut his hair, now white and frizzy, even though every other m.f. had sold out to Corporate Amerika.

He hadn’t been to Nashville since That Time but remembered it as a cool place, but too far to drive. So when the owner of the Songbird Café sent out a mass e-mail requesting participants in a First Amendment concert inveighing against federal snooping in public libraries, he tossed it. Then he retrieved it, read the list of those who’d agreed to attend, and felt crappy about having to say no.

Hemmed in, like maybe the cure was worse than the disease.

Then he happened to bring his guitar for repair into The Chick With the Magic Hands and started talking to her and she made a suggestion and…why not, even though he didn’t have much hope.

Give it a try, maybe it was time to show some cojones.

Two months later, would you believe it, it worked.

Ready to fly.

Good name for a song.

Jack Jeffries, lying dead in a weed-choked, garbage-flecked lot a short walk from the Cumberland River, would be a no-show at the Songbird concert.