“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.”