DISGRACELAND - Charles Manson the Music Man: Lost Records and a Prosecutorial Song too Crazy to Sing

Episode Date: November 15, 2022

In and out of juvie and jail since childhood, Charles Manson learned guitar in prison from the last of the great Depression-era gangsters. He also made music industry connections in jail like the Rolling Stones’ road manager. During the "Summer of Love", Manson bounced from prison and took his act to San Francisco, formed a drug-soaked sex cult, moved the whole Family to L.A., and before you could say “celebrity orgy,” he was hanging with Neil Young, the Mamas and the Papas, and the Beach Boys. Charles Manson was about to be the breakout star of 1969…at least in his own mind. This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners and includes graphic depictions of violence. This episode was originally published on November 15, 2022. To see the full list of contributors see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTokSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Charles Manson's attempted musical career are insane. Like, way more insane than people I usually say this about. In and out of Juvie in jail since childhood,

Charles Manson learned guitar in prison from. from the last of the Great Depression-era gangsters. He made music-industry connections in jail, too, the Rolling Stones and Graham Parsons' roadmangler, Phil Kaufman, among them. Then, during the Summer of Love, Charlie bounced from prison and took his act to San Francisco, formed a drug-soaked sex cult, moved the whole family down to L.A., and before you could say celebrity orgy,

he was hanging with Neil Young, the Mamas and the Pappas, and the Beach Boys. Charlie Manson was about to be the breakout star of 1969 because Charles Manson made great music, in his own mind anyway. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Swamp Smoocher MK2.

I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Hello I Love You by the doors. And why would I play you that specific slice of brain scream cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on August 8th, 1968. And that was the day that Charles Manson sat in a Van Nuys studio and recorded what would become his own album entitled Lie, The Love and Terror Culp. On this episode, creepy crawling hippies, missing records, misguided rock stars, the crime of the century, in Charles Manson, the music man.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. What do you mean you don't want the record? Just what I said. I don't want the record. I can't sell it. You can't sell it? You see who's on the cover, man? It's Charles Manson, and you can't sell it? Just what I said, I can't sell it. Phil Kaufman was pissed. Fucking hip. Neither could most people.

He could. But Phil Kaufman wasn't. most people. He was as qualified of music industry road manager as there ever was. The road mangler. That's what they called him. Or that's what he called himself. Didn't matter. It's suited as leather wearing, Harley-riding, tattoo-having image, and fuck-all attitude just fine. Ask Mick Jagger, asked Graham Parsons. Guys like Mick and Graham would kick out the jams. Phil would get you out of them. But right now, he had his own jam to get out of him, which was why he was not in Los Angeles and why he was in San Francisco. He needed money. He was broke. And he needed to offload these boxes of records

he'd paid to have pressed up, and this fucking hippie wasn't seeing things the way he needed to be seeing things, Phil Kaufman's way. And you've got an entrepreneurial bone in your body? This is Charles Manson on the cover of this album. And the hippie behind the counter at the record store went back into his old rap. I know, which is why I can't sell it. God damn it, you little no ears haven't fucking... You even heard it? It's damn good as what it is. It doesn't matter. Dude is a killer. That's the whole goddamn point.

Hippies. Full of shit. As usual. The revolution most certainly would not be televised. But the circus would. That's what was happening downtown when he got back home here in L.A. A fucking circus. Phil sat on the porch of his bungalow in Van Nuys thinking about it.

What a shit show. Charlie. All those murders. And now all those murders. all those cameras. Every day while they strolled Charles Manson into court to stand trial for first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit murder. Seven murders, to be exact.

Was it worth it? Phil knew Charlie and Phil knew that Charlie likely thought it was all worth it. A handful of dead squares for a lifetime of fame, or infamy rather. If you asked Charlie a year ago about that bargain, five to one he'd pass. Five to one, he'd take his chances working the ranks of the Hollywood music. industry power structure to try to get his music out into the world, which is what he'd been doing to some degree of success over the past two years. The Beach Boys, Dennis Fuckstick Wilson, loved Charlie's music so much that he moved Charlie into his mansion up on sunset, moved in all

Charlie's girls, too. Phil suspected that that's what Dennis the fuckstick really loved, Charlie's girls. Phil knew about their powers firsthand. After Charlie got busted and they went and rounded up Manson family members, Susan Atkins, Leslie Van Gogh. Houghton and Patricia Crenwickle and paraded them in handcuffs across the television screen. Phil Kaufman remarked to himself, I had sex with every last one of those murderesses. It's because Phil and Charlie were tight. Phil and Charlie did time out at Terminal Island, federal time.

Charlie was in for blowing probation on earlier charges, from forgery and pimping to Grand Theft Auto, Phil for smuggling grass. Charlie made an impression, all five-foot-two of them. Making an impression was essential if you wanted to survive a lengthy stint and lockup. And Charlie certainly made enough of an impression on the notorious Alvin Creepy Carpus from former public enemy number one Ma Barker's gang. They locked up Creepy Carpus and 36 for kidnapping.

Never mind all the murders and robbery he'd committed. Creepy Carpus was J. Edgar Hoover's first personal arrest. and somehow in prison he got his hands on a guitar, and that got Charlie interested. So Charlie worked his charm on old creepy carpus and got him to share his guitar and teach Charlie a thing or two. Charlie practiced as best he could whenever he could, working his tiny little hands and his tiny little fingers over the acoustics neck, trying with not much success to hold those high-action strings down. But Charlie kept at it.

Frankie Lang, the dude who sang Mule Train. That's who Charlie sounded like. His voice wasn't unpleasant, not that the screws noticed. One guard went up to Charlie when he was practicing in his cell loud, no doubt annoying, others on the block. The guard shouted, pipe down, Manson, or you'll never get out of here. Charlie just looked at him and said, get out of where, man, the wizard. Charlie had that wizard vibe. That's what Dennis Wilson called him.

Charlie could lay that shit out thick, that guru vibe. He'd figured out what you were thinking before you knew you were thinking it, and then by the time you worked yourself around of figuring out what it was you wanted to do or say, Charlie would beat you to the point, repeat your thoughts or desires back to you and blow your mind in the process. At least it did most people.

That shit didn't work on Phil Coffin, though. But it worked plenty on Dennis Wilson. Dennis thought Charlie was the future and the past, and most certainly the present. Dennis brought his buddy, Terry Melcher, the famous record producer, the dude who recorded the birds and Paul Revere and the Raiders around to hear Charlie's

rap, and Terry also bought him. If not in on Charlie's music, then in on Charlie's girls. Terry is especially like 16-year-old Ruth Ann Warhouse. Ruth Ann was the crown jewel in Charlie's harem, or better put, his so-called family. Charlie had over a dozen girls, all of them young. Some like Ruth Ann well underage, living with him out of the broke-down spawn movie ranch and Chatsworth outside of L.A. It was as communal as communal could get. Charlie, his girls, and the few men who Charlie tolerated. Tex Watson, Clem Grogan, and Charlie's old band buddy Bobby Boussela, among them, shared everything.

Food, sex, trips to the far-out LSD stratosphere, and of course, as a matter of survival in the hand-to-mouth world they existed in, criminal activity. So when Big Wig music industry dudes like Dennis Wilson and Terry Melcher took an interest in Charlie's music, Charlie shared as women. Charlie hoped it would help him get his record made. It didn't. And that's in part what had Phil Kaufman still caught up in Charles Manson's world a year after his arrest while he sat on trial for murder. And it's why Phil was sitting up late in his Van Nuys home on this night with a loaded 357 magnum in his hand,

lamenting this man-sized hippie pain in the ass. The records. Boxes of them. Boxes of Charles Manson's debut solo record. Lie. The Love and Terror Cult. He and Charlie struck a bargain after Charlie's rest. If Phil paid to manufacture the album, then Charlie reasoned that Phil could have the rights to the album. Phil thought it was a good bargain, and at the time so did Charlie. But Phil couldn't sell the record. So now Charlie wanted the boxes of records back so that he could sell them himself, even if he was currently in jail on trial for murder. Nuh. Phil was getting his money back. But Charlie was desperate. He needed to feed his family. So Charlie put his family to work from

behind bars, told them to go take what was his, his music. Phil sat. It was late, quiet. His roommate, Einstein, Eddie, all 15 feet of him was asleep. Eddie was big, tall. All right, he wasn't quite 15 feet, but with enough Jack Daniels in you, he could appear to be. When he snored, you could hear him from the back of the house. But Phil couldn't hear him now. Maybe Einstein Eddie was up. He kept weird hours. Los Angeles was asleep, though. The night was still, dead sounding. Phil kept watch over his small front yard from his post and his screened-out porch. There, just as suspected, fucking hippies, worms,

crawling on their bellies off the sidewalk on Chandler Boulevard and onto his front yard. There were four that Phil could see and all of them had knives in their mouths as they squirmed over the dirt and burnt grass toward Phil Kaufman's house. Phil stood quietly, the old floorboards on his porch. porch creaked slightly, and the hippie worms were none the wiser. They kept up their crawl. Phil took aim with his 357 magnum, and the hippies kept crawling. As soon as the lead hippie hit the front step, Phil kicked open his screen door and screamed,

Stick him up! The hippie sprung up and stood stone still. What the fuck are you doing? Phil asked. The leadworm spoke up first. Charlie sent us, he said. The three other hippies, all women, just stared at Phil. menacingly. Phil felt a chill work its way over his burly arms and up to his neck. He had the gun, but they had the numbers. He could get off a shot, but all four were close, could pounce.

Phil didn't take any chances. He moved closer, stuck his pistol right into the face of the headworm. That cold steel on your flesh, it straightened you out quick. And the hippie spoke, stammered, we don't want any trouble. We just want the music. Charlie wants his music, that's all. Phil spoke through his clenched teeth. It ain't Charlie's music. I paid for it. It's mine to sell. And the worm said nothing.

The three menacing hippie girls behind him started to inch toward Phil, unconcerned with the gun in their family member's grill. Stop moving, or I swear to a fucking God I'll blow his head off. The girls kept up their slow march and held their stony stare. Phil didn't want to shoot. He couldn't shoot. The girls knew it. The headworm lost control of his bladder and a slow, scared, trickle.

Phil told him again, stop fucking moving or I'll shoot. The girls kept creeping toward him. Just then, a ruckus from somewhere in back of Phil. A short blast of stumbling, fumbling fury came rushing out from behind the standoff and out of Phil's house. The front door swung open and into the yard Einstein Eddie came barreling out, fully naked, all 15 feet of him with his giant balls swinging in the Dead Valley air. He scared back the girls and got the drop on them with the shotgun he was holding. Now, they all had their hands up, and Phil Kaufman was smiling.

One of the hippies spoke. Don't shoot us, mister. We just want Charlie's music. Phil ignored her. Get on your bellies. All of you. They did, as Phil said. Now, do that thing you do.

The only thing you're good at, you fucking worms. Crawl off my property. With that, the hippies dropped under the, bellies, turned around, and did what their leader Charles Manson had taught them how to do, the creepy crawl, this time off Phil Kaufman's property and without Charles Manson's music. Spanga Canyon House Party was in full swing. It was 1968, post-Summer of love, freak vibes flying everywhere. Frank Zappa stood in the kitchen holding court, a group of young girls hanging on his every word. Frank was on his own trip. Charlie was well aware.

Frank was like Phil, impenetrable to Charlie's wizard ways. That didn't matter much to Charlie. For every Frank and Phil, there were scores of squeakies and gypsies and Ruth Ann's and Sadie Mays. Charlie had grouped his own girls together outrageously, and they hung on his every word. Every breath is more like it. After getting out of prison, Charlie took his wizard stick north to San Francisco and got himself a family, a little commune where he was the king bee. He scoured the hate, rounded up young teenage runaway. ways, wrapped togetherness and sexual liberation, dropped endless tabs of LSD, and offered a new

view of the American dream. Freedom outside of the establishment. A new family, free of judgment and expectation. You know, Nouveau hippie rationalizations to avoid just about any responsibility and indulge one's every desire. Charlie pitched its jive with that do-eyed sincerity most modern-day gurus at the time had mastered. Charlie studied at the feet of the masters, El Ron Hubbard, Robert de Grimston, and Mel Lyman, cult leaders, all, the respective heads of the Church of Scientology, the process, and the Fort Hill community. By the time Charlie resurfaced in Los Angeles in early 1968, Papa had a brand new bag. Girls and Music. Everywhere Charlie Manson went, and that's what people expected. Girls and music. His girls followed him everywhere. Guru was the word

most associated with Charlie, but really he was more like a pimp. If a pimp in dirty hippie rags equals guru, then okay, but Charlie's main M.O. was providing access to sex with young girls in exchange for a whole slew of goods and access. Sex for alcohol, sex for drugs, sex for transportation, sex for clothing, sex for shelter, sex for a good time, sex for whatever. If you were running around Hollywood in the late 1960s, it was well known that Charlie Manson could get you late, and with young, young girls. Ruth Ann Morehouse was 16, as was Barbara Hoyt, and Angela Lansbury's daughter, Deirdreau, was just 15.

Dean Martin's daughter, Deanna, was 18. But despite her relatively advanced age, Charlie was especially into her. He gave Deanna Martin a ring to try and persuade her to join his family. Deanna took the ring, but didn't take the bait. She bounced, no matter. Charlie had many recruits, and many of them were here with him on this night in Tapan.

a canyon at this house party. Charlie hung in the back room with his new pal Bobby Boselais. Bobby could play. He was a real musician. Bobby was skeptical of Charlie at first, but once Charlie took off with that guitar of his and those deranged space jam spoken word raps, Bobby was as enraptured as everyone else. They jammed, Charlie on acoustic and vocals, and Bobby on melodica. Shit was wild.

Charlie had something. Bobby knew it. And Bobby had something besides musical prowess. He had capabilities Charlie lacked, the criminal kind. Sure, Charlie was an ex-com, but he wasn't a heavy. He couldn't straighten out a drug dealer who'd burn Charlie on a bad deal, nor was he as convincing a hang with the biker gangs who increasingly were making their way out to Spont Ranch

where Charlie was living with his family, with the expectation of sex and good times. Bobby Boseley could hang. He had weight to him, not literally, figuratively. He was a man's man's world. Plus, he could really play, melodica, guitar, whatever. Bobby was a musician. Arthur Lee knew it.

Bobby briefly joined Lee's psychedelic folk rock group, The Grassroots, who later went on to change their name to love. And filmmaker Kenneth Anger knew it too, which is why Anger chose Bobby Boas the latest star in his film, Lucifer Rising. It was Bobby's ticket. It was the gig that was going to launch his career as a musician. But Anger's production was troubled, and by 1968, Bobby Boussela had left the project, cut out the middleman to go straight to L.A. and be his own man, except Charles Manson had other ideas.

Charlie needed Bobby to score some mescaline for his buddies in the straight Satan's motorcycle club, bikers, bad dudes. Bobby went to a friend of the family, a young music teacher named Gary Hinman, who supplied the mescaline to Bobby who delivered the straight Satan's cash and car. Harriered the drugs back to the violent motorcycle club, all of whom were none too happy to learn that the drugs were bogus. Bobby was shocked and Charlie was furious. Charlie broke with a deal for the straight satans. Bobby made him look bad, fucked up his image, played him for a fool. Charlie couldn't look bad in front of the straight satans. It challenged his authority, his manhood. How could Bobby do this to him? Bobby knew his way around a guitar, but apparently not around a drug deal. Bobby would have to make it right. Charlie sent Bobby over to do.

Gary Hinman's, the music teacher, to sort this out for the straight Satan's. The money or the drugs, Bobby. Don't fuck this up. In late July, 1969, Bobby Bosolay wheezzled his way into Gary Hinman's isolated Topanga Canyon home with Susan Sadie Mae Atkins and Mary Brunner of the Manson family. He was not in the mood for explanations. Gary Hinman had none anyway. Bobby wasn't raged. Sadie Mae and Mary were bloodthirsty, blitzed on acid and Hell bent on avenging this embarrassment to their father, to their guru, their leader, their Jesus, their Charlie. They watched as Bobby pistol-wipped the car and music teacher who swore he had no money.

He offered to sign over his two cars. Two cars. How the fuck did a music teacher have two cars? Bobby wasn't having it. This wasn't the deal. Get the money. Kill the pig. He picked up the phone and called Charlie, who sensing things were not going as planned, rushed over and into the house.

and in a wild fury pulled a knife and brought it down quick across the music teacher's face. Blood splattered everywhere. The girls looked pleased. Bobby looked almost as horrified as the music teacher who screeched in terror. Charlie looked Bobby dead in the eye and said, That's how you be a man. And then exited the apartment. Bobby and the girls were left to clean up the mess.

Mary Bruner quickly rummaged the apartment for a needle in a thread and began to sew the music teacher's face back together. It wasn't working. The music teacher wailed away. Bobby didn't know what to do. He phoned Charlie again. Charlie told him, you know what to do. It clicked for Bobby.

He dropped the phone, grabbed his knife, rushed back into the apartment, and stabbed the music teacher twice. The girls dipped a rag into the music teacher's blood, enough to paint the wall with their guru's chosen message, political piggies. It was a head fake, make the cops think the murder was politically charged,

Some violent act carried out by the radical new left. It didn't work. Ten days later, Bobby Boussela was pulled over driving the dead man's car with the murder weapon on him and booked in charge with the murder of the music teacher Gary Hinman. Bobby Boussela was behind bars and Charles Manson needed a new pal to jam with. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Neil Young didn't need the motorcycle anyway. Charlie looked like he could really use it.

Neil sat in awe of Charlie as Charlie played and sang. Neil wasn't the only one. It was Beach Boy Dennis Wilson's house, and Dennis was a bigger fan of Charlie's than Neil. Neil moved fast. He thought Charles Manson was the next Bob Dylan. All he needed was a band. Well, and some wheels.

So Neil gave Charlie's motorcycle. Charlie was eternally grateful. Neil went one click further. He approached Warner Brothers Records label president Mo Austin and told him he just had a sign Charlie. Neil would record him, he said, but Mo wasn't having it for whatever reason. So Dennis Wilson beat Neil Young to the Charles Manson punch. Dennis moved Charlie and his girls into his house to live with him full time, and he brought Charlie into the studio to record with his brothers and the Beach Boys.

It was a disaster of epic proportions. recording studios can be unforgiving to the unseasoned musician, and in 1968, that's exactly what Charles Manson was. He could string Neil Young or Dennis Wilson along through some never-ending chord progression on a beat-up acoustic, spewing out wild proclavations about utopian end times over beers and LSD, tucked away in the back room of some Topanga Canyon House party, but with the spotlight and all-hearing capture of the studio microphones trained on him,

Charles Manson had no idea what the fuck it was that he was doing. And to Dennis Wilson and his brother Brian's studio engineer, it showed immediately. Charlie fiddled with his acoustic, tried and failed to keep time. When the engineer suggested he bifurcated his guitar playing from his singing and overdub the vocals later, Charlie just ignored him and instead invited into the studio his six female family members he'd brought along to join him in song. Dennis tried his best to get the situation under control, but in the end, nothing came of it. Charles Manson was incapable of taking any sort of direction. Charles Manson wasn't the direction-taking type.

Charles Manson was the type who gave direction. The session busted up. But Dennis Wilson was still determined to introduce Charles Manson's music to the world. If Dennis couldn't get Charlie's magic down on tape, then his friend, and the birds producer Terry Melcher most certainly would be able to. Dennis helped arrange for an audition, this time, on more familiar ground. Terry would head out to Charlie's place at Spawn Ranch to hear Charlie sing and play and determine whether or not he wanted to bring him into the studio for a session

and hopefully, as Charlie wanted, signed Charles Manson to an exclusive recording and distribution contract. Charlie had his girls go to town on their grimy digs. They cleaned, they cooked, they did their best to make. hospitable their home at Spawn Ranch, the old Western TV and movie lot out in the desert, but it was like putting lipstick on a pig. The ranch was decrepit, falling apart in most every way. No matter what the girls did, it was obvious Charlie and the girls were living below the poverty level in a complete hand-to-mouth manner. Terry Melcher, son of international film star Doris Day, and massive success in his own right in the music business, couldn't help but feel bad for Charlie

and his family. They were barely hanging on, living life in the same manner Charlie played his music, poorly, fast, and extremely loose. When it came time for Charlie to play for Terry, he was, as usual, completely blitzed on LSD. He did his thing, strummed some poorly formed chords, sang whatever nonsense hippie pros popped into his head and encouraged his girls to back him up on vocals. Sometimes, if the mood was right, and whatever cocktail drugs and alcohol, alcohol was perfectly calibrated and flowing in the right direction through Charlie and his girls at the exact right time and the quote-unquote magic happened then and only then was Charlie able to whip off something approaching a song and depending on the state of the audience he was playing to

say Neil Young ripped on blow or Dennis Wilson relaxed in the afterglow of a Manson family orgy that song might even pass as entertainment but tonight was not one of those nights He bombed. Terry Melcher felt bad for him and gave him all the money he had in his pockets. 50 bucks. It was the worst mistake of his life. Charlie misinterpreted Terry's charity as an advance on a future record contract. A future record contract that Terry Melcher had no intention of entering into with Charles Manson. Terry refused nearly all future overtures from Charlie. Charlie couldn't understand it. He was relentless in his pursuit of Terry. He went to his home up in the Hollywood Hills, Seattle Drive, but Terry had moved.

He went to his buddy, Dennis Wilson, to inquire about Terry, but Dennis had moved out of his own house and left Charlie and his girls behind only to be evicted by Dennis's manager. Suddenly, Charles Manson, who up until very recently, was quite literally the toast of the town, welcomed into the inner circle by Frank Zappa, Neil Young, and Dennis Wilson was now. Charlie was enraged, but not nearly as angry as he was when he finally caught up to his old friend Dennis Wilson. There he was, the Beach Boy, and all his sunny California surfer boy glory on national television. On the highly rated Mike Douglas show, millions of people watching at home and Dennis was leading his brothers and cousins and the Beach Boys through a version of one of Charlie's songs. without Charlie knowing about it.

And even worse, Dennis had changed Charlie's words. Dennis had changed Charlie's title, from ceased to exist to never learn not to love. What the fuck was that? Words were sacred. The message was sacred. The words, the message that was literally all Charlie had. And Dennis Wilson had just fucked him out of both.

Just like Dennis had fucked every last one of Charlie's girls. Charlie was humiliated and furious. Dennis Wilson, Terry Melcher, one way or another, someone was going to pay. Music was sacred. Music spoke to Charlie. Music told him what to do. Music made clear the path. This was all temporary.

The hand-to-mouth lifestyle, prison, pimping, dumpster diving, guided dude ranch tours at George spons. Hanging on for dear life and Death Valley, Doombuggy attack battalions, grand theft auto, crooked drug deals with straight satans, dead music teachers, sweating ungrateful music industry executives, debasing yourself to get ahead in life, swallowing your pride. The music told him that there was an end to the subjugation foisted upon Charlie and his family by the man. The music told him the end times were near. Not his music, the Beatles' music, particularly the music of the so-called White album. Revolution 9, Blackbird, sexy Sadie, Piggies, Rocky Raccoon, happiness is a warm gun,

and of course, helter-skelter. The words in each song gripped Charles Manson. For Charlie, the Beatles' white album was more than the group's ninth studio album, on which each member flexed their individual solo chops. For Charlie, and by extension for Charlie's family, The White album was a call to arms to destroy the now and to compel an inevitable utopian future where he would be king. If fame in this world was impossible,

then in the next, Charlie, the guru, the wizard, the devil, the Lord Jesus Christ as he saw himself, Charles Manson, the son of man, the man of song, would finally get a chance to live up to his potential, to share his gift to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. and if anyone needed proof, they need look no further than the Bible, with its book of Revelation, which provided Charlie an apocalyptic starter kit in ancient text that confirmed what he heard buried in the grooves of the white album. Revolution 9 clearly was a reference to Revelation

Chapter 9, and yes, both Revolution and Revelation were coming. Sexy Sadie was a tribute to Charlie's girl Susan Sadie made Glutz Atkins. Piggy's mocked the squares and the man, Rocky Raccoon and Black Bird were calls to Black America to start a race war and helter-skelter, and that was the sound of the race war itself. If Dennis Wilson and Terry Melcher weren't Charlie's ticket out, then the White album was, and it all started with murder, which was fine with Charlie. He'd had it. The thick thumb of the man had been gouging at his bloodshot eye for too long, Terry blowing him off, Dennis stealing his music, twin humiliations deserving of nothing short of brutal vengeance. Charlie and most of his family have been binging on countless tabs of LSD for days.

The Manson family's chief lieutenant, Tex Watson, have been spitting out on not only LSD, but also on Toloash, aka Belladonna, aka the Devil's Route, a highly hallucinogenic plant that bent your mind and made the effects of LSD seem like child's play. When teamed together, the two drugs were a wrecking ball of insanity and destruction. Dennis, Terry, pigs, That's all they were. Establishment swine. Them and their whole lot. Everyone they came in contact with. Hollywood, New Hollywood, Charlie laughed. This new idea that somehow the young, beautiful people who hung out at Cello Drive and at Zappa's place and over at Cass Elliott's where somehow rebellious was pathetic. What did Dennis Wilson or Terry Melcher, or even Peter Fonda, or Dennis Hopper for that matter, actually know about being rebellious? They played rebels in front of the cameras. Neil Young played one in front of the cameras. Neil Young played one in four.

front of the microphone, but it was all the same. He was a fucking charlatan like the rest, doomed to a plastic eternity, a life of hypocrisy lived from on high in his cocaine tower. They knew nothing, counterculture. It was a fucking joke, a sham, a marketing slogan, just like the summer of love. These soulless automaton's lived the same debauched, greed-filled, shallow lives their powerful parents did before them. They just did it with longer hair and fringe and grass in place of pomade, black ties, and highball. They were the establishment. Charlie was the counterculture.

The real counterculture. Music as revolution. The songwriter, a poet, the troubadour, an authentic mirror to your heart. The rebel. In reality, he was all of these things. Fonda, Hopper, Neil, Dennis, Terry, they were not. And now it was time for them to pay. First, murder.

Then, revolution. Sacrifice the piggies to ignite a war. And who better than the pigs from up on Cello Drive? They were all there constantly, on any given night, living the high life. Dennis took Charlie there to see Terry before. Tex was there recently to try and get some money off Terry for Charlie to help him pay for studio time or to bail out a friend. Tex couldn't remember exactly. All he could remember was Terry's movie star girlfriend kicking out of her kitchen.

Tex knew the house, even if he didn't know the new tenants, Sharon Tate, the actress, and her A-list director husband, Roman Polansky, or their high. houseguess, Roman's friend, Voitek Freikowski, and his girlfriend, the heiress, Abigail Folger, and Sharon's ex-lover and best friend, hairstylist to the stars, Jay Sebring. Charlie had had it with a lot of them. He told Tex to take Sadie and Katie and Linda Kasabian and to, quote, go up to the house where Terry Melcher used to live and kill them, cut them up, hang them from the rafters, which was exactly what Tex Watson did. He and the girls clad in all black, with a gun, the girls with knives, snuck onto the property at Cello, pumped four bullets into the

first person that came upon, Stephen Parent, a friend of the home's caretaker who was on his way out, and they then used their creepy crawl technique to gain entry into the house. When they came upon the home's four inhabitants who were all either stoned, half asleep, or some combination of the two, Charlie's killers quickly rounded them up. Sharon Tate, who was eight months pregnant, was especially frightened. All four were bound. Voitek Vyke-Frikowski asked Tex Watson why he was there. Tex replied, I'm the devil, and I'm here to do the devil's business.

And the devil's business, they did. Everybody was rounded up and bound. Jay Sebring pleaded for Sharon Tate, eight months pregnant, and got a bullet and seven stab wounds from Tex for his trouble. Voitek Vrykowski slipped his bindings and booked it, made it as far as the lawn when Tex took him down with two bullets and cracked his skull

with his pistol grip as the girls descended with their blades. They stabbed Voitech 51 times. Abigail Folger ran too, but Katie Crenwick caught her on the lawn and brought the knife down 28 times. Abigail's final haunting words, I give up. I'm already dead. Sharon Tate, alone in the home, begged for her child's life. And instead, they stabbed her. First, in the stomach, 16 cuts in total.

Before they left, Sadie Mae Atkins dipped a finger in Sharon Tate's blood, tasted it. Then she took a towel to the blood and used it to smear the word pig on the wall. The rusting iron smell of the blood pooled and smeared everywhere would haunt the house for months. The next night, Charlie instructed text Sadie, Katie, Linda, and this time, Leslie Van Houghton, to go out and do the same thing. kill. This time, though, in a different neighborhood,

a neighborhood he knew well. 3301 Waverly Drive in Los Felas, the house by Griffith Park, next door to Charlie's old prison buddy Phil Kaufman's last place before he moved to Van Nuys. Charlie came with them to show them how to do it right.

He and Tex creepy crawled into the house, waking two random innocent Los Angeles, Lino and Rosemary La Bianca. Charlie promised they were just being robbed tied them up, then ducked out with one instruction to Tex, make sure everyone gets their hands dirty. And when Charlie walked out, the girls walked in. Tex took Lino in the living room. The girls surrounded Rosemary in the bedroom.

Tex impaled Lino La Bianca in the throat with a bayonet, and then ran him through 11 more times until the man pleaded like Abigail Folger before him. Don't stop me anymore. I'm dead, I'm dead. Sadie, Katie, and Lulu loaded up on Gets. kitchen eyes and stabbed Rosemary to death with her own housewares over and over as she could hear her husband screams from the other room. Before they left, Patricia Katie Crenwinkel dipped the towel in Lino-Labianca's blood and used it to smear the words rise and death to pigs on the walls and held their

skeleton on the refrigerator. Most gruesome, Katie carved the word war into Lina Labyanka's stomach, then left the blade and carving fork sticking out of the victim's body. Because for Charles, If the piggies weren't going to anoint him as their profit, if they weren't going to give him a career in music, then war was exactly what he was going to give them. Or so went the district attorney's office thinking of Vincent Bouliosi. Phil Kaufman couldn't believe the bullshit he was hearing, sitting in the L.A. County Hall of Justice,

a year and five months after the murders, 13 months after Charlie, Sadie, Linda, and Katie had been charged with what was now known as the Tate Labyanka murders. Phil out of hand at the Bouloghese. Dude was slick, just like a 61 Ford Falcon. Square, but slick. Did Bouloggi actually believe the fantastical nonsense he was trying to get the jury to bite down on?

Charlie? Phil's Charlie? Using the murders to mastermind a global race war? Wherein he would borrow away into the center of the earth with his family to wait out the race war an overthrow of the establishment of the man of Whitey by the black race so that he could then emerge from his subterranean exile to lead what he deemed to be an inferior race

incapable of leading themselves in a newfound earthly Eden? This was the supposed reason Charles Manson killed Sharon Tate, J. Sebring, Voitek, Vyke, Fricke, Abigail Fulger, Stephen Parent, Lino, and Rosemary Labyanka. Boliosi was shilling this out with a straight face and incredibly, the judge, the jury, the press, they were all buying it.

But wait, and there was more. Why did Charlie choose to kill at Ciello Drive of all places? Boliosi rhetorically posed the question to provide himself with a reason to respond. Because Charlie wanted to kill Terry Melcher. Phil Kaufman was incredulous. What? Because Phil knew that Charlie knew that Terry Melcher no longer lived at Cello Drive and that Charlie knew exactly who did live at Ciello Drive and so did Tex Watson.

And Phil also knew that Vincent Boulogel. Juliozi, the deputy DA with the full investigative weight of the L.A. County behind him knew that Charlie knew that Terry Melcher no longer lived at C.ello Drive. If Charles Manson wanted to kill Terry Melcher, why didn't he go to Terry Melcher's house instead of Sharon Tate's? And in Phil Kaufman's estimation, if he, a half-drunk, half-ass rock and roll manager could figure this out with next to no effort at all, how the hell was it that the chief prosecutor couldn't? Something was real wrong. Bouliosi pressed his case. It wasn't just the White album, and it wasn't just Helter Skelter,

in the Book of Revelation and LSD envisioned race wars. It was revenge. Revenge for Charlie against Terry Melcher for not making him a rock and roll star, because, after all, Charles Manson was nothing more than a delusional hippie with zero musical talent coursing through his synthetically infused veins. That was it. Phil Kaufman had heard enough. He stood up and walked out of the courtroom.

He had some records to sell. Charles Manson, the music man's records, lie, the love, and terror cult. It wouldn't be easy. Charles Manson at the moment was toxic, but that would change. Just like the order of the day. The 60s gave way to the 70s,

the 70s to the 80s, the 80s to the 90s, and so on. Every new generation at their core the same as the one before. Craven, hedonistic, power mad, pushing the limits. And by the time the 80s hit, a new crop of quote-unquote rebels

made their own scene. Punk rockers, hardcore kids, latch-key children of Charlie's baby boom generation who legitimately could give a fuck about easy riders. These were true raging bulls, real rebels. They screamed their truth into their microphones with that same Manson modus operandi. In short, fuck the world.

They plastered Charlie on their concert flyers and t-shirts and began what was to become a decades-long discovery and dissemination of Charles Manson's music. Charlie's songs were covered and recorded by the likes of Red Cross, G.G. Allen, and even George McFly himself, Crispin Glover. Guns and Roses, arguably the biggest rock group in the world at the time, included Charlie's song, Look at Your Game Girl, on their spaghetti incident. Teenage Alt Rock heartthrob, Evan Dando of the Lemonheads, recorded Charlie's song, Your Home is Where You're Happy. Black Flaggues, Henry Rollins, went on to, produce some of Charlie's unfinished recordings.

The most excellent Brian Jonestown Massacre provided real beauty with their interpretation of Charles Manson's Arkansas with their recorded version Arkansas revisited. Marilyn Manson took his stage name from Charles Manson. Nine-inch Nails as Trent Reznor moved into the site of the Manson family's first murder spree. You heard that right. He moved into the house, Sharon Tate's house on Cielo Drive, where she was slaughtered using the house.

as inspiration for countless hours of music recorded there, some of which ended up on the 9-inch Nails EP broken. And Trent Rezner wasn't the first musician to move into the house that was once a gruesome crime scene. No. Back in late 1969, Terry Melcher moved back into the home on Cello Drive, after the murders. Now why? If, as Chief Prosecutor Vincent Bouliosi alleged,

Charles Manson sent his killers to C.L. Drive to kill. Terry Melcher, would Terry Melcher move back into the home? Especially if, as Bouliosi also asserted, Terry Melcher, like the rest of Hollywood in the aftermath of the slangs on Cielo Drive, feared for his life. Melcher was afraid. Manson wanted him murdered. Manson was a failed musician. But was he? All these years later, all these recordings of Charles Manson's music by mega musicians, Charlie's music living on from one generation to the next, forevermore, doesn't sound like a quote-unquote failed musician to me. If Vincent Bouliosi lied about this, what else could he have lied about? I'm Jake Brennan, and this episode of Disgraceland is to be continued.

Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axist member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events.

Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for detail. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at Disgracelam Pod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at disgracelandpod. Rockerola.