I was I was looking at the back cover of the
Super Session album earlier today. Oh, yeah.
The gold record. Right. You know, the one Al
Cooper, Mike Bloomfield, Stephen Stills. It's
this iconic 1968 record that basically invented
the whole concept of the super group jam session.
And right there. sharing equal billing with these
absolute titans of rock is a drummer. Eddie Hill.
Vast Eddie Hill. And it struck me that if you
were a music fan back then, holding that LP,
you would have totally assumed this guy was the
future. I mean, he wasn't hidden in the liner
notes or anything. He was the fourth star. He
really was the engine room for the heavy hitters.
Exactly. And yet, if we fast forward just two
years to 1970, he's just, he's gone. Gone. Not
just dropped from a label, but completely vanished
from the industry. It's really... one of the
most abrupt disappearances in rock history. It's
the ultimate Where's Waldo of the 1960s sunset
strip scene. Up until the Vanishing Act, obviously.
Right. Because we've got this stack of session
logs and biographies here for this deep dive.
And when you line them all up, Eddie Howe is
practically the Forrest Gump of the 60s rock
scene. He was everywhere. He's the guy bridging
the gap between that polished suit and tie wrecking
crew era and the psychedelic let it all hang
out jam band era. That is the perfect way to
frame it. He's the transitional figure. I mean,
he had the chops to sit in a room with Al Blaine
and read charts, but he had the attitude to back
up Jimmy. Hendricks or jam with Mike Bloomfield.
He was a chameleon. A chameleon with a very heavy
right foot. Yeah, exactly. So the mission for
our deep dive today is to figure out how someone
that essential, you know, that talented and that
visible just evaporates. And I think we really
have to start by looking at his musical DNA because
he didn't come out of the California surf scene.
No, not at all. He was a Chicago guy born in
Forest Park, Illinois. Right. And that matters
because his formative years weren't spent playing
surf and safari. He was cutting his teeth in
the Chicago blues clubs. He was hanging around
with guys like Michael Bloomfield and Barry Goldberg
as a teenager, which is. A really gritty education.
It is. You learn to play behind the beat. You
learn to swing. And you learn that the drums
aren't just a metronome. They are a lead instrument
if you play them right. Absolutely. So when he
relocates to Los Angeles in 1964, he brings that
aggressive driving Chicago style right with him.
He lands in L .A. and immediately starts grinding
on the club circuit. With a band called Joel
Scott Hill and the Strangers. Right. And they
were good enough to open for the TMI show. Which
is legendary. I mean, we're talking about the
concert film with the Rolling Stones, James Brown,
the Beach Boys. Q -Jacks. Yeah. The Strangers
didn't actually make the final cut of the film,
but just being on that bill in 1964 puts Eddie
in the upper echelon right away. He wasn't playing
garage parties. He was playing the Santa Monica
Civic Auditorium. But the real turning point,
the moment where the industry machine really
tries to capture him, is with the modern folk
quintet. The MFQ. Yeah, this is 1965. And the
producer for those sessions at Gold Star Studios
is Phil Spector. And we know what a Phil Spector
session meant in 1965. It wasn't a jam. It was
military service. It was sonic construction.
Spector would have three or four guitarists,
multiple pianos, and he wanted the drums to be
this thundering heartbeat. For Eddie, this was
a grueling masterclass in discipline. You couldn't
overplay. You had to hit hard. And you had to
be perfectly consistent take after take after
take. And the tragedy of the MFQ is that for
all that endless rehearsal, for all that wall
of sound treatment, they only got one track out
of the entire Spectre Association. This could
be the night. Yeah. Which is a fantastic track,
by the way. It really is. If you listen to the
drumming on that. It's compulsive. It had that
classic be my baby, kick snare drive. But Eddie
adds a little more snap to it. It's not quite
as laid back as how Blaine might have played
it. It's anxious. But the band stalls? I mean,
they open for everyone. The Velvet Underground,
the Byrds, Paul Butterfield. But they never get
their big break. They are the nearly made it
band of the strip. But while the band is stalling,
Eddie's reputation is skyrocketing. People were
watching the drummer. Exactly. And I think one
of the first big pivots into the new sound comes
with Donovan. Eddie plays on the Sunshine Superman
album in 1966. Specifically the track, The Trip.
Yes. This is where we start to hear the fast
Eddie style really emerge. The Trip is psychedelic
folk rock. But listen to what Eddie is doing.
He's not playing a standard 4 -4 rock beat. He's
using a jazz grip. He's throwing in these rolling,
triplet -heavy fills that feel way more like
Gene Krupa than Ringo Starr. It's busy, but it
fits perfectly. That's the key right there. He
fills every available pocket of space, but he
never steps on Donovan's vocal. Critics at the
time actually single out his performance in reviews,
calling it fine drumming. Which is rare for a
session player. Extremely rare. Usually if you
notice the drummer in a folk review, it means
they messed up. Right. So that brings us to 1967,
the summer of love. And if you look at the timeline,
Eddie Ho is arguably the busiest drummer in Los
Angeles. He is just everywhere. He's a workaholic.
Yeah. And he's jumping between genres wildly,
realizing that he can play absolutely anything.
For instance, he hooks up with Gene Clark, who
had just left the Birds, and the guitar player
Clarence White. Now, on paper... On paper, this
is a super group. Totally. But in reality, it
was a disaster. Oh, yeah. There's that famous
anecdote from their bassist, John York. They're
playing the Whiskey A Go -Go, trying to debut
this new country rock sound, which was years
ahead of its time, by the way. Way ahead. And
the audience just isn't having it. They're talking.
They're ignoring the stage entirely. It shows
you how fickle the Sunset Strip scene was. You
have Gene Clark, one of the best songwriters
in America, and Eddie Ho, a premier drummer,
and they are bombing. Yeah. Gene Clark actually
walked off stage mid -set during a blues jam
because nobody was listening. But Eddie doesn't
walk off. He just pivots. At the exact same time
he's bombing at the whiskey with Gene Clark,
he's in the studio with a pop group called the
Giant Sunflower. Playing on February sunshine.
What a track. Flower power, bubblegum pop perfection.
And it's incredibly significant because it was
the very first single released on Ode Records,
Lou Adler's label. That Lou Adler connection
is the key to the kingdom. Adler was one of the
masterminds behind the Monterey Pop Festival.
He knew Eddie was reliable. He knew he was flashy.
When the festival comes around in June 67, Eddie
gets the call for the closing act. The mamas
and the papas. Yep. This is a huge visual moment.
We actually have the video of this. The mamas
and the papas are closing out the most important
festival of the decade. And Eddie isn't just
keeping time back there. He's wearing a caftan.
He's got this giant afro starting to grow out.
And some luminous drumsticks. Yes, the glowing
sticks. A fellow musician recalled seeing him
at a jam session around this time. The lights
went out, the black light came on, and all you
could see was this blur of fluorescent light
flying around the kit. Pure showmanship. He totally
understood that rock and roll was visual. But
musically, the Monterey set is fascinating because
he is playing in tandem with Hal Blaine. Right,
they had two drummers for that set. And usually
when you have two drummers, it's a massive train
wreck. Oh, yeah. But here you have Hal Blaine
holding down the session for it, providing that
steady, unwavering beat. And Eddie is coloring
outside the lines. He's doing the fills, the
accents, the cymbal crashes. He is the chaotic
energy on top of the structure. You can really
hear it on his improvised. Drum intro to California
Dreamin'. He does this role that just sets the
tone. It's loose. It feels like a live performance,
not a polished record. And that exact looseness
is what the Monkees were looking for. Let's talk
about the Monkees. Because in late 67, they are
in full rebellion mode. They are tired of being
puppets. They're tired of Don Kirshner telling
them what to sing. They take total creative control
for the album Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and
Jones LTD. And who do they hire as their studio
drummer? Eddie Howe. And this is a massive endorsement.
The Monkees could have hired anyone in the world.
They have unlimited budgets. They chose Eddie
because he represented that real rock credibility
they were so desperate for. Just look at the
track list he played on. Pleasant Valley Sunday.
Daydream Believer. Words. These are massive,
massive hits. Let's look at Daydream Believer
for a second. We have all heard it a million
times. But next time you listen, pay attention
to the transition from the verse to the chorus.
That fill. that's eddie it is crisp it's precise
but it has a swing to it it physically lifts
the song but then you have a track like star
collector the closing track on the album this
is the monkeys getting weird it's about groupies
it features an early moog synthesizer and the
drumming the drumming is ferocious the song basically
devolves into this extended improvised drumming
showcase at the end Eddie is just going off.
He's treating a pop record like a jazz odyssey,
playing across the bar lines, using the tom -toms
to create this rolling thunder effect. It is
the sound of a drummer who has been told to just
break out of the standard pop mold. That freedom
really peaks in 1968. This is the year of Super
Session. And I want to dig into this because
I feel like this album is where Eddie Howe cements
his legacy. It's his masterpiece, without a doubt.
The concept was simple. Al Cooper books studio
time, calls Mike Bloomfield, and says, let's
just play. No rehearsed songs, just charts and
vibes. They needed a drummer who could react
instantly. And Stephen Stills, who comes in for
the second half of the record, specifically vouched
for Eddie. He agreed to the session partly because
he heard Eddie was the drummer, calling him an
old friend. Which implies they had been jamming
in Laurel Canyon living rooms for a while. But
listen to Season of the Witch. It is an 11 -minute
jam. 11 minutes? Do you know how hard it is to
keep a groove interesting? for 11 minutes without
a click track i can imagine the temptation is
to start overplaying or you just get bored exactly
but eddie locks in he finds this pocket this
slightly laid -back funk groove, and he just
sits in it. He lets the guitarist take the spotlight,
but he drives the intensity up and down with
just his hi -hat work. It became a huge staple
of underground FM radio. Critics described it
as flawless drumming that laid down a solid groove.
And for the first time, he wasn't just in the
liner notes. His photo and name were featured
prominently on the back cover of a gold record.
He was a star. And the versatility he showed
in 1968 is just absurd. He does Super Session,
which is rock and soul. Then he simultaneously
goes and plays with heavy Chicago blues musicians.
Charlie Musselwhite, Harvey Mandel, Barry Goldberg.
Heavy shuffles. Real gritty stuff. Right. And
then, just to prove his immense versatility,
he plays on Tim Buckley's Goodbye and Hello.
Which is the complete opposite end of the spectrum.
That's delicate, psychedelic folk. It's an odd
time signatures. Yeah, to go from pounding out
heavy blues to playing the intricate, swirling
rhythms of Tim Buckley, that requires a musical
brain that most rock drummers just didn't have.
He wasn't just a rock drummer or a blues drummer,
he was a pure... Oh, and we should mention Lee
Michaels, too. He played on the album Carnival
of Life. The credits on that album were messy,
but critics still went out of their way to note
his excellent performance. He was just on fire
in 68. So 1968 ends. He's on a gold record. He's
the go -to guy. And then 1969 hits, and the wheels
don't just come off. They come off incredibly
fast. It is a swift and brutal decline. And we
have to look at the context of 1969 in Los Angeles.
The scene was changing. The drugs were changing.
It wasn't just pot and acid anymore. It was heroin.
It was heavy drinking. The peace and love veneer
was really cracking. And Eddie fell right into
that crack. The pivotal turning point seems to
be the Flying Burrito Brothers incident. This
is one of the great what -ifs of rock history.
Graham Parsons invites Eddie to join this seminal
country rock group. If Eddie had specced this
gig, he would have been a legend for that alone.
But the reality of his addiction was taking over.
Yeah. Chris Hillman described the recording sessions
as tragic. He said Eddie was so intoxicated he
would physically fall off the drumstool. He couldn't
function. And it wasn't just the physical inability
to play that ruined things. He burned the bridge
socially and financially. There's that specific
anecdote from John Corneal, another drummer in
that circle. That's the nail in the coffin. Corneal
claimed that the record company gave the band
a cash advance. Eddie allegedly took an equal
share of that cash, including Corneal's money,
and then just split. He effectively disappeared
with the money. In a town like Hollywood, you
can be difficult, you can be late. But you cannot
steal the money. No, that's the one unforgivable
sin. Word gets around instantly. Do not hire
Eddie Howe. He's a liability. And just like that,
the phone stops ringing. He has a few final credits
that trickle out in 1969 and 1970. Mostly stuff
probably recorded before the crash. He's on a
Harvey Mandel record and a Screamin' Jay Hawkins
track. But then, he just simply stopped. Total
silence. This wasn't a slow fade. It was the
cliff. And this is where the mystery part comes
in. Usually when a guy washes out of the big
leagues, you see him pop up in bar bands or teaching
drums at the local music store. And he didn't
do any of that. He just ceased to exist as a
public figure. It was so total that Denny Doherty
from the Mamas and the Papas gave an interview
in 2002, decades later, where he stated he believed
Eddie Howe had been dead for years. But he wasn't.
No, he had actually moved back to the Midwest.
He lived in total obscurity, completely removed
from the music industry, dealing with his health
and his demons in private. He actually lived
until 2015. It's heartbreaking, really, when
you reflect on the talent versus the demons.
He spent maybe four or five years in the sun.
But in those few years, a musician with that
kind of originality and showmanship defined the
rhythm of the Sunset Strip. He defined the sound
of late 60s L .A., but he just couldn't survive
the lifestyle. It really makes you think about
the nature of the session musician. We know the
stars, we know stills, we know Donovan, we know
the monkeys. But the guys who actually built
the sound, the architects, they are so often
invisible. They are. Eddie didn't have royalties
to fall back on. He didn't have a massive band
apparatus supporting him. When he couldn't work,
there was no safety net. So when we listen to
Super Session today, or we hear that perfect
drum fill -in daydream believer, we're hearing
a guy who poured every ounce of talent he had
into the tape machine and then burned out before
he could collect his due. He's the invisible
man. But man, could he play. He sure could. I
want to leave you all with a final provocative
thought as we wrap up this deep dive. How many
other completely invisible figures are responsible
for the music we consider classic today? And
if Eddie Howe hadn't burned out so spectacularly
in 1969, would he be remembered today as a household
name right up there with the rock stars he supported?
Next time you're spinning some 60s vinyl, check
those liner notes. You might be surprised who
you find hiding back there.