The last time I saw Danny Whitten, it was late 1972 and he had come to play in the Stray Gators with Jack Nitzsche, Kenny Buttrey, Tim Drummond, Ben Keith, and me at the ranch. We were rehearsing for the first tour since my Harvest album had been released. The tour was my longest and biggest ever. I wanted the band to be able to play well live, and just as CSN wanted me for that, I wanted Danny in this band.
I had heard he was doing well and had called him and invited him up. I went to pick him up at the airport and take him to the ranch. He wanted to stop at a liquor store and so we pulled over in Millbrae, a little town near the San Francisco airport. There was something weird about that. I really can’t put my finger on what it was, but something happened at that stop. I wish I could describe it, but now I just have a feeling. I think it was because he didn’t want me to go into the liquor store with him. Anyway, he reappeared and got back in the car and we headed up to the ranch, where I set him up in a little cabin on the ranch called the Red House.
Rehearsals started the next day, and I was excited. It was great to hear Danny singing and playing with these guys, but it didn’t last long before he had to take a break and go back to the house. Eventually I started to see that he was still strung out. I’m pretty sure Jack knew right away, and maybe Tim knew, too. But no one was talking. After a few days of this, it was becoming obvious that Danny wouldn’t be able to cut it. He wanted to. You could really see that. I had to let him go, and that was difficult. So I got him a ticket home and a ride to the airport. It was sad, but we had work to do to prepare for this huge tour that was already booked. It would have been great if Danny was with us, but that was not to be. We rehearsed without him and got started rebuilding the band.
That night Carrie and I were asleep in our little bedroom at the ranch house when the phone rang. It was the middle of the night, and Carrie got up to answer it. I fell back asleep. She woke me up.
“Danny has OD’d,” she said. “That was the LA County Coroner. He had the ranch phone number on a piece of paper in his wallet.”
I lit a fire and sat there in my rocking chair. We lit a candle for him. It was as simple as that. I knew that what I had done may have been a catalyst in Danny’s death, but I also knew that there was really nothing else I could have done. I can never really lose that feeling. I wasn’t guilty, but I felt responsible in a way. It’s part of what I do. Managing the band and taking care of the music is very painful at times. It’s a sad story. A moment I will never forget, years I can never replace, music the world will never hear, all gone in the turning of a second.
ny