“I’ve had a rough night, and I hate the fucking Eagles, Man!”
–Jeffrey “The Dude” Lebowski.
OCTOBER 12TH 1976, MIAMI, FL
Smooth vibes lit up the corner inside Criteria Recording Studio. Chill vibes. Loose vibes. Pop rock and gooey gum love vibes. Let’s all get along and touch the possibility vibes. Mom’s inspirational notes tucked inside a lunch box vibe. For both Don Felder and Randy Meisner, those were the right vibes to start recording the song Felder wrote, “Smooth and Soft Times Across Denim Dreams.” Both Felder and Randy were positive they’d finally be able to get one past Glenn and Henley. Felder had spent the previous month writing the lyrics, rewriting, and strumming his air guitar in his cardboard box in the Hamptons. He called Randy to assure him he had the song of the century. Randy masturbated, not because he wanted Felder, but because to finally get a song onto an album not written by Henely and Frey was the chalice of their dreams.
Through the door, the new band member, Joe Walsh, walked in. Stinking of rum, cocaine, and hookers, he shook his head, “I can’t believe it has come to this. I’m the mother fucker who wrote the killer tune, ‘Funk 49,’ but now I am here among velvet couches and James Taylor posters.” Randy waved to Joe. Joe didn’t return the wave. He walked over to his corner of the studio and started to strum his guitar. Felder, in awe, untucked his Poco shirt, and rolled a spliff.
“Feel like getting into the smooth zone, Felder?”
“Sure thing, Randy. I think I need to be good and smooth if I’m going to let Henley and Frey read my song.”
Next through the studio doors, a slender figure, who looked more like he spent the last decade free basing coke than being on a creamy vegan diet, appeared underneath the lights in front of the microphone. Joe Walsh didn’t care about the man standing there in nothing but cutoff jean shorts. No shirt to speak of, no shoes, nor shirt, like he’d woken up in his king-sized bed and walked over to the studio.
“Hey, Felder, it’s Frey,” Randy said passing the joint.”
“He isn’t just smooth, Randy, he’s yacht rock delicious.” Felder Replied.
Randy had no idea what he meant by “yacht rock delicious,” as the term had yet to be invented, but he liked the vibes brother Felder was putting down.
“Hey guys, I had JD Southerner on the phone, and we were writing lyrics for a song. Check out these lyrics,” Glenn said. “It’s sure to be a hit.”
Randy and Felder sat adoringly at the feet of Saint Frey, unfortunately seeing his nut sack dangling from his cutoff shorts. Joe Walsh didn’t budge from his spot, choosing to think about the time he shot up heroin with The Mamas and The Papas. “What kind of denim shirt nightmare have I gotten myself into?” he mumbled, taking a swill from a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Frey straightened his back and sang the gospel of delight, “Johnny-come-lately. The new kid in town. Everybody loves you. So don’t let them down.”
Felder fainted; Randy spread his arms like an airplane and started to fly himself around the room. “Glenn, after hearing that, I’m convinced you are better than Jagger and Richards. Holy, jingle bells, Frey, it’s like I consumed a bunch of Frey Fiber, and I feel regular now. Brilliant lyrics, brother, brilliant.”
“Talk about some John Lennon shit,” Felder said, pulling himself up off the floor. “When you tore into those lyrics and said, ‘so don’t let them down,’ I was like damn man, it doesn’t get any more chill than that. Chill like a vegetable garden dripping with morning dew.”
Glenn stuck out his hand like the Pope of Miami and let both Randy and Felder kiss his hand a dozen times. Glenn stuck his hand towards Walsh. Joe strummed his Les Paul and gave Frey the middle finger. Glenn shrugged his shoulders, understanding all too well that Walsh would eventually conform to the brand of oat milk Glenn was singing.
“Henley’s going to love that shit, Glenn,” Randy said. “Fuck man, ‘The New Kid in Town,’ indeed.”
“You just cussed, Randy,” Felder said, holding up the swear jar.
“Where is the maestro?” Glenn asked.
“He’s on his way,” Randy said. “He had to make a few stops.”
“Hope he’s bringing the vibes tonight. I’m getting tired of Henley thinking he’s all that just because he got a man perm,” Glenn replied.
The three of them gathered around the microphone and belted out the lyrics Glenn provided.
“You know what this tune needs?” Randy said. “a little razzle dazzle, some guitarron Mexicano.”
“I think I have a boner,” Frey replied. “Wow, your time in Poco really supplied the missing smooth ingredient to the song. Let me go call Southerner. Fuck. I’m bumping you up from two percent to three percent of the royalties.” Felder looked at Frey like a puppy dog. “No Felder, you are still working for free.”
Joe Walsh strummed a riff on his guitar, unbeknownst to him, which would later become the riff to “A Life of Illusion” six years down the line. He wanted to share it with his new bandmates, but watching Felder and Randy have tickle fights pissed him enough to forget the riff instantly. But they all stopped when the doors opened, and dry ice smoke blasted into the studio.
A mariachi band playing fifty guitars walked through the smoke and formed two lines. They kept playing in the two uniform lines. Next, two priests tossing holy water around the room, they both prayed in Latin. They were followed by two bikini-clad women riding tigers through the two mariachi lines. They waved at the entire room as if they were queens at the Rose Bowl Parade.
Through the smoke one leg stepped on the plush carpet, clad in tight flared denim pants. It was simply how Don Henley arrived everywhere he went. A man-perm extravaganza exploded all around the studio. Henley, with his denim shirt only halfway buttoned up, showed chest hair regalia. Tiny women disco danced on his tight brown perm. His boots were made of pure smooth denim from a town outside Fresno called Denim City. With each step Henley took a woman in another city had an orgasm. He snapped his fingers and everything instantly vanished, Joe Walsh belched and went back to strumming his guitar.
“Wait til you hear Glenn’s new tune, Sir Henley,” Randy said.
“Yeah, Sir Henley, the tune is killer,” Felder said.
Henley leaned back on a cool leather couch that no one else was allowed to sit on, the crisp leather snugged his body and made him feel like cologne.
“What’s it called?” Henley asked.
“New Kid in Town,” Randy said.
Henley tossed his head to the side. “Pfff. Wait to you to hear what I wrote. I was ripping rails with Boz Scaggs and this tune, it just fucking came to me. Like it was God sent.”
“You are the ear of the lord,” Felder said.
“What’s it called,” Randy said.
“Hotel California.”
“Crispy title,” Felder said. Let me go strum my guitar, see if I can produce a riff.
“I can see it now,” Henley explained. “This song is so massive, so fucking annoying, so bloated and full of silky tendencies, that radios will play it for decades to come. In the year 2025 there will be some industrious guy named Frank driving home from work. See Frank wants to hear something aggressive like Sabbath.”
“Not Black Sabbath,” Randy said.
“Shut the fuck up, Randy. I’m talking.” Henly continued. “And this Frank guy he’s trying to make it as an artist, but he can’t quite get there so he keeps a day job, and it makes him angry. So, he’s driving home wanting to crank aggressive rage. He hates Jackson Browne, he can’t stand Seger, nor me. He fucking hates me.”
“Henley, Browne, Seger, that’s the holy trinity of tight denim,” Randy interrupted.
“I said, shut the fuck up, Randy or you’ll be working for free like Felder,” Henley continued. “And out of nowhere, ‘Hotel California’ will come on, and Frank has a choice, listen to it, or shut it off and listen to the wind smack against the windows. He thinks he’s sly and changes the channel, but it’s on there too, and it’s not only on the classic rock channels but also on the smooth rock channels, the pop rock channels. ‘Hotel California’ will take over the planet. This Frank guy might hate me in the year 2025, but he sure as shit will have to listen to me for eternity. Smooth, my brothers, smooth like my Denim.” Henley stuck out his flared denim leg, and Randy rubbed it for good luck.
Glenn walked out from the office, “Henley, you showed up!” Henley and Glenn shared a hug, then they both picked up a piece of paper and signed autographs for each other.
“I hear you wrote a killer tune,” Henley said.
“I got a few more lyrics from JD on the phone, want to hear them?”
“Fuck yes I do,” Henley said, taking his place back on the crisp leather sofa.
Glenn took his place on the stage and belted out the new lyrics into the microphone, “There’s so many things you should’ve told her. But night after night, you’re willing to hold her. Tears on your shoulder.”
Henley’s man perm caught on fire due to the extreme craftsmanship of the lyrics, the genius, Randy put out the fire like he always does. Henley stood up and applauded.
“Glenn,” he said, “you standing there in those creamy cutoffs, belting out those highly original lyrics never thought of before, my man, you just punched a ticket into the legends. One day a person will say, ‘Elvis Presley.’ But then those of us who are civilized, those of us who love fresh squeezed juices will say, ‘Glenn Frey,’ you’ll be up there my man.”
Frey and Henley embraced in the middle of the recording studio. Randy took four hundred polaroids of the embrace. Walsh nodded out from too much whiskey. Felder clapped tirelessly.
“I got a song, too, Glenn. I was just telling the music paupers about it.”
“What’s it called, Henley?” Glenn asked.
“’Hotel California.’”
“Bitchin’ title,” Glenn said, “Let me hear what you’ve written.”
Henley walked up to the microphone and leaned in. “Wait I need my aura,” he said. Randy turned a single light on behind him. A glowing light wrapped around Henley, like a saint candle. “On a dark desert highway. Cool Wind in my Hair.” Henley stopped singing. “That’s all I got.”
Glenn stood up and began a slow clap that grew contagious with everyone but Joe Walsh.
“Effortless, tranquil, steady, velvet,” Glenn shouted. “Bravo maestro. You are the REAL boy of summer.”
“Thanks. I like that boys of summer thing, I might use that one day to annoy the shit out of billions of people in the eighties, but not right now. Like when I go solo because I’ve enough of you peons.”
“Us break up. That’s funny,” Randy said.
“Shut up, Randy,” both Henley and Glenn said.
THREE HOURS LATER, DEEP INTO THE SMOOTH RECORDING OF NEW KID IN TOWN:
What the Eagles didn’t know when they were busy dipping their sensitive vibes into the nutsack of “New Kid in Town,” was in the studio next door at Criteria, Black Sabbath showed up to record their brutally loud but subpar album, TECHNICAL ECSTACY (true story look it up.) Every time Felder tried to drop a lick, Tommy Iommi shredded his guitar, so loud Felder fell and cried. Every time Henley tried to hit a drum groove, Bill Ward hit a beat so ravenous, so thunderous, the smooth left Henley’s perm. When Glenn tried to sing like a delicate flower, letting the boring find even more boring in life, an incoherent Ozzy shouted his lyrics, drowning out the vibes Glenn’s cutoffs were trying to put out.
“This is really crushing my mellow,” Henley said.
“Mine too, let’s go kicks Sabbath’s ass.” Glenn said.
“I got an idea,” Henley said. “Send Ozzy and the boys some fresh squeezed juices, cocaine, oat milk, and my autograph and everything will turn out chill, and we can have a good relationship with those brits, like the new kid in town. Randy go squeeze some lemons and oranges for our neighbors.”
“On it, Sir Henley.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER:
“Guys,” Randy said with his face painted in bat’s blood. “They took the coke but told me to ‘go fuck off with the oat milk and freshly squeezed juices.’ Those guys aren’t smooth at all.”
“Well,” Glenn said, “anyone down for vegan tacos? We can finish this song tomorrow morning after a killer session of yoga on our denim yoga mats.”
“Now you’re talking,” Henley said.
“But before we go, may I suggest something,” Joe Walsh said, finally talking to his new bandmates.
“What’s that?” Henley replied.
“How about a kick ass silly tickle fight!”
“I knew he’d come around,” Glenn said, bumping Henley in the arm.
The soft rock gods gathered in the middle of the studio and began a giggle filled tickle fight to the thunderous rock n roll of Black Sabbath blasting through the wall. The vegan tacos they ate that night inspired Henley and Frey to sit in the sauna together and write the soft rock anthem, Life in the Fast Lane.’ Because nothing says, life in the fast lane, quite like Don Henley and Glenn Frey sitting in a sauna and ripping vegan taco farts into the music universe.
This is the ACTUAL true story about the recording of the soft rock album full of douche-chills, “Hotel California.” I’m not a music journalist. I’m not even a journalist. I simply write a column for the independent magazine BULL FICTION. My column is titled, MOANS FROM THE CONDIMENT FRIDGE. I’m with Jeffrey “The Dude” Lebowski; I hate the Eagles. I hate them more than any band in the history of bands. I hate them more than Journey and U2, and I REALLY fucking hate those bands. But I felt the world needed to know the truth about the actual story behind the recording of the dull, annoying, sugary, craptastic album. Not the ‘Behind the Music,” version. Every word in this column is a metaphor for how their music makes me feel, yet every word is also a true account. The year is 2025, my name is Frank, and I shut off the song ‘Hotel California” one thousand times this year already and it’s only June.