In the spring of 1975 I formed a production company which I'd named Fallen Angel Productions. I needed the company to deal with the money I received from my financier, Rezi Kashfi, to pay my musicians, engineers, rehearsal studios, recording studios, roadies and myself. Working with Rezi was difficult and I'd found myself frequently chasing after him for the weekly money needed to keep my band afloat and together.
A couple of times, after finally tracking Rezi down and getting him to write me a check, I'd deposited it in my personal account at Security Pacific, only to get a call the next day informing me that Rezi's check had bounced. In the meantime, I'd written checks to all the people on the payroll and had to call and ask them to hold onto them while I sorted things out. I quickly came to the conclusion that the only way for me to avoid the embarrassment of rubber checks was to take them directly to the bank, and after verifying the funds, I could make the deposit and pay my people.
I'd opened my new production company's account at Rezi's bank, City National on Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills, to make this as simple as possible.
On one of my weekly banking ritual days, I walked into City National and headed for the stand up table to write out my deposit slip and sign my check. As I neared the table I noticed what looked, from the back, to be a homeless guy. I moved to the opposite side of the table, not wanting to get too close to this bum, and only looked at him involuntarily when I heard him moan. Glancing up, I vaguely recognized him. It took me several seconds to put it all together and realize I was looking at Joe Cocker, and he was obviously in distress. I saw that he was fumbling with a check, and seemingly, couldn't figure out what to do with it.
© Linda Wolf
"Hey, man, do you need some help?" I asked.
"They won't cash my check," he answered.
"Let me see."
I took the check from him and saw that it was a Security Pacific check (my personal account bank), made out to him. I asked if he had an account with either bank and got my answer from the confused look on his face. I told him to wait while I took care of my business and after making my deposit, I asked Joe if he had a car. He said he was walking. I suggested that he come with me and that I'd drive him to Security Pacific so he could cash his check.
As we walked to my car I looked him over. His clothes were dirty…he was dirty…and smelled rather ripe. His face was unshaven, bruised, and scratched up like he'd recently staggered into civilization from weeks in the wilderness.
It was a short drive from City National Bank in Beverly Hills to the Security Pacific branch on Beverly Blvd in West Hollywood. I went in with the great singer and waited to make sure he got his money. He did, and we went outside to my car. I asked if he needed a ride somewhere, but he said that now that he had money ($500) he was cool and could call someone who'd come fetch him. He thanked me and walked away.
I watched him walking unsteadily away on Beverly toward Robertson and was distressed and torn. I didn't know what to do or think. I was sad, disillusioned, and felt like crying. I was disappointed in myself and embarrassed that I hadn't known how to help him anymore than I had, but at the same time, relieved that he'd turned down my offer to help him further with a lift. I hoped he'd be alright but I had my doubts.
