I Want to Take You Higher_ The Life and Times of Sly & the Family Stone - Jeff Kaliss [72]
O N NEW YEAR'S EVE , Neal relayed to me a phone call from Sly, summoning us to his place. Under entreaty from Neal, Sly rescheduled the meeting for New Year's Day 2007. At about eight the next morning, I left my San Francisco home (a mile north of the Urbano Drive site of the Family Stone's inception) and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge to rendezvous with Neal in Santa Rosa. But there was no reaching the habitually nocturnal Sly by phone at that early hour, so I spent several more hours lunching, chatting, and plotting with Neal what questions, of the many that had occurred to me, I could and should put to my elusive subject. Neal was well acquainted with Sly's taboos and defenses.
Late in the afternoon, after several phoned attempts, Neal and I determined to trust dumb luck and drive over to Sly's environs. The trip took us across the Napa-Sonoma Marshes Wildlife Area, lovely and tranquil, a contrast to Neal's obvious excitement. The air was crisp and cool, and the conversation, mostly about Sly, amusing. My guide picked a staging area, just off the freeway and within striking distance of Sly, to try phoning him again. After several tries, his hope seemed to fade somewhat, but around 3 p.m. he reached Phunne, Sly's daughter with Cynthia, who was visiting. She told Neal that her dad had been up late the previous night, not ushering in 2007 but working on his music, and that he was still asleep. A while later, she confirmed his rising and gave us the green light.
Neal navigated me along the rural road leading the way up among the hills to the pretty place Vet had found for her brother, well hidden from the hoi polloi and the media. A driveway off the road wound past oak trees toward a massive six-bedroom mansion, along a curved fence embracing the elongated, well-cultivated furrowed rows of a vineyard. Mario had referred to the grapes in a tale he'd shared with me about a recent visit by the landlords. "I made a joke with 'em, `If Sly buys this place from you guys, the vineyards are going, man.' They go, `Whaddya mean?' I go, `We're gonna put thoroughbreds in there, man.' They didn't know what to say." Sly had no intention of becoming a vintner.
I was instructed by Neal to wait in the spacious garage while he ascended into the living quarters to announce me. I wondered if arrangements for a papal audience might be like this. It was a good time to take a look around at some of the "toys" for which Mario and Neal shared the responsibilities of registration and maintenance. They included a Hummer, a motorized scooter, and several massive brightly painted three-wheeled motorcycles, like the one with which Sly had gifted Vet. I'd seen it parked outside her home in Vallejo. On the walls of the open garage, above an enviable assembly of parts and tools, was a poster of Al Pacino in Scarface and the words Money, Power, Respect. The green, spicy aromatics of the outdoors overpowered any motor oil fumes.
A tall, attractive woman approached and introduced herself as Phunne. We chatted about how grateful she feels about seeing her father settled in such a benign environment, and how brisk it might get, so much cooler than the Hollywood Hills, should the wind blow over the vineyards later in the evening. Coming back down the stairs, Neal reported somewhat regretfully that Sly would prefer to prepare his own answers to a written list of questions, and have me return, later in the cool evening, to retrieve the list. I told Neal