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Dylan is almost indifferent to what his neighbors call his Taj Mahal. Says he: "One hundred years from now I won't be judged for the house." He is probably correct. One local geologist believes that the mansion is already slipping into the ocean.
Flash is what affluent rockers want, insists Decorator Phyllis Morris. Rock stars love trendy Phyllis because her furnishings—zebra rugs, Borsalino mirrors, St. Regis candelabra and Corsican coffee tables—are loud, lacquered and overpriced. "Rock people are just like the movie stars of the '40s," says la dame du flash. "It's exciting to watch them spend money. They're looking for something that says they've arrived. They're creative, emotional, uninhibited. And in their homes you'll find an atmosphere of uncontrolled funk."
Uncontrolled well describes the $200,000 house that Record Producer Al Kooper rebuilt three years ago. It is designed for a person who has nothing to do. Rooms not filled with games (pool, pong, pinball) are studded with dials, toggles and buttons of the "Koopertronics" recording system. Says he: "I built it all myself. It's a ludicrous house for a ludicrous person. But I love it."
British Bluesman John Mayall, 43, has a different idea of flash. The floor of his pool has a huge erotic painting. He has one of L.A.'s most extensive collections of pornography. Perched atop a ridge, Mayall's $230,000 house has a Tudor-style living room festooned with saddles and snakeskins. But Hogarth prints lead up winding stairs to a large alphabetized porn library.
Los Angeles rockers do not lack for private places in which to party. Alice Cooper, Brian Wilson and Al Kooper all have swimming pools and vast game rooms. Joni Mitchell, Ringo Starr, Bernie Taupin and Rod Stewart have airy mansions where hundreds could play.
On the Town. But the music social scene is relatively unsophisticated. Close friends are welcome at Ringo's rented Hollywood Hills house between 2 a.m. and 7 a.m., but things of significance are never discussed. "Rock performers don't talk to artists or economists," says Rock Entrepreneur Dave Geffen. "As a group, they are a collection of narcissists in desperate need of a catalyst. A rock performer goes to a friend's house to smoke dope. They listen to each other's music and feel special. The guy goes home telling himself he's had a night on the town."
This casual inwardness has not prevented an ad hoc caste system from forming. Those who railed against privilege only a few years ago now hustle after keys to the best private clubs. After only ten years, Los Angeles' recording industry is hardly mature, but its A-B-C social listings may be more rigid than that of the film community's.
Infant bands with no gold records, foreign groups on their first trip through L.A. and all teen-agers (punk rock) belong strictly to the C list, centered at a sticky-floored club called the Starwood. An unstated rule restricts them to the east end of the Strip until they mature or succeed.