The Ballad of John Train

"I'd heard through channels that Ochs had only recently come off a severe and protracted manic – in fact, psychotic – episode that had lasted many months. During that time he'd changed his name to "John Train," announced that Train had murdered Phil Ochs, and threatened violence to anyone who called him by any other name but Train. At the start of this period, Train had performed a drunken, dispirited and embarrassing "Phil Ochs Farewell Performance" at Gerdes. Not long after, he opened a bar on Broome Street called Che – after the revolutionary – which quickly went bust, costing Ochs the last of his life savings. Train – Ochs's "Mr. Hyde" – did not seem to care about that, or any other misfortune that might befall the dead folksinger. The delusional Train planned myriad illusory projects. "Train [said] he was going to produce a movie version of Billy the Kid better than all the other versions combined. Elvis Presley was set to play Pat Garrett; Bobby Dylan, Billy the Kid," writes Ochs biographer Marc Eliot. In the final scene, Elvis would gun-down Dylan.

"Soon Train, penniless, was banned from the Village apartments of Ochs's old pals, including Dave Van Ronk, who thought him downright dangerous. Van Ronk was right. At one point, Train physically attacked another friend of Ochs's, Wendy Winstead. Train beat her in the head with a telephone and then picked her up and threw her against a refrigerator.

"Train spent nights sleeping in alleys and days trying to find bars where he was still welcome. He'd embarrassed himself and caused trouble in so many that doors were closed nearly everywhere. Porco would let him in, but Train – wielding a hammer – nearly ruined that when he said he'd kill the proprietor after Porco mixed a purposely light drink for the ill-tempered alcoholic.

"At one point, Jerry Rubin convinced Train to place himself in a mental hospital. Train departed the place in less than 24-hours and spent a night sleeping in the boiler room of the Chelsea Hotel. After eventually making it to L.A., Train walked around for a time in the all gold, sequined suit Ochs had worn to further outrage folkies at his electric Carnegie Hall show in March of 1970. The suit was stained with vomit. Once again, Train was homeless. He showed up at Peter Asher's house in Beverly Hills and managed to bum a hundred dollars.

"On the coast, Train continued to concoct fantasies and believe them. He told all those who would listen that he was a member of the CIA. He also said he'd recently spent a night in a Los Vegas jail-cell with Howard Hughes and the dead Bobby Kennedy. Amid this, he was planning a "Save New York City" concert that would feature not only Bobby Dylan but Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and Leonard Bernstein with the New York Philharmonic – all on a marvelous rotating stage at Shea Stadium.

"Train was dead by the time Phil showed up at Porco's party. Ochs was Ochs once more. Just as pathetic, weary, overweight and ill – but Ochs, hanging with Bobby Neuwirth, David Blue, Joan Baez and Dylan – every one of them but Ochs a part of the newly formed Rolling Thunder enterprise. A film crew followed Dylan around, shooting some moments that would eventually find their way into Renaldo and Clara. I was already fairly fuzzy when I went up to Dylan. I reminded him we'd met before, and where. He said "Sure, I remember. How's Pete?" After a few words of my muddled response, Dylan patted me on the arm: "Well, alright." Then he moved on.

"Dylan and Baez launched the party with a nostalgic set: 1963 all over again. Dylan wore a large white cowboy hat. As soon as he stepped off the stage, a grinning Phil lifted the hat off Dylan's head and donned it himself. Phil wore the hat for the rest of the evening. The party went on and on, set after set, liquor flowing. Ochs didn't play until about 4 in the morning. I remember that at one point he invited Dylan to join him but Dylan, somewhat drunk himself by that time, declined. Despite being demolished, Phil turned in a pretty good performance as I recall, playing on a borrowed guitar, and talking more than singing his songs. But then I was not positioned to recall much. . .

"A few days later I was downtown once again, playing at Malachy McCourt's marvelous bar The Bells of Hell. I was not far into my set when Phil – whom I'd evidently informed of the gig, although I didn't remember doing so – wandered into the back of the room, taking me by surprise. He looked just as disheveled as he had previously, but was smiling and gave me a wave.

"Later on, after my set, we sat across the table from each other and drank. Unlike at Porco's party, where his mood had seemed good throughout the long evening, the booze this night quickly made Phil sullen and petulant. He damn near erupted into violence when a passerby happened to brush against him where he sat; and he scowled bitterly when the music and laughing in the tavern made it hard for us to hear each other. I probably would have been quite elevated, having the opportunity to get loaded with one of my heroes, except I'd by then seen just enough of Phil to realize he wasn't my hero any more. He was just a sad story. Still, I sensed that it was not his fault. A nagging whisper told me that Ochs was a victim of a beast larger than himself. Fate, I thought at the time. There but for fortune. But now, looking back, I realize it was something far more ominous than mere fate. It was biochemistry.

"Ochs complained to me that Seeger hated him, that he could no longer write songs, and that his voice was shot. He also said "the bastard John Train" had burned all of his – Ochs's – bridges, leaving him stranded and abandoned in desolate territory, with no means of escape. I told him I thought tunes like "Changes," "Miranda," "Crucifixion," "When I'm Gone," and "No More Songs" were masterpieces destined to echo for a very long time, unlike Phil's or anyone else's topical material. He told me even his best songs could not save him now, and that "No More Songs" was the truest thing he'd ever written. There would be no more songs. He'd hit an artistic brick wall. The muse had fled from him. Maybe he'd have to chase it down with a shotgun, "just like Hemingway."

"Ochs had no money. I paid for our drinks. We both put away quite a bit. We wound up closing the place. (Later on, I wondered if his appearance at my gig was just a calculated move contrived to achieve an evening of free liquor. This is possible.) Outside, I hailed a cab for the two of us. Phil directed me to a rather seedy transient hotel where he got out and said goodnight. I continued on to a friend's apartment, where I'd arranged to crash on a couch. I never saw Ochs again. He hung himself at his sister's house in Far Rockaway five months later. " - Ed Renehan

Seems like only yesterday
I climbed aboard the plane
Drinking distance in the sky,
while diving in champagne
I would be in exile now,
but everywhere's the same
Ticket home
I want a ticket home
-Phil Ochs One Way Ticket Home