By Erin Sherbert
By Howard Cole
By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
Don Hyde doesn't want to go to trial in Kentucky.
"It's like being dropped down a rabbit hole," he says.
Hyde's hallucinogenic Alice in Wonderland analogy couldn't be more appropriate. An investigation of an LSD ring snared the 48-year-old Healdsburg, Sonoma, theater owner last August, and the federal government charged him with conspiracy to distribute LSD, which comes with a potential life-in-prison sentence.
Fortunately, Hyde, a man with lifelong ties to rock music and the movies, has friends like Tom Waits, a part-time Sonoman. The reclusive performer is playing a rare live concert this Sunday evening at Oakland's Paramount Theater in support of his neighbor's legal defense fund.
Waits and his wife, Kathleen, visited Hyde a week after his arrest.
"I was a total mess," Hyde recalls, "just a puddle on the floor." It was the gravel-throated piano player's idea to stage a fund-raiser: "He felt like a grave injustice had been done," says Hyde, who is currently out on $400,000 bond.
Hyde's lawyer, longtime San Francisco civil liberties advocate Bill Osterhoudt, agrees. Osterhoudt, a 25-year veteran of criminal law, blames mandatory sentencing and the "three strikes" laws for predicaments like Hyde's: "The whole objective is to put people in prison for a long, long time, and let them out only ... because they turn somebody else in," he says. "What kind of system is that?"
Hyde's case stems from a Sept. 4, 1990, incident in which a Grateful Dead follower by the name of David Gaither allegedly transferred 2 grams of LSD to a buyer at the Cincinnati-Northern Kentucky International Airport in Covington. Gaither's subsequent arrest in Ohio provided a wedge for an extensive Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) investigation of LSD distribution among Deadheads. The DEA, working its way backward through a network of suppliers, nabbed -- among many other suspects -- a Northern California drifter of undisclosed identity. Staring down a third felony conviction of his own, that man implicated Don Hyde.
Hyde does not deny an acquaintance with the drifter: "He's the kind of guy that would show up here at the theater," he says, "wanting to know if there was any work. I'd give him $20 to get him down the road, get him some gas to get rid of him." He pauses. "I've always had a pretty high tolerance for street trash, I guess."
There's not much to do in Healdsburg, 70 miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Hyde's movie theater, the Raven, located in a '40s-era building just off the downtown plaza, has been central to the community since he revived it in 1988. Lent out regularly for events like Policemen's Association and Boys Club benefits, the Raven has also hosted a number of live-music performances of note since its grand reopening. Recently, Hyde took over an old JCPenney storefront next door, expanding the Raven's space to include five state-of-the-art projection screens.
A nightclub proprietor in his native Austin, Texas, during the psychedelic heyday of groups like the Thirteenth Floor Elevators, Hyde later worked as a protŽgŽ of celebrated filmmaker Sam Peckinpah before settling into the dimly lit office above the Raven's original screening room.
Certainly, he's no stranger to controversy. A well-groomed, soft-spoken man, the deceptively impish Hyde often leads the Raven into ideological skirmishes between family-values crusaders and arts advocates. Last July, following Bob Dole's much-publicized remonstrance of Hollywood sex and violence, Hyde launched his "Bob Dole Midnight Movie" series, showing deliberate eyebrow-raisers like A Clockwork Orange, Blue Velvet, and Natural Born Killers. Curiously, he included Waits' 1988 concert flick Big Time in the lineup; on a flier advertising the series, he called his friend's work "deviant hobo music at its finest."
Local churchgoers protested the flier Hyde used to promote the series, which depicted a virile-looking devil enjoying a great belly laugh, and the flap received a bit of attention in the national press.
"A lot of people thought that I was actually advocating drugs and free sex by this flier -- touting the virtues of Satan, or whatever," Hyde recalls, sliding down in his desk chair, both cowboy boots planted firmly on a dingy Oriental rug. The local newspaper (the Press Democrat) ran a front-page story in which Hyde accused Dole of attacking his business -- "and I'm firing back at him."
When Hyde saw the quote in print, he thought, "Oh shit, I'm going to get on the Secret Service list as a potential assassin," he says. "A week after that story came out, these guys were waiting for me in the [Raven] lobby." When he began apologizing for the "misunderstanding," Hyde says, the agents "had no idea what I was talking about."
The DEA simultaneously dispatched a second group of agents to Hyde's house, socked away down a six-mile dirt road outside Healdsburg. Had Hyde's wife, an illustrator of children's books, not accompanied him to the office that day she would have faced "helicopters and machine guns, flak jackets, the whole nine yards."
"This is the second time in my life that I've been through something like this," Hyde says. In 1967, at the age of 20, he opened a rock club called the Vulcan Gas Co. in Austin.