A FINE BROMANCE

A posthumous memoir by The Band's Robbie Robertson is particularly entertaining when focusing on his friendship with Martin Scorsese.

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Malibu, 1977. Martin Scorsese's mansion is heaving with Hollywood royalty. Brian De Palma's holding court somewhere. Francis Ford Coppola is there too. Prowling from room to room is Jack Nicholson with that lupine smirk. “I like the setup you boys got here,” he tells Scorsese. “Big speakers for music. A cave for movies and charming the ladies.”

They’ve gathered for drinks before heading to a screening of The Last Waltz, Scorsese’s masterful film about The Band’s farewell concert in San Francisco. But Coppola, concerned by how undernourished Scorsese and his housemate, The Band’s Robbie Robertson, are looking, insists on cooking everyone a proper meal. He hauls a 16mm projector into the kitchen and ingeniously tapes a wooden spoon to one of the reels; his famous Italian sauce will stir itself. Robertson offers to stay behind and watch the pot.

Except, the second the others leave for the film, he slips out to meet his dealer, Jerry. Three-and-a-half grams of pure uncut Colombian cocaine. He lights a cigarette, gets comfortable, loses track of time.

Hours pass. When he finally slopes back, Coppola has already returned; a look of thunder is etched across his face. The sauce is spoilt. Robertson discreetly hands Scorsese some coke anyway. “When Francis serves up, we show proper appreciation,” Scorsese cautions Robertson. “He’s deadly serious about his cooking.” So there they sit, jittering, appetites annihilated, forcing down hefty portions of pasta under Coppola’s beady gaze.

This is one of many starry anecdotes coursing through