The Wrecking Crew (11 page)

Having moved from the frozen tundra of Upstate New York to sunny Southern California with his beautiful young wife, Carmie, back in 1953 in order to jump-start his career and get away from the specter of the factories, Tedesco had at first taken any paying date he could get his hands on. Starting at little known LA-area clubs like the Buggy Whip, Peacock Lane, and the South Pacific, he had sometimes earned all of ten dollars per night for his guitar work. Not much money, but it quickly taught him the value of a buck and about fair treatment. Nothing made the Niagara Falls transplant bristle faster than when he or any other musician was treated poorly or ended up being stiffed on the payout. If Tedesco's blue-collar background had taught him anything about life, it was about treating people the right way—fair and square. Accordingly, Tommy Tedesco became a very big believer in the local musician's union.

If a guitarist or anyone else wanted to play music professionally in Los Angeles, he or she had to become a member of the American Federation of Musicians. Period. In exchange, the AFM, like most strong unions of the day, sought to establish fair wage standards and acceptable treatment for its members in the workplace. All the main music recording studios, movie and TV studios, and live concert venues were “union shops,” agreeing to only use union musicians and to pay the stipulated rates set forth by Local 47, the AFM's LA County branch (located on Vine Street in Hollywood). In return, the union provided a large roster of dependable, skilled musicians of every stripe, from string players to vibraphonists to guitar virtuosos and everything in between. Virtually any type of player a producer, arranger, or bandleader might need for a recording date or a live gig could be readily obtained with a phone call.

But the union also ran a tight ship; fail to pay for a session and a producer or studio might be put on probation or even cut off for good. Eight roving reps made sure of that. They didn't take kindly to scabs, either. Taking money under the table was strictly prohibited. Caught, and a member could be fined. Or, worse yet, expelled.

Local 47 also took a dim view regarding undocumented overtime. If a particular three-hour recording date (the contractual minimum) went so much as one paltry second past the specified time, the contractor was expected to notate the session log accordingly for every union member present. Overtime was overtime, no exceptions. And especially at some of the bigger, busier studios, such as Capitol, Columbia, and United/Western, it was not uncommon to have a union rep hunt down a session date and “magically” appear just as it wound up, stopwatch in hand.

Though they were the scourges of parsimonious producers everywhere, Local 47's stealthy squad of gumshoes did their jobs, and they did them well. Their presence, or, more often, the simple fear of their
possible
presence, saved many a powerless musician from being exploited by being shortchanged. When playing an instrument is someone's sole way of earning a living—as with those in the Wrecking Crew—getting into a personal beef with a producer over wages is a sure way to never be rehired. Better to keep your mouth shut, your fingers on the fret board, and let the union handle all the dirty work.

But one day, on a studio date in early 1964 with Jan and Dean, Tommy Tedesco, who had become a Wrecking Crew fixture, decided he could neither hold his tongue nor defer matters to the union, no matter the consequences.

During the session at Western's Studio 3 (the only place Jan and Dean liked to record), the producer's secretary happened to stop by for a few minutes to discuss some business. With a short break in the action having been called, Tedesco took the chance to say hello to her and to also mention in passing that he had not yet received fifty dollars that the duo still owed him from his last recording date. To his dismay, however, the secretary completely ignored him, as if he had never even spoken.

Rather than getting uptight and turning the perceived disrespect into some kind of regrettable verbal confrontation, however, Tedesco simply put his guitar down and quietly announced to Jan, Dean, and their producer, Lou Adler, that he would not play any further until he was paid. Within minutes, the cash appeared as requested, and Tedesco continued with the session. His point having been made, he then proceeded to use the money to take all the rest of the on-hand members of the Wrecking Crew out to dinner. For Tedesco, it was less about the dough and always about the principle.

During this same time, Jan and Dean were also searching for what they hoped would become their next big single. The two teen idols had charted eight different Top 20 hits over the previous several years, including “Surf City” (co-written with Jan's friend Brian Wilson), which made it all the way to number one. Their manager and producer, Lou Adler, wanted them to strike again while the public still had interest. Having a shrewd view of the music business, Adler (and Berry) knew how fickle the record-buying public could be. The surf and car music crazes could only last so long. The Beach Boys had, for the most part, already moved on. But Jan and Dean, along with the Wrecking Crew, still had one last souped-up jalopy to roll off the line.

*   *   *

Out for a leisurely drive in his brand-new Corvette late one evening in early March of 1964, Don Altfeld surprisingly found himself well past his usual zone of comfort. He had somehow driven about a half an hour east of his home in West LA, all the way to Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena.

As Altfeld cruised along the traditional path of the annual Tournament of Roses Parade, checking out the sights and sounds of the historic Old Town area, the notion of a little old lady speeding down the road in a yellow tricked-out '32 Ford “deuce” coupe hot rod mysteriously flashed across his mind. Maybe it was a random thought. Or maybe it was rooted in something the comedian Jack Benny liked to say on his TV show during a regular used-car skit where a “little old lady from Pasadena” invariably had been the previous owner of the cream-puff vehicle for sale. Whatever the source, Altfeld couldn't get the vivid, cartoonish image out of his head.

After running the unusual idea by Lou Adler the next day (“Go for it,” he said), Altfeld, along with an enthusiastic Jan Berry, immediately began crafting a musical tale about a fictional granny with a lead foot. Bringing the ubiquitous Roger Christian on board to add authenticity to some of the car-specific lyrics, the trio soon had what they decided to call “The Little Old Lady (from Pasadena)” ready to record.

Following a phone call from Jan Berry, Hal Blaine, the usual contractor for Jan and Dean, rounded up Berry's requested retinue of Wrecking Crew regulars: Russell Bridges (who would soon change his professional name to Leon Russell) on piano; Jimmy Bond and Ray Pohlman on bass; Tommy Tedesco, Billy Strange, and Bill Pitman on guitar; Earl Palmer and Hal himself on drums; and Tommy Morgan on harmonica.

As they converged upon the studio at a little before 2:00
P.M.
on March 21, 1964, Berry, Adler, and their engineer, Bones Howe, knew that time was going to be especially tight. For budgetary reasons, they needed to cut five songs in a standard three-hour session, which would be a real push. A normal Jan and Dean session, even on the high end, consisted of
maybe
three. Berry was notorious for taking forever in the studio. But by virtue of an edict handed down from Liberty Records, the expense of overtime was now absolutely out of the question.

After a time-consuming, on-the-clock rehearsal, mainly spent with Blaine and Palmer carefully choreographing their double-drum patterns (Berry liked to have them play every hit and every fill in perfect unison for a bigger sound), the musicians were finally ready.

Launching into the first song, called “‘A' Deuce Goer,” the Wrecking Crew blew through the music in just one take. So far, so good. Next up was “Malibu Beach,” followed by “Little School Girl,” and then “Go-Go-Go.” Everything was going well. The quadruplet of typical Jan and Dean–style album-filler songs was coming out clean and tight, just like Berry and Adler had hoped.

But with only ten minutes left on the date, they still hadn't touched the oddball yet promising song about the old lady and her car. The only one of the bunch that might be worth releasing as a single. And as bad luck would have it, one of the union reps happened to be lurking nearby, watching the high-profile session like a hawk, making sure that any overtime would be duly reported on the session log.

After they quickly regrouped following a false start due to a tape machine malfunction, there were now only three minutes left, barely enough time to get the song in the can. Nerves were on edge. The second take would have to be it.

However, with a singular crack of their synchronized snares, Hal Blaine and Earl Palmer set the world right for one and all. Using only Jan Berry's scratch vocal track as their guide, they instantly moved to push the other Wrecking Crew players into an inspired effort, surging along with them in laying down a perfectly executed, rollicking instrumental track, hitting the last notes precisely as the second hand hit the twelve. The union man could now go home; Granny had crossed the finish line right on time.

It was not only a spotless performance by the best sidemen in Los Angeles, but it saved Berry and Adler from running afoul of the tightfisted execs at the record label. It also helped Jan and Dean earn one last Top 5 hit.

But by this time in 1964, for the Wrecking Crew it was all in a day's work. Playing fast and flawlessly under pressure was their hallmark. They made life easier for those around them. It was why they were in such demand, why harried producers all over town were often willing to pay them double, even triple scale to assume the roles of the real bands in the studio. Whatever it took, just as long as the record-buying public didn't find out.

5

What'd I Say

Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.

—G
EORGE
W
ALLACE

Those who played as part of the Wrecking Crew often came to their positions of prominence and demand through more than just skill and ambition. With competition fierce, they also sometimes needed a sprinkling of fairy dust along the way, to luck into playing for the right star at the right time. A sideman's reputation could be built in a hurry with a big-time name attached to his résumé. Especially if the name happened to be that of Ray Charles.

At a well-to-do children's camp in Malibu, California, during the summer of 1956—the same year that Memphis-based rock and roller Elvis Presley first realized the power of his musical calling by blowing the collective minds of millions of American teens with his racy, raucous “Hound Dog” and slinky, soulful “Heartbreak Hotel”—fifteen-year-old Don Peake, a shy math and science high school honors student, also discovered
his
life's calling. Except, uncharacteristically for Peake, it had absolutely nothing to do with solving quadratic equations or studying the molecular structures of hydrocarbons.

While not thrilled with the idea of going off to some camp he'd barely heard of—for the whole summer no less—Peake, always the dutiful son, did what his parents wanted. Maintaining a commitment to the Jewish faith was important to them and they wanted him to follow suit. Camp Hess Kramer specialized in creating an immersive religious and cultural environment with frequent prayer, kosher meals, and many, if not most, songs sung in Hebrew. A different world, for sure, but one that fostered a strong sense of identity and self-esteem.

In Southern California, when the warm Santa Ana winds are blowing just right, whipping with their dry, deceptive fury from east to west over the mountains and deserts, the slightest sounds can often travel great distances, sometimes right to the ocean's edge. And so it was one afternoon for Don Peake as he walked across Hess Kramer's large, open beachfront compound on his way to lunch. An unusual series of harp-like tones wafting through the air suddenly caught the youngster's ear, stopping him in his tracks. What could they be?

With his curiosity getting the better of him—not to mention an acute case of boredom—Peake decided to check things out. Eating could wait.

Following the mysterious music to its source in a nearby wooded area, Peake came across a group of older boys he'd noticed around camp before. Huddled in a small circle, they seemed to be taking turns strumming something odd that looked like a tiny guitar. A
very
tiny guitar.

“Hey, guys, what are you playing?”

“A ukulele. Arthur Godfrey plays one on his show every week.”

Peake stood transfixed. The small, wooden, figure-eight-shaped instrument with the four nylon strings was like nothing he had ever seen. Certainly not where he came from.
Talent Scouts,
Arthur Godfrey's hugely popular show on CBS in the late Fifties—or, for that matter, any other “frivolous” TV program—wasn't usually on the viewing schedule in the decidedly intellectual Peake household.

As the other boys continued to strum away with amateurish abandon, Peake remained fascinated. Not so much with the sound but with the fingering required on the miniature fret board. The deft, precise movement—the
exactitude
of it all—was almost mathematical. Peake liked things that added up. He also liked working with his hands. And this strange little instrument with the high-pitched tones magically fit the bill on both counts. He was hooked.

With his usual industriousness, Don Peake began practicing the ukulele day and night. At first he borrowed the one at camp from the other kids, who had quickly grown tired of playing with it. Then he got one of his own back home.

Returning to high school that fall in Los Angeles, Peake made a natural progression to playing the guitar. Stringed instruments were now his thing, his abiding passion. And the acoustic guitar was clearly a step up from a ukulele in terms of function, status, and style. Six strings instead of four, far more frets, and a much bigger, better sound. You sure didn't see Bill Haley or Chuck Berry strumming a uke.