The Wrecking Crew (13 page)

Having successfully passed his audition with Ray Charles in early 1964 by wowing the room—and the hard-to-impress man himself—with his encyclopedic knowledge of the singing star's catalog of songs (courtesy of the time spent with Lance LeGault at the Crossbow), Don Peake had become the one and only white guy in a very hot all-black band of almost twenty. But unlike many other white musicians trying to make it in the mostly black jazz and R & B world of 1964, Peake experienced none of what was often referred to as Crow Jim (the opposite of Jim Crow)—a kind of reverse discrimination where whites were considered to have no civil rights. For many black jazzers of the era, their music represented a sacred, shared heritage and a private language—something often expressed in the adamant refusal to hire whites. Peake, however, with his genial nature and gift for playing like it came from deep within his soul, easily won over his fellow group members. White though he might be, the new kid was no ofay.

After a couple of weeks of rehearsals and a few shows in Los Angeles at major venues like the Shrine Auditorium and the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, it was time for the Ray Charles Orchestra to head out on tour and make some money.

First stop: Montgomery, Alabama.

Flying along in the comfort of Ray Charles's private Martin 404 twin-engine prop plane (purchased from Eastern Airlines), Don Peake gazed out the window at the golden wheat fields of the nation's heartland gently rolling by. Having heard, of course, about all the racial turmoil in the South, he wondered what he should expect. Footage of the often-violent clashes between protestors and police had been all over the evening news for some time. And he had never been part of an all-black band before. But maybe it would be no big deal. Having toured extensively with the Everly Brothers, Peake figured that star status would surely win out if any problems arose. The likelihood of anybody messing with a guy as important as his new boss had to be extremely slim.

After landing in Montgomery at Dannelly Field in the late afternoon, band and crew quickly loaded themselves and their gear into a waiting Greyhound-style sightseeing bus and headed north toward the center of town. The show would begin in a scant two hours and there was little time to waste.

As they neared the main entrance to Garrett Coliseum, the city's largest concert venue, Don Peake's jaw dropped and his heart sank, both at the same time. Passing by outside his window, in what seemed like some kind of perverse, slow-motion, neorealist-style post-war film about life behind the Iron Curtain, were row after threatening row of razor-sharp barbed wire strung across an endless procession of poles, completely encircling the building and its grounds. Heavily armed state troopers were also standing in groups around the perimeter. And, in case anybody missed the point of the whole display, a large red Confederate flag flapped prominently in the breeze atop a tall, gleaming, floodlit pole.

Uh-oh, this can't be good, Peake thought.

But before he or anyone else on board could further process the frightening scene, the band's bus slowed to a stop. As the front door of the huge, now-silent vehicle hissed open, several grim-faced, shotgun-carrying state troopers immediately climbed inside. As they spoke with the driver in a series of hushed tones, it became apparent they had something—or more likely
someone
—on their minds.

“What do they want?” Ray Charles asked his tour manager, Jeff Brown, who was sitting nearby. As a famous black entertainer, Charles was a high-profile target and had every reason for concern. He had grown up in the South and had experienced the evil and unpredictability of racism firsthand.

Straining to hear the conversation going down in the front of the bus, Brown finally deciphered exactly why Ray and his band had been stopped.

“They want the white boy,” Brown said.

*   *   *

Word had apparently traveled with speed uncommon on the day that Don Peake and the Ray Charles Orchestra had flown into Alabama. The assembled state troopers had been told that Charles was carrying a white musician in his entourage. They had also been told that Governor Wallace had decreed that there would be no white people allowed at the Ray Charles concert in Montgomery that night, either audience or band. The black population could have their little show, fine. But by the grace of the good Lord—
and
the boot heel of the law—there would be no mixing.

As the troopers began to menacingly shine their flashlights up and down the aisle of the stranded bus, looking for the purportedly Caucasian interloper, Ray Charles had to think fast. He wasn't going to allow anyone to take one of his band members away.

“Tell them he's Spanish,” Charles whispered to Jeff Brown. “Maybe the crackers will go for it.”

Peake, sitting just behind them and scared out of his mind, took the hint. He knew he would likely never be seen again if those lawmen took him away. That's how things worked in the Deep South when you crossed the color line.

Lowering his head, Peake inched down in his seat and tried his best to look and act the part of a non-English-speaking guitar player, mumbling a bunch of random Spanish-sounding gibberish that he vaguely recalled from a class he once took in high school.

After Brown passed the word along that there was indeed a Spanish band member aboard, the state troopers huddled in the front. After about a minute of discussion, they suddenly stepped off the bus and motioned it down the ramp toward the stage entrance. Twenty different sets of lungs exhaled as one. Alabama's finest had bought the story.

In their limited, bigoted knowledge of the world, the governor's garrison of gendarmes had incorrectly assumed that being Spanish and being white were mutually exclusive. Just like Ray Charles thought they might.

For his part, Peake could not have been more relieved. Or more grateful. Ray Charles's gamble on the ignorance of the locals had just saved Peake's life. While quickly performing their show that night, a still-scared Peake (now wearing brown makeup, no less) understandably declined to stand up and play his customary guitar solo during his big spotlight moment. He and the band then left the state of Alabama as fast as they could.

Though the Montgomery incident certainly had been the most harrowing encounter of his young life, Don Peake found through it all that he very much liked playing in the Ray Charles Orchestra. It tested his skills, it satisfied him musically, and it further burnished his growing reputation as a premier guitarist. Not to mention that it brought him full circle from that intoxicating day five years before at his parents' place when he first heard “What'd I Say.” Now he got to play it every night onstage with the legend himself. What were the chances of
that
ever happening? Peake felt as if he had received an all-expenses-paid scholarship to attend the “Ray Charles School of Music.”

It was also a level of prominence that would lead Peake, by the mid-Sixties, toward a gradual integration into the exclusive ranks of the Wrecking Crew, where he would become a first-call choice for Spector, Wilson, and just about every other important rock-and-roll producer in Los Angeles (including continued on-and-off work for Charles). Everyone knew that if you could play for the Genius of Soul, you could play for anybody. And Don Peake could play.

6

I Got You, Babe

Phil, I think we need to change the sound.

—S
ONNY
B
ONO

Looking out through the grimy window of his run-down Hollywood office, twenty-seven-year-old Salvatore Bono knew he needed a change. With a dead-end job at a company called Record Merchandising, an independent record distributor catering to stores of all sizes, the short, dark-haired, affable promotions man spent his workweek endlessly schlepping copies of mostly lackluster 45s to local radio stations, trying to somehow squeeze out a little airtime for them. And he just wasn't very good at it.

In the early Sixties, disc jockeys at Top 40 radio stations in major markets around the country were the undisputed, exalted—sometimes practically deified—gatekeepers of all that passed by the ears of their faithful listeners. By sheer cult of personality, they ruled the airwaves with a dizzying gift for all things gab, their on-air patter a seamless blend of charisma, cleverness, and relentlessly good cheer.

Behind the scenes, the air talent also had a big say (second only to a station's program director and/or music director) as to which songs were to be played. And it was the job of the indie promotions men to sway the opinions of the various jocks and directors in any way possible. Treat them nice and magic could happen. Buying dinners, giving gifts, even sliding the occasional wad of cash into an open palm, were all typical tools of the promo trade. Whatever it took to get a new release noticed, just as long as nobody got caught. Payola
was
illegal after all. Winnowed to its core, the promotions racket had little to do with merit and everything to do with the schmooze.

But Salvatore Bono—known to his friends and family as Sonny—simply couldn't get used to being a shill for other people's music. His heart just wasn't in it. More often than not, he tossed his daily allotment of 45s into a large, steel waste receptacle behind his office and instead hotfooted it over to Hollywood Lanes, the music industry's unofficial hangout. It was there at the bowling alley that he picked up the latest scuttlebutt about what was happening behind studio doors and who was getting hot on the charts. More than anything, he wanted to join the ranks of those on the other side of the control room glass—to become a writer and a producer, to make his
own
hit records.

Just like his idol, Phil Spector.

By the middle of 1963, Sonny Bono had taken all he could. His career in the doldrums, it was time to finally
do
something with his life, to make his mark. It was time to get in touch with Spector.

After running things by a mutual friend, songwriter and arranger Jack Nitzsche, Bono weighed out what he wanted to say. Spector was the most important rock-and-roll producer in the country. That much was clear. Bono also knew that watching things up close and in person, like how to make a great record, was the only way he would ever really learn to do it for himself. But first he needed to somehow get his foot in the door, to show why he would be an indispensable addition to the empire.

Taking a deep breath and crossing himself for luck, Bono nervously dialed the producer's office number.

“Yes, I'd like to speak to Phil Spector, please,” he said.

“Who may I ask is calling?” a female voice responded.

“Sonny Bono.”

“Please hold.”

And Bono did hold. For what became five minutes, and then ten. He began to wonder if he had been permanently shuffled off to telephone purgatory. Spector had never heard of Bono and had absolutely no reason to even take his call. He knew that. But he also refused to hang up. This was his dream and he wasn't going to give in until he caught the break he was looking for.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a thin, nasal, bored-sounding voice came on the line.

“Yeah?”

It was
him,
the man himself.

In an explosion of words, Sonny Bono told Spector about his promo background at Record Merchandising and that Jack Nitzsche had encouraged him to call. Bono also told Spector in no uncertain terms
why
he had called.

“Mr. Spector, I want to work for you. Just you. And I'll work for any amount of money, for any amount of time.”

The directness of the solicitation seemed to catch the self-absorbed producer slightly off guard.

“So, what is it that you want to do for me?” Spector asked dryly.

What Bono really wanted, of course, was to receive an immediate, in-depth tutorial straight from the master on how to cut a number-one record. But Bono couldn't very well say that. Everybody in town wanted to know how the secretive Spector did what he did. For now, a more palatable-sounding proposition would have to do.

“I want to be your West Coast promotions man at Philles Records,” Bono boldly announced. “Your label is too big and too important to keep using the outside indie guys. I think you need someone who will work for you alone.”

After a brief pause, Spector mumbled, “Yeah, I like the idea.”

Bono was halfway home.

Following several more minutes of expertly executed persuasion, laced with heavy doses of flattery, promises, and a natural-born earnestness, the deal was set. Spector hired Bono sight unseen.

With one gutsy phone call, Sonny Bono, a high school dropout and former meat delivery boy, had conjured a position out of thin air with the hottest record label in town. Now it would just be a matter of putting phase two of his grand plan into play.

*   *   *

Just as he had hoped, Sonny Bono did indeed become more than just Phil Spector's West Coast promotions man. He also became Spector's favorite go-to grunt, the guy who ran out for coffee when ordered to do so or who willingly climbed out of bed in the middle of the night to join the boss for coleslaw at a twenty-four-hour diner. The producer's whims were his command.

Like clockwork, too, Bono was there in the studio whenever Spector had a recording session scheduled, watching over the producer's shoulder, absorbing everything, helping as needed. Sometimes just to keep Bono busy and out of his thinning hair Spector would ask Hal Blaine to give Sonny a tambourine or some other innocuous percussion instrument, anything to keep the guy from hovering all the time—though this gambit sometimes backfired on Spector, with the rhythmically challenged Bono seemingly incapable of playing at the same tempo as the rest of the musicians.

As he tried his best one day to vigorously lay down some funky castanet sounds during the fade on the twenty-fifth take of “Be My Baby,” Bono's feeble, spastic attempt was finally too much even for the generally patient Spector to ignore.