The Wrecking Crew (26 page)

Following all the tumult, with black/white relations in Los Angeles at their most divisive, a sweet-singing African-American vocal group with big aspirations and an infectious optimism seemed to somehow magically spring forth from all the devastation in Watts. They called themselves the Versatiles, and their sound and image were smooth, refreshing, and noncontroversial—a welcome, if unwitting, antidote for a city at war with itself. But what this quintet
really
wanted was a record deal.

During the early-to-mid-Sixties, few major black pop music acts came out of Los Angeles. Whether for reasons of proximity, musical style, or simple opportunity, the Hollywood-based record labels mostly seemed uninterested. There were exceptions, of course, such as Sam Cooke, the Platters, and the Phil Spector–produced Ronettes, but the studios were, in the main, the provinces of white singers. Most popular black recording artists at the time worked elsewhere, such as Detroit, New York, and Memphis.

Those cities, along with Nashville, also each had their own versions of the Wrecking Crew. In the Motor City, a disparate group of local musicians hired by Motown Records founder Berry Gordy collectively came to be known as the Funk Brothers. Unbeknownst to the public, just as with their LA counterparts, these Detroit-based freelancers (who became the in-house Motown “band”—a clever, if questionable, way for the label to sidestep the local musician's union) played virtually all the instruments on the lion's share of a massive number of recordings. From Smokey Robinson's “Shop Around” to the Supremes' “Stop! In the Name of Love” to the Temptations' “Ball of Confusion,” the mostly African-American Funk Brothers provided the backing on countless soul hits, with standouts like James Jamerson and Bob Babbitt on bass; Johnny Griffith, Earl Van Dyke, and Joe Hunter on keyboards; Eddie Willis, Joe Messina, and Robert White on guitar; William “Benny” Benjamin, Richard “Pistol” Allen, and Uriel Jones on drums; and Jack Ashford and Eddie “Bongo” Brown on percussion.

By the mid-Sixties, with the locus of pop music having permanently shifted from the busy streets of Manhattan to sunny Los Angeles (which had become the undisputed recording Mecca for making it big on mainstream Top 40 radio), New York still managed to garner—at least for a while—its fair share of important sessions, too. Well-known artists like Roberta Flack, the Four Seasons, Tom Jones, Fats Domino, the Rascals, Jackie Wilson, and Dionne Warwick all cut the bulk of their work there. The most prominent players on these sessions regularly included AFM Local 82 members like Chuck Rainey and Anthony Jackson on bass; Paul Griffin, Artie Butler, and Richard Tee on keyboards; Al Caiola, Eric Gale, Vinnie Bell, and Carl Lynch on guitar; Grady Tate, Gary Chester, Bernard “Pretty” Purdie, Jimmy Johnson, and Donald McDonald on drums; and Ralph MacDonald and Specs Powell on percussion.

With Memphis home to famed label and studio combos like Stax/Volt, Hi!/Royal, American Sound Recordings, and Sun Records, artists such as Elvis Presley, Wilson Pickett, Otis Redding, Al Green, Booker T. & the MGs, Isaac Hayes, and the Staple Singers made this riverside port—often referred to as “Soulsville, USA”—their recording home. That city's first-call session players through AFM Local 71 included Mike Leach, Jerry Scheff, Leroy Hodges, Duke Bardwell, Emory Gordy, Jr., and Donald “Duck” Dunn on bass; Bobby Woods, Charles Hodges, Booker T. Jones, Dan Penn, and Glen D. Hardin on keyboards; Steve Cropper, Teenie Hodges, John Wilkinson, Tommy Cogbill, and James Burton (who also often sat in with the Wrecking Crew in LA) on guitar; Gene Crispian, Ronnie Tutt, Howard Grimes, and Al Jackson on drums; and the renowned Memphis Horns—Andrew Love and Wayne Jackson.

Made famous in song by the Lovin' Spoonful, Nashville also had its so-called cats—better known in country music circles as the A-Team. These studio pros and AFM Local 257 members played with everyone from Roy Orbison to Tammy Wynette to Patsy Cline—even with Bob Dylan on his
Nashville Skyline
album. The A-Team's ranks included, among others, Bob Moore on bass; Hargus “Pig” Robbins and Floyd Cramer on keyboards; Ray Edenton, Hank “Sugarfoot” Garland, Harold Bradley, Fred Carter, Jr., and Grady Martin on guitar; Buddy Harman on drums; Pete Drake on pedal steel; Charlie McCoy on harmonica; Boots Randolph on sax; Tommy Jackson on fiddle; and the Jordanaires on backing vocals.

But back in Los Angeles, some much-needed good fortune and the presence of the Wrecking Crew were about to come the Versatiles' way. With a vibrant vocal style and a fresh-scrubbed, charismatic presence that uniquely appealed to both black
and
white audiences, the group's five members (three men, two women) were an act that fit the times perfectly. An ensemble just
waiting
to happen.

With the buzz surrounding their live gigs coming to the attention of Marc Gordon, an up-and-coming young artist manager who had recently left his job as the West Coast head of Motown Records, he decided to check things out. Catching the Versatiles' show one evening, he liked what he saw. In fact, he more than liked it. The group had the rare potential to transcend racial lines, to become breakout national stars. They just needed some good songs to sing, a few connections. And Gordon had just the guy in mind who could make it happen: Johnny Rivers.

Rivers, a small, intense, dark-haired man sporting an ever-so-fashionable goatee and soul patch (sans moustache), had become the hottest singer on the Sunset Strip just two years before by virtue of his storied live performances at Gazzarri's and the Whisky A Go-Go. Several Top 10 singles later, including “Memphis,” “Mountain of Love,” and “Seventh Son,” Rivers had become a nationwide star.

Outside of his burgeoning singing career, Johnny Rivers also had his hands in a variety of other music-related pursuits. One of those endeavors included founding and owning a new record label called Soul City, where he planned to release not only all of his own recordings but those of other young musicians as well. Rivers knew firsthand that the really big money in the music business lay on the side of the labels and publishers. They had the cash and they had the control. It was all about power, baby. And with the newly formed Johnny Rivers Music as his publishing arm, the shrewd and ambitious young Louisiana transplant felt ready to join their ranks. Now all he needed was a talented first act to produce.

Within minutes of meeting with the Versatiles and their new manager, Johnny Rivers knew he had struck gold. The demo they played for him evidenced a vocal blend that was magnificent, soaring. Nothing like he had heard before. And the two women, well, they were simply gorgeous, a nice bonus for album covers. He signed the five singers on the spot.

Just two things were missing, Rivers thought, as the elated group practically danced their way out of his offices: a better name and a good first song to cut.

Marc Gordon, ever the opportunistic operator, figured that he would handle the song acquisition part of the equation. After all, if he could find the Versatiles a solid hit to sing, his 10 percent commission would get really meaningful really fast. And he had an idea. When he mentioned to Rivers one day that he knew an unusually gifted young kid who had a knack for writing songs with killer lyrics and irresistible melodies, they decided to drop in on an unsuspecting Jimmy Webb.

“Jimmy, this is Johnny Rivers,” Gordon said. “He's got a new record label and publishing company. How would you like to work for him?”

Webb didn't have to be asked twice.

Negotiating a quick and cheap buyout of the blooming songwriter's low-paying contract from the tiny mom-and-pop recording studio on Melrose where he'd been working, Rivers landed the skilled tunesmith he so desperately needed. More so, Rivers now owned the publishing rights to Jimmy Webb's growing catalog of songs. A cache of material that would soon help propel the Versatiles—newly renamed the 5th Dimension—to worldwide acclaim.

*   *   *

At a little before seven on a beautiful Tuesday evening in mid-July of 1966—the summer after the Watts Riots and a year before the Summer of Love—a handful of the Wrecking Crew's best began to assemble inside Western 3 for what was expected to be a typical three-hour Johnny Rivers recording session: Hal Blaine behind the drum kit, ready to tell some of his endless supply of hilarious Borscht Belt–like stories and jokes (“What do you call a guy who hangs around with musicians? A drummer!”); Joe Osborn with his timeworn Fender Jazz Bass propped across his lap; Tommy Tedesco placidly parked in a folding chair next to an army of guitars pulled from the trunk of his car; and Larry Knechtel, half-hidden behind a grand piano, watching, waiting.

As they all settled into position, a terrified nineteen-year-old kid timidly pushed his way through a set of heavy, soundproof wooden studio doors in order to join them.

“Hey, good to see you, man,” came a quick hello from Johnny Rivers himself.

Now looking to update his sound, Rivers wanted to become a little more contemporary, deeper. His new album would be called
Changes,
and he had already zeroed in on the person who could help him get there.

“Everybody, this is Jimmy Webb, the songwriter I've been telling you about.”

Squinting through a pair of thick black-framed eyeglasses underneath the glare of the studio's fluorescent lighting, Webb self-consciously gave a quick half wave. The musicians simply nodded in return.

“Jimmy, have a seat over at the piano and we'll do a quick run-through of your new song before we roll tape.”

A palpable coolness immediately fell over the room.

Western 3 only
had
one piano. And Larry Knechtel, one of the most esteemed keyboard men in the business, was currently sitting behind it, looking considerably less than pleased about the prospect of having to vacate his seat, especially for some goofy-looking kid he had never heard of.

“Mind if I give it a go for a minute?” Webb nervously asked a stone-faced Knechtel, who silently rose and stepped to the side.

As Webb assumed his position behind the large Steinway grand, he could feel the stares of the other session players cutting right through him. Who does this guy think he is, taking the place of the great Larry Knechtel?

This is crazy, Webb thought. They know it and I know it. Larry can absolutely play me under the table. They all can. But if that's the way Johnny wants it …

That was indeed the way Johnny wanted it. He was convinced that Webb, being the song's writer, had just the right feel for how to play it.

But before Webb could give the situation any further thought—or dash back out of the room—the producer Lou Adler called out from the control booth through the talk-back speaker, “Okay, guys, take one.”

Too late now, the show was on.

Hal Blaine counted off “one-two-three-four” and the musicians simultaneously launched into playing the notes written on the charts sitting before them. Notes that a devastated Jimmy Webb had painstakingly—and painfully—crafted through a haze of tears and self-recrimination in the wake of his recent breakup with his beloved girlfriend, Susan. A heartfelt tune he had written called “By the Time I Get to Phoenix.”

While Webb worked his way through the chords and lead lines he had practiced so many times before, the rest of the musicians began to take notice as they kept pace. Not bad, they thought. Not only did the kid seem to have some decent piano chops, but also the song itself had a melodic sophistication and lyrical poignancy that set it apart from much of what often passed through the studios. Even Larry Knechtel began to warm to the idea, watching over Jimmy's shoulder as he played, offering occasional alternate chording suggestions. Maybe Johnny was right—maybe this teenager really did have the goods.

“Ah, that was great, just great,” enthused Rivers with a big smile as he and the musicians rolled to a stop.

By the time the session ended that evening, Jimmy Webb was both exhausted and exhilarated. Tired to the bone from the anxiety borne of sitting in with the exalted Wrecking Crew. But also excited to finally have one of his songs—a
good
song, he thought—recorded by one of the biggest singers in the business. That's what songwriters live for. Sure, the Supremes had recorded his “My Christmas Tree” the year before for their holiday album, but that song was sort of a throwaway, certainly not his best work. This session, though, was the
real
deal. And for better or worse, it was now in the can.

“Okay, we got it, guys. Come and listen to the playback,” Adler announced.

And just when Webb thought his day couldn't get any more overwhelming, he was in for a further surprise. Standing up from the piano to stretch his arms and legs, Webb took a casual glance toward the control booth window, where he noticed what appeared to be a familiar face. A guy standing against the back wall with very short dirty blond hair who looked kind of like Steve McQueen, the movie star.

Nah, it couldn't be, Webb thought. But it was.

Squeezing his way into the already-crowded booth along with Hal and the other guys to listen to the completed version of his song, Jimmy Webb was amazed to see the famous actor in the flesh. Probably a friend of Johnny's from all the wild celebrity-filled shows down at the Whisky, he guessed.

As he inched past the stolid McQueen, star of such major motion pictures as
The Great Escape
and
The Sand Pebbles,
Webb couldn't help but notice the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Blue eyes that seemed to silently take in everything, just like in the movies.

Man, this is something, Webb mused, feeling like he was going to burst from all his good fortune. I've just played a session on my own song with the best studio musicians in the world, and now I'm standing next to Steve McQueen of all people. What could be any greater than this? For the teenage Jimmy Webb and the men in the Wrecking Crew, however, the best was by far yet to come.