The Wrecking Crew (34 page)

“What do you mean?”

Carpenter, though a brilliant keyboardist and arranger, hadn't noticed the subtle shift in pace. In Blaine's experience, nondrummers, especially pianists, sometimes had a tendency to rush while playing. He had seen it before.

“Well, the piano part seems to be speeding up a little bit. Why don't we use a click track?”

A click track, common in recording studios, was just that: an automated sound that went
click-click-click
while keeping absolute, unvarying time. Like someone tapping their foot or snapping their fingers, it was similar in concept to the metronome often used by piano teachers.

Being relatively new to the recording game, at least on a more sophisticated, technical level, Richard Carpenter and his sister wanted no part of a click track. They thought it would be heard on the record, like the hokey percussion sound coming from some cheesy home organ straight out of Grandma's living room.

However, once Blaine patiently explained that it was merely a guide, that it could only be heard in their headphones—that it would
never
make it to tape—the pair relented. And from that song forward, much of the Carpenters' output was recorded using that exact tool.

As the recording of “(They Long to Be) Close to You” continued, now in perfect cadence (the parentheses had been added by Richard Carpenter), another thought occurred to Blaine. He decided to approach Karen during a break.

“Listen, this is none of my business,” Blaine began carefully, “but I think maybe you're singing in the wrong key.”

Having played for major artists over the years like Petula Clark, Patti Page, and Barbra Streisand, the drummer had developed a sixth sense about what brought out the best in female vocalists. And, in this case, he felt that the beyond-talented Carpenter was performing too high in pitch, that her ideal recording range was in a lower register.

“That's how we rehearsed it,” Karen replied, glancing quickly at her parents for reassurance, who were sitting nearby. And Harold and Agnes Carpenter didn't care for Blaine butting in one bit.

“No, that's how she sings,” Agnes said icily. “Besides, Richard is the star here. Karen is just the drummer.”

Blaine immediately backed off, letting the subject drop. No need to overstep his bounds. Maybe he already had. Getting in the middle of family dynamics was risky business. But as the musicians finalized the recording of the song later that night, he noticed that Karen did end up singing it in a different key, helping “(They Long to Be) Close to You” to become a number-one hit for four weeks in the summer of 1970. Though Blaine wasn't sure that he could take credit for the change, his suggestion sure couldn't have hurt. And from that point forward, it became apparent that one thing the public especially loved about listening to Karen Carpenter sing was her soulful, melancholy way with the lower notes. Or, on a more practical level, as she came to tell people, “The money's in the basement.”

*   *   *

As the Sixties moved into the Seventies, Glen Campbell could no longer lay sole claim to his status as the only breakout star among the Wrecking Crew. One other sideman had recently joined his ranks. Leon Russell, the shy, prematurely graying piano-playing phenom who, like so many, had gotten his studio start with Spector and Wilson back in the early days, had now become a name-brand act of his own.

Having developed his prodigious skills in high school back in Tulsa during the Fifties while playing in club bands alongside future music notables such as J. J. Cale and David Gates, the outwardly low-key Russell had a deceptively intense inner drive that few among the Wrecking Crew recognized. By 1967, after having worked closely with the producer Snuff Garrett (and several others, including Hal Blaine and Tommy Tedesco) in cutting the instrumental tracks on most of the Gary Lewis and the Playboys hits, Russell finally built a recording studio in his Hollywood Hills home on Skyhill Drive and promptly disappeared within its confines for the better part of a year.

Upon his emergence, the keyboardist had a new vision and a new mission: songwriter and producer. He and musician Marc Benno released an album of their own material called
Look Inside the Asylum Choir
in 1968, followed in 1969 with Joe Cocker's successful cover of Russell's “Delta Lady” (inspired by Russell's then-girlfriend, future solo star Rita Coolidge). It was through this new musical relationship with Cocker (yet another A&M artist) that, in the spring of 1970, Leon Russell had his official coming-out party. He became the musical director and ringleader of the infamous Mad Dogs & Englishmen concert tour.

Traveling throughout America on a forty-eight-city jaunt over a sixty-day period, the caravan of over twenty musicians and more than twenty others was a merry band of music-making misfits that became the wildest traveling road show in rock and roll. Cocker and Russell, the two principals, joined forces with a crazed cast of characters like the Lunar Teacake Snake Man, the Ruby-Lipped Essence of Lubbock, Texas, and the Mad Professor to form a rolling revue of unprecedented creativity, revelry, and utter debauchery.

From the Fillmore East to the Fillmore West and everywhere in between, the music soared, the junkies scored, and the orgies roared. Children took acid at a picnic. Nightly sex partner swaps were de rigueur. Tempers flared. And yet, through it all, during sixty-five shows, the band and crew—night after night—somehow managed to deliver riveting versions of soon-to-be classics like “The Letter,” “Superstar” (co-written by Russell and a future hit for the Carpenters), and “Feelin' Alright” to sold-out audiences across America. Not only did the tour jump-start Cocker's career; the massive publicity and exposure also provided the distinctive-looking (and -sounding) Russell the springboard
he
was looking for. Russell began working with a series of high-profile British acts like George Harrison, Badfinger, and Dave Mason, and he put out several more albums of his own during the early Seventies, one of which included his first Top 20 hit single, “Tight Rope.” He also became a headlining concert draw, assuming the role of star attraction, just like the many well-known acts he had anonymously played piano for in the studios back in his Wrecking Crew days.

Another musician on the Mad Dogs & Englishmen excursion was a guy by the name of Jim Gordon. A young drummer and Hal Blaine acolyte, he had gradually become a valued part of the Wrecking Crew by the latter half of the Sixties, playing on big hits like “Classical Gas,” “Wichita Lineman,” and “Woman, Woman,” among many others. An extremely likable character with spot-on timing and a groove to be reckoned with whenever the sticks were in his hands, Gordon had zipped his way into becoming a first-call sideman. He had also begun accepting live work, something the other Wrecking Crew players seldom did, with studio pay being far too consistent and lucrative to jeopardize by being out of town. It was just too easy to lose your place in line. But unlike his friend Leon Russell's headline-making ascent during and after the big Mad Dogs tour, Jim Gordon's own career—and life—would soon come crashing to the ground.

*   *   *

Growing up in Southern California during the Fifties was, for many children, just about as idyllic as life can get. Nuclear families with a dad and a mom were still standard issue, and the happy, innocent structure of it all often seemed like something straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Backyard barbecues and Little League baseball games became weekend rituals. Neighborhood churches stood on just about every third corner, filled with worshipers on Sunday mornings. PTA meetings were standing-room-only affairs. Post-war job opportunities were plentiful, too, at places like Lockheed, Raytheon, and Douglas Aircraft.

And how could you beat the weather? Abundant year-round sunshine gave rise to acres of lush orange groves and added an irresistible sparkle to the blue of the nearby Pacific Ocean. If this wasn't paradise, then it sure wasn't far from it.

Or so it seemed on the surface.

From all outward appearances, the Gordon family of Sherman Oaks personified the stereotypical San Fernando Valley suburban existence. Dad was an accountant; Mom was a nurse. Two well-mannered boys always answered the phone, “Gordon residence.” They all lived in a tidy home with a big yard in a neighborhood teeming with other children. Life was a wholesome sitcom in the making.

But for little James Beck Gordon, trying to make sense of his place in this sun-drenched template of the American dream proved to be a struggle from the beginning. Always anxious, Gordon often felt left out, even though his parents doted on him as the baby of the family. Shy, too, he never made friends easily. Eating made him feel better, but it caused him to gain weight, which further compounded his insecurities. The last thing he wanted was for the other kids at Dixie Canyon Elementary School to laugh at him and call him fat. No, that wouldn't do at all.

With all the inner turmoil Gordon experienced, there was one place he knew he could turn for consolation, no questions asked. Whispered words that offered him relief from all his imagined worries. A comforting presence he knew simply as “the voices.” They had been around as long as he could remember and were his true friends. Yes, the voices were always there for him, giving him guidance, soothing his torment.

By all accounts an energetic, creative child, Jim Gordon decided at the age of eight to rig up a makeshift set of drums from some trash cans. He then enthusiastically played along with the radio as often as possible and showed enough early talent that his parents decided to help him take the next logical step by buying him a real drum kit and springing for a series of lessons from a local pro.

As he sailed through his weekly instructions in remarkable fashion, Gordon remained focused and disciplined, practicing day and night on the brand-new drum kit his parents had recently purchased for him. As he got better by the week, the word “prodigy” started to come to mind. “Genius,” too. By the time he was fifteen, many considered Gordon to be world-class.

A tall, handsome, curly-haired boy—if always a little on the heavy side—Jim Gordon also to his surprise began to turn into a school leader, somehow overcoming the terrible shyness that had held him back socially in his younger years. His fellow junior high students elected him class president and he later became head yell leader at U. S. Grant High School in Van Nuys. Gordon even found himself a girlfriend, a beautiful young blonde named Jill.

Life was good. Even the voices approved.

But no matter his other activities, drumming always came first. Gordon's skills were by now stupefying. His almost freakish knack for laying down a perfect beat for any style of song made him a popular choice to play with local bands like Frankie Knight and the Jesters. His new success also gave Gordon a feeling of accomplishment that appealed to his fragile psyche. When he played the drums—especially live on stage—he was
somebody,
and no one could take that away.

As he neared high school graduation, his parents urged him to consider attending a four-year university. UCLA had offered a music scholarship and it seemed like a great opportunity. But Gordon left them crestfallen, especially his mother, Osa, when he announced that he was forgoing his free ride in order to start making music his career, beginning with a touring job with the Everly Brothers. It was a fantastic, once-in-a-lifetime chance to play with a famous band and to see the world, he explained.

Though Gordon's parents strongly disapproved of his decision to skip college, the voices were all for it. And that's what really mattered. They always did know what was best for him.

*   *   *

In mid-1963, with the aid of a piece of fake ID, the almost-eighteen-year-old clean-cut, all-American-looking Jim Gordon flew across the globe with the Everly Brothers to England (along with a twenty-two-year-old Don Peake). Returning to the LA area after the well-received tour's conclusion, a stoked Gordon enthusiastically began playing in local bands, taking music classes at a local junior college, and trying to get his foot in the door in the studios. Anything,
anything,
to be involved in music. Michel Rubini, who had met Gordon through a mutual friend, gave the young drummer a valuable boost along the way by scoring him some basic percussion work on several Sonny & Cher recording dates. Gordon's reputation was starting to build.

Through glowing recommendations from just about everyone with whom he worked—“have you heard this new kid play?”—Gordon soon found himself employed by no less than the exalted Brian Wilson in early 1966, where the up-and-comer joined in on a few tracks during the epic
Pet Sounds
sessions. From there, Gordon's career simply took off, especially when Hal Blaine generously began tossing him a bunch of his overflow dates with one A-list act after another. By the late Sixties, behind only Blaine and Earl Palmer, Jim Gordon had become the most-requested rock-and-roll session drummer in town.

But during this period, Gordon's squeaky-clean image gradually started taking on a slightly less than shiny patina, at least behind closed doors. By the end of the Sixties, he had been secretly smoking pot for several years. He had also begun trying harder drugs, too, with far more halucinogenic effects. Something that didn't always mix well with his innate paranoia or with the voices, which had turned increasingly malevolent. But Gordon had to do something. He always felt like he was being watched, and the self-medication, however illegal, helped keep the demons at bay. Some of the time, anyway.

One afternoon, during the colorful two-month-long Mad Dogs extravaganza in 1970, for no apparent reason, Gordon suddenly hauled off and punched his girlfriend, the beautiful Rita Coolidge, flat in the face. Having split from Leon Russell some time before, she was now singing backup for Cocker and dating Gordon. The blow sent Coolidge sprawling to the floor in the hallway of the hotel where they were all staying, leaving her with a black eye for the rest of the tour. Stunned and scared, she immediately ended the relationship with Gordon, having nothing more to do with him.