The Wrecking Crew (8 page)

Carefully weighing his options, Spector decided he would set his sights on an even loftier occupational prize. No more singing for his supper. No more answering to others. He now wanted the top job. Phil Spector would become a record producer.

Behind the windowless walls of a recording studio, the producer is the one in charge of everything. It is his (or her) absolute domain. From the choosing of the musicians and the engineers to exactly how a song is recorded, the producer runs the show. An obviously powerful position, it also comes with its share of stress. Producers are usually put in place to make the best possible commercially viable recording. When things go right, the monetary rewards can be significant. And the acclaim can establish a career overnight. But when a record with high expectations fails to become a hit, it's the producer who most often winds up being called on the carpet by unhappy label executives.

In mid-1960, through a connection made while singing with the Teddy Bears, Phil Spector, with characteristic industriousness, landed a job as an apprentice producer in New York City with the famed songwriting team of Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller. The duo, composers of classic hits like “Hound Dog,” “Jailhouse Rock,” and “Stand by Me,” took the twenty-year-old Spector under their wing, where his producing prowess and fanatical devotion to his newly adopted craft soon became apparent.

After a little over a year of tutelage, while manning the productions for major artists like Ruth Brown, LaVern Baker, and Ray Peterson (“Corinna, Corinna,” a number-nine hit in early 1961), Spector felt he had squeezed all he could out of his relationship with Leiber and Stoller. Spector had seen firsthand the methods they employed in creating important songs for important artists. How they used multiple percussionists. How they positioned the microphones just so. How they carefully mixed down all the competing sounds at the control board into a cohesive, unique, and compelling finished product. Nothing escaped Spector's hawk-like vision and hearing. Now he just needed to put the second part of his plan into play.

Traveling back to the West Coast, Spector quickly wheedled his way into a partnership with Lester Sill, the same guy who had recommended his services to Leiber and Stoller in the first place. Only this time around, instead of just producing, Spector had a grander vision. He now wanted to have his own record label, too. That way nobody could ever again tell him what to record or what to release. For Sill, the pairing made good sense as well. His forte was record promotion, an extremely important sales-related task for which Spector had shown little natural interest.

Settling on the corporate moniker of Philles Records (the merging of their two first names), the two opened a small office in Hollywood and promptly set about looking to record some hits. One day, in the summer of 1962, while visiting Aaron Schroeder Music Publishing in New York City on a scouting mission to look for new song possibilities, Spector came across a demo recording that made his eyes light up. Written by the popular singer Gene Pitney, the hard-hitting tune, called “He's a Rebel,” was all about teenage alienation, a traditionally relevant—and bankable—theme among young record buyers.

From the moment the song started to play, Spector could feel a stirring in his gut. This was it: the surefire pop smash he had been looking for to put his new label on the map for good.

He leaped to his feet.

“I want an exclusive on
that
one!”

*   *   *

Racing back to Los Angeles with a copy of “He's a Rebel” burning a hole in his briefcase, Phil Spector immediately booked time at Gold Star Recording Studios, the same place he had used for his big hit with the Teddy Bears. Spector loved the sound and vibe the studio provided, which he felt had directly contributed to his early success. He also knew he needed to work fast. Great songs don't stay unrecorded for long. And an “exclusive” from a publisher often wasn't worth the handshake it came with. Back in New York, Aaron Schroeder had let slip that another producer by the name of Snuff Garrett had recently shown interest in the song, too. Time was clearly of the essence.

With a sense of urgency, Spector next placed a call to an old friend from Fairfax High School, Steve Douglas. Besides having become one of the most sought-after sax players on the West Coast (after spending several years as one of guitar star Duane Eddy's Rebels), Douglas also found time to moonlight as a freelance contractor, the guy in charge of hiring all the musicians on any given studio date. Whenever a producer or arranger had a new recording project coming up, one of the first calls was to a contractor. From there, the contractor would begin booking the exact number of musicians needed to fit the style of music and the budget.

On many, if not most, rock-and-roll recording dates at that time, only a few instruments were commonly utilized—often just guitar, bass, and drums. Sometimes a saxophone or piano might be thrown into the mix, too. But keeping a rock-and-roll arrangement clean and simple was part of the whole point. It's what helped give the genre its propulsive quality, its sense of in-your-face immediacy. The proof of the minimalistic formula's success lay evident in the massive number of hits recorded by everyone from Elvis to Buddy Holly to the Everly Brothers.

But Phil Spector saw things differently. He would have none of the status quo. He had other ideas for his latest production. Transcendent ideas. To him, less wasn't more—
more
was more. He told Douglas to get him two bass players, two guitar players, and two sax players, plus a drummer and a pianist. Eight players instead of the usual three or four. It would be rock and roll writ large, Spector-style.

When they all gathered in Studio A at Gold Star, the engineer, Larry Levine, did a double take. He had never seen that many musicians on a rock-and-roll date before. But having worked with Spector in the past, Levine knew enough to go with the flow. To him, the kid was an abrasive, spoiled brat, but Levine never once doubted Spector's talent.

Built in 1950 by David Gold and Stan Ross on the corner of Santa Monica and Vine in what used to be a dental office, Gold Star had become, by the early Sixties, one of the most successful and influential recording studios in the world. Well before the Record Plant in Sausalito, Electric Lady Studios in New York, or Muscle Shoals Sound Studio in Alabama, Gold Star was
the
place to cut a record in America. Especially during the early days of rock and roll, few studios witnessed more history than the scuffed linoleum of Gold Star.

Though a comparatively small structure, with only two undersized tracking rooms, it featured the most highly regarded echo chamber in the music business. And Gold Star's handcrafted audio compressors and microphone preamps were the envy of every engineer in town. “Summertime Blues” by Eddie Cochran had been recorded there. Same with “Tequila” by the Champs and “La Bamba” by Ritchie Valens. Gold Star had a sought-after, hit-making mojo all its own.

As the musicians settled into their metal folding chairs scattered throughout Studio A, Steve Douglas took the opportunity to walk Spector around for some quick introductions. Spector already knew a couple of the guys—Ray Pohlman on electric bass and Howard Roberts on guitar were guys he had worked with before—but the rest were unfamiliar faces.

After Spector said hello to Tommy Tedesco (guitar), Al DeLory (piano), and Jimmy Bond (upright bass), he stopped in front of the drum kit.

“I'm Phil,” he said, extending his hand.

A dark-haired, blue-eyed drummer stuck out his hand in return.

“Nice to meet you, Phil. I'm Hal Blaine.”

*   *   *

Within weeks of its release, “He's a Rebel” became exactly what Phil Spector had envisioned from the start: a number-one hit. Credited to the Crystals, a New York–based vocal group with whom Spector had been working on and off, the song had actually been sung by a local LA session veteran named Darlene Wright. Blessed with a powerful voice and a charismatic presence, Wright was a natural at singing up-tempo material that required passion and swagger. And she, along with the expanded number of musicians who had performed with her on “He's a Rebel,” had allowed Spector to test his orchestral approach to rock and roll, with spectacular results.

Now, like an obsessed alchemist frantically trying to turn base metals into gold, Spector wanted to toss additional instrumental ingredients into his sonic stew, to make an even bigger sound. If more was more, why couldn't a
lot
more be the most? Spector wanted to push his Wagnerian concept to its absolute limits, to make what he began to refer to as “little symphonies for the kids.”

In typically unorthodox fashion, the next song on Spector's docket would be, on its face, a most unusual choice. Thinking back to his childhood one day as he fooled around on his guitar, Spector suddenly flashed on a tune he loved from a Disney movie called
Song of the South.
It had won an Academy Award in 1946 for best original song, and, he thought, it would make an even better rock-and-roll record.

Gathering at Gold Star on August 24, 1962, Spector and his engineer, Larry Levine, set about turning “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” into yet another three-minute rock-and-roll symphony. And in keeping with the boss's explicit instructions, Steve Douglas had gone all out in his contracting efforts this time around. Spector wanted “the same drummer as last time,” and Douglas also brought in two other players who were making significant names for themselves in the studios: Carol Kaye and Glen Campbell.

Now, instead of eight pieces like had been used on “He's a Rebel,” those present totaled a mind-boggling
twelve
—including three guitarists, three bass players, and three piano players—four times the total number of musicians found on a normal rock-and-roll date. But there was nothing remotely normal about Phil Spector or his methods. Competition and common sense be damned; he wanted the fattest, densest sound he could possibly muster.

As the musicians dutifully labored away over the next three hours rehearsing and refining their respective parts, Spector kept asking Levine to turn up the faders (volume levels) on the mixing board for the microphones used on each of the individual instruments. With his intense focus on every nuance, Spector always liked listening to the music as loud as possible on the three big Altec 603 monitors in the booth. But this time, with so many sounds competing with each other in a low-ceilinged, relatively small twenty-eight-by-thirty-five-foot tracking room, the mélange became too much for the custom-designed board to handle. Levine's meters were pinging into the red zone, indicating a dangerous level of volume overload, causing distortion.

Despite knowing the wrath he would likely incur, Levine took a deep breath and began uniformly turning off each of the faders.

A disbelieving Spector watched in horror.

“What the hell are you
doing
?” he exploded. “I just about had it, man. I just about had the sound.”

“I'm sorry, Phil, but the levels were redlining. It was unrecordable.”

Spector slumped in his chair, demoralized. His painstaking, hours-long effort at achieving just the right balance between all the instruments—a delicate task far beyond the competency of virtually any other rock-and-roll producer on either coast—had now been completely wiped out.

Without saying anything further, a guilt-ridden Levine did the only thing he could think to do: he began very carefully dialing the faders back up, one by one. Maybe he could somehow salvage things by mimicking Spector's skillfully achieved balances, but at lower overall volume levels.

As the assembled musicians began running through the song one more time, Levine gingerly brought up the levels on the two acoustic guitars. So far, so good. Then, slowly, he raised the volume levels on each of the three basses, followed by the triumvirate of pianos, the sax, and then the drums and percussion. Not bad, he thought—almost there. One more to go.

But just as Levine reached for the final fader, the one that controlled the volume for the lone electric guitar, Spector suddenly shouted, “Stop! That's it. It's perfect.”

Levine's hand froze in place.

“What about the electric guitar, Phil? I haven't turned its volume up yet.”

“Forget it—don't touch anything. I like the sound the way it is. Let's record it.
Now.
”

With so many instruments crammed into such a small space, the sound from the electric guitar had accidentally leaked into various neighboring microphones, allowing its fuzzed-out tone to artfully blend into the mix like it had all been planned from the start.

As for the tone itself, the guitarist, Billy Strange (always one of Steve Douglas's favorite hires), had decided on his own to pull one of the four 6L6GC output vacuum tubes out of the back of his Fender Twin Reverb amp in order to get the raw sound he felt the song needed. A surprised Spector loved the results. That's why he only wanted to work with the best.

With optimal volume and balance levels finally reset, Levine began rolling tape. On a now-reenergized Phil Spector's cue, the twelve assembled musicians promptly launched into laying down an inspired, slinky, and soulful performance for the ages, sounding like they had been playing together all their lives. The guitars, basses, pianos, drums, and horns expertly melded with the swimming, cavernous echo to create a giant wall of sound. And after the voices of Bobby Sheen, Darlene Wright, and Fanita James were added (dubbed Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans), there was no doubt in anyone's mind as to the specialness of the outcome. Rock and roll had been forever altered.

Semi-randomly chosen though they initially were, Glen Campbell, Carol Kaye, and Hal Blaine, along with Billy Strange, Bill Pitman (personally requested by Spector), and seven other highly skilled session musicians, had unknowingly created music history—and a career path for themselves. On one level, they had given the twenty-two-year-old wunderkind Phil Spector his second consecutive Top 10 hit, in the process helping to solidify a sound, style, and feel like no other. But on perhaps an even more profound level, their teaming on that one hot August day in 1962 had been carefully noted by most of the other rock-and-roll producers in town. They reasoned that if these particular sidemen were now Spector's secret weapons in cutting his growing list of majestic, operatic smashes, then they wanted in on the action, too. The driven young producer's innovative, interwoven use of just the right musicians in just the right combination had spun gold. And in the music business, imitation has always been the sincerest form of making a profit.