Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music (22 page)

“No,”
they screamed.

“Turn it up, Phil!”
Paul shouted.

I beamed, and the parks commissioner seethed. With the mayor and audience on our side, there was no way he could ask me to lower the volume!

Near the catering tables, I noticed that the fencing they’d set up
to separate us from the crowd was rather flimsy. “How will that stop anyone? What if they start coming over for food?” I asked a nearby police lieutenant. “Don’t worry. If the crowd is well behaved, they won’t bother you.”

It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear.

“But what if the crowd doesn’t behave?” I asked.

The lieutenant gave me a quizzical look. “Do you see that pond over there, behind the Delacorte Theater?” he asked. “It’s filled with weird fish and crap. If the crowd storms the area, just follow me. We’ll both go in the water—fast!”

My fear was unfounded—the audience’s behavior was beyond reproach.

As I prepared to leave, the police lieutenant came up and said, “Knock on wood—we didn’t have any problems during the show. No muggings, no fights, no emergencies to speak of.”

The post-concert atmosphere blew me away.

I tried to get backstage, but all the paths were jammed. As I walked out of the park with the rest of the crowd, I witnessed something I’d never seen before: people carrying lit candles and boom boxes, playing back the cassette tapes they’d recorded during the concert. All I could hear was Simon and Garfunkel music blaring from every direction.

At the small after-party held downtown, I gazed at Paul and Artie.

That night they’d pulled off what everyone who writes, plays, and produces music aspires to do—they’d killed the audience. The pair had battled each other all week, come together for one brief moment, and were now separately greeting guests on opposite sides of the room. “Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel may be separate,” I thought. “But they’ll always be bound by their harmony and its incredible blend.”

Aretha Franklin
Courtesy of Kevin Mazur/WireImage

There’s nothing more satisfying than using music to raise money for worthwhile causes, and over the past ten years I’ve had the opportunity to produce some musically rich benefit shows, including the annual Songwriters Hall of Fame tributes and the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences’ MusiCares concerts.

MusiCares is a foundation that raises money to aid musicians in need. The Songwriters Hall of Fame is a branch of the National Academy of Popular Music; their mission is to preserve the history of the American popular song, and award scholarships to promising songwriters.

Creatively, SHOF and MusiCares concerts give me wide latitude to experiment and pair artists with songs they’re not normally associated with. I’ve found that artists—regardless of the area they work in—have genuine respect for one another, and that you can’t stereotype a singer or musician according to their chosen genre.

When we were putting together the MusiCares tribute to Billy Joel, Garth Brooks asked to perform “Shameless,” and I wasn’t thrilled with his choice. Everyone around him said, “Forget about changing it. Don’t even mention it to Garth—he’s made up his mind.”

I’ve often found that “handlers”—the cadre of press, publicity, and peripheral management people who accompany a celebrity—don’t always know the artist’s opinion on certain issues. The handlers are there to minimize bumps in the road, keep the artist on schedule, and make that schedule flow as smoothly as possible. Each group tries to protect the artist, and in doing so they sometimes act overzealously.

During rehearsal I had the chance to chat privately with Garth, and I decided to ask him how he felt about Billy’s music.

I’ve got to admit that I was taken aback by Garth’s choice—“Goodnight Saigon” is a heavy song for anyone to select as a favorite. But its symbolism resonates with many people—especially musicians—and I said to myself “Why wouldn’t I want to present that song in a completely different context?” It was something that few in the audience would ever imagine a country singer like Garth Brooks doing.

The MusiCares house band was very good, but they didn’t know “Goodnight Saigon.” I grabbed an intern, gave him twenty
bucks, and asked him to find the nearest record store and buy a copy of
The Nylon Curtain.

Meanwhile I could see that the public relations folks were getting nervous because Garth was spending so much time with me. They tried to pry him away. “Yeah, just a minute,” he said, stalling them. Before anyone realized what was happening, the intern returned and a CD player was blaring “Goodnight Saigon.”

“Can anyone copy the arrangement for us?” I asked the band.

Four guys stepped forward and offered to transpose the chart. We didn’t have any horns in the band, so they created parts for the guitars, drums, and synthesizers. Everyone—including stagehands—pitched in to sing the background parts. By the time that Garth finished his second run-through, those present at the rehearsal—including Garth’s publicist and manager—were crying.

“I’m thrilled that you think that I can do this,” Garth said after coming off the stage. “It’s going to be amazing—you’ve got to close the show,” I said.

Garth looked puzzled.

“Who’s on before me?” he asked.

I went through the lineup, mentioning Tony Bennett last. “I’m going
after
Tony Bennett?” Garth asked incredulously.

“Yeah—I’d like you to close the show.”

“Absolutely not,” Garth said. “Tony closes. I am
not
going to follow Tony Bennett!”

At the end of the show Garth received a stomping ovation, and as I watched from my seat I felt confident that my earlier hunch was right: No one could possibly follow Garth’s performance of “Goodnight Saigon.”

Then, the announcement came:
“Please welcome Mr. Tony Bennett!”

Tony—in his inimitably cool way—glided effortlessly on stage, snapping his fingers to a Gershwin tune.
“I got rhythm, I got music…”

After a few bars Tony stopped, and began singing Billy’s “New York State of Mind.” The place was ours; Tony and the audience became one, basking in the mutual warmth flowing freely throughout the room.

“Okay,” I admitted to myself. “Garth was right: No one can top Tony Bennett.”

I rarely sit in the audience during these events, but on this night I’d decided to sit with the honoree. As Tony hit his final notes, I turned to Billy Joel and ribbed him. “Okay, Billy—try to follow
that!
”

There’s something to be said for flexibility.

When MusiCares honored Bono in 2003, I juggled the entire running order of the show to accommodate the opening act: President Bill Clinton.

Mr. Clinton—a big U2 fan—was delighted, and just before the show began I decided to deviate from the program. “It’ll be impossible to have you sit in the audience for two hours—you’ll be mobbed, and no one will watch the show,” I explained to the president. “Would you mind opening the show?”

We rearranged the order so that President Clinton could present Bono with the award up front and then speak for ten minutes. From there, everything would proceed as scheduled. Well, the president and the Irish rebel played off each other so naturally that what had been planned as a fifteen-minute prelude turned into one of the best half hours of entertainment I’ve ever seen.

Who follows the president? It wasn’t easy, but B.B. King, Sheryl Crow, and Mary J. Blige did a fantastic job of entertaining the crowd.

Traditionally the president of the Recording Academy wraps the MusiCares show with a short speech about the artist. Before the Bono show I took NARAS President Neil Portenow aside and said, “I wouldn’t wish that spot on a leopard!” Neil laughed, but we both knew that the
real
president had gotten him off the hook.
Instead of giving a speech, Bono sang Frank Sinatra’s “That’s Life.”

I didn’t tell Bono what I had planned for this number. All I said was, “I have a surprise for you.” When he came on to do the finale, the curtain parted and a brass and saxophone ensemble began playing a sophisticated, punchy chart written by Rob Mathes. Hearing a band like that playing right behind you is inspiring, and as a closer, “That’s Life” was as rousing as the show’s opening.

I believe in good karma. There have been many times when I’ve looked at how certain situations have unfolded, and walked away reassured that most things happen for a reason.

The first MusiCares concert I produced was a tribute to Luciano Pavarotti at Radio City in 1998, and in planning the event producers Tim Swift, Dana Tomarken, and I were discussing which artists we might possibly ask to perform. I knew that Aretha Franklin loved Pavarotti’s music, and having Aretha on any show never failed to lend it an extra-special dimension.

With Luciano Pavarotti and my son, BJ Ramone
Phil Ramone Collection

I called Aretha, and when I told her that the program’s honoree was Pavarotti she agreed to perform—with one condition. “I’ve got to sing Puccini’s ‘Nessun Dorma,’” she said. The aria was her favorite Pavarotti recording, and she was dying to sing it. I scrambled
to find a suitable arrangement; Rob Mounsey came up with a classic chart for her.

Aretha’s rendition was electrifying and moved Pavarotti to tears.

Two nights later, Pavarotti himself was scheduled to sing “Nessun Dorma” at Radio City, where he was receiving a Grammy Award for lifetime achievement. Twenty-five minutes before his cue, the maestro summoned me. He pointed to his throat. “I can’t go on,” he rasped.

At that moment we were live on the air, and “twenty-five minutes out”—twenty-five minutes away from Pavarotti’s spot in the show. The news spread quickly, and Grammy president Mike Greene and television producer Ken Ehrlich immediately responded and asked if I could convince Aretha Franklin to take Pavarotti’s place.

It was our only option, and if Aretha agreed to fill in, we’d have to work quickly. Engineer Hank Neuberger located Pavarotti’s performance from that afternoon’s dress rehearsal, and dubbed it to a cassette. As soon as Hank was finished, I grabbed the tape and took the stairs to Aretha’s dressing room two at a time, with Pavarotti’s conductor in tow.

Although she was familiar with the music, agreeing to fill in at the last minute would take enormous courage on Aretha’s part.

Pavarotti’s arrangement had an introduction that she was unaccustomed to, and it featured a choir. “The choir will sing the intro, and the orchestra will be behind you,” I explained. “The key is a little lower than you’re accustomed to, but there’s not enough time to make changes. You’ll have to sing it in Luciano’s key,” I explained.

Aretha listened to the cassette three times. Time was running short, and we anxiously awaited her verdict. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll do it on one condition: You must turn off all of the air-conditioning in the theater before I go on.”

It was a small but considerable request.

Aretha detests air-conditioning; it has a deleterious effect on her throat and voice. Although the theater was packed with six thousand
people and a truckload of television lights and cameras, the cooling system was shut down.

I informed Ken Ehrlich of Aretha’s approval, and he rewrote Sting’s spoken introduction. Despite the slapdash changes, Aretha took the stage and performed as though everything had been planned. When she left to a standing ovation I hugged her. Aretha gave a little sniffle, and offered an admonishment. “Phil, it was still too cold out there!”