The Wrecking Crew (3 page)

“I've got some club dates lined up between here and Wyoming and I need a second guitar player. The boy would make a good one.”

Glen was ecstatic. Compared to the life he'd experienced to that point, the prospect of becoming a real live guitarist alongside his beloved uncle Boo was nothing short of manna from heaven. Thank you, Jesus! No more beatings. No more endless chores. No more senseless schoolwork. And, especially, no more long nights spent lying on his stomach while pressing his fist into his gut, trying to quell the gnawing pangs of hunger.

And so, with hugs all around and a wave to his family, Glen Campbell hit the road to begin the journey of a lifetime. It would be a long journey, longer than most people think, but a little bit of luck and a whole lot of hard work would serve to take him further than even he could ever imagine possible.

*   *   *

Unfortunately for Carol Smith and her parents, things did not work out exactly as planned after the big move to Southern California. With shipyard work proving to be sporadic at best, a lack of money remained a major issue around the house, causing continued hardship, frustration, and arguments. Within a few years, her parents could simply take no more. They decided to divorce, leaving Carol alone with her mother and without any income. For a period of time, Clyde Smith contributed some cash here and there, but the once-and-again trombonist gradually drifted out of their lives. He finally skipped the state altogether just after the end of the war, leaving Carol and her mother to fend for themselves. With nowhere else to turn, the two ended up living in a housing project near the waterfront in a town called Wilmington, by the Port of Los Angeles, accepting welfare in order to survive.

Among those who grow up in extremely limited circumstances, the shame of being poor often sends them in one of two directions. Some give in to the depression and pain, losing their will and their way. With others, the early struggle and stigma help fuel a burning desire to rise above the poverty, to achieve something in life. Carol Smith, from a young age, fell squarely into the latter category.

Knowing that her mother needed all the money she could get, the now-thirteen-year-old Carol wanted to contribute in any way possible. She loved her mother and knew what a burden it was for her to simply put enough food on the table each day. But Carol never complained, even when she had but one pair of shoes to her name. Not even when she had to start working after school at the age of nine to help make ends meet. Her resiliency and inner resolve helped carry her through, giving evidence of a level of maturity far beyond her years. All she really needed was a good break to come her way.

One day, when a door-to-door steel guitar salesman came knocking, Carol's mother decided on the spur of the moment that it was time to finally indulge her daughter, whether they could afford it or not. The little blond-haired girl with the blue eyes and the inquisitive mind had gone without long enough. Her mom pulled out an old piggy bank in which she had painstakingly been saving coins for more years than she could remember and handed the man the required ten dollars. In return, Carol received her very own guitar and a few accompanying lessons.

Thrilled with the gift, even if it was a rather cheaply built instrument, Carol threw herself into practicing with her characteristic industriousness. And she became pretty good.

Shortly after the momentous occasion with the man at the front door, good fortune smiled upon Carol once again. Her girlfriend Jean Blue asked Carol to tag along with her one afternoon to a regular guitar lesson that had been scheduled with a teacher in nearby Long Beach.

“Come on, Carol. It'll be fun.”

Seeing no reason not to go, Carol grabbed her little steel guitar and set out with her friend. Maybe it
would
be fun.

After appropriate introductions, the guitar teacher—an esteemed instructor and graduate of the Eastman School of Music named Horace Hatchett—simply could not take his eyes off of Carol's steel guitar. He seemed equal parts appalled and intrigued. After all, it wasn't every day that a thirteen-year-old girl showed up toting
that
kind of instrument. Steel guitars are inherently difficult to play, requiring the precise use of a small glass or metal tube placed on one of the fretting fingers, which then slides up and down the strings. Hardly the best choice for someone just starting out. But there was Carol, ever the trouper, innocently trying to master a musical contraption meant for far more experienced players.

After Jean's lesson, as the two girls prepared to leave Hatchett's small nondescript home on Corona Avenue, something made the longtime teacher stop and take a long look at Carol. Perhaps he recognized a bit of himself somewhere within her youthful earnestness. Or maybe it was her unusual level of talent and desire, which had become evident after he had asked her to play a little bit for him. Whatever the reason, the kid had promise; that much was clear. And Hatch (as his friends called him) had been around long enough to know.

He decided to make her an offer.

“Carol, you're a good player. I'd be willing to give you some free lessons if you'll help me with my teaching.”

It was all Carol Smith needed to hear. Suddenly the overwhelming feeling of being poor, of being different, seemed to melt away. A real guitar teacher was offering to become her mentor. Maybe this would lead to being a professional musician, like her parents, and perhaps even making some money to help her mom out with the household expenses.

Carol accepted on the spot. Only later did she learn that Horace Hatchett had played with Jimmy Dorsey, Red Nichols, and Nat King Cole. Someone was smiling down on Carol Smith.

*   *   *

Unfortunately for Hal Belsky—and for everyone else in attendance—the show did not resume that day at the circus.

Despite the best efforts of dozens of Ringling Bros. performers and roustabouts, no amount of water seemed to quell the rapidly moving flames as they charged up the side of the big top. As the fire reached the ceiling inside, the giant structure suddenly began to rumble and shudder, acting as a colossal chimney, sucking fresh oxygen in through the side entrances and blowing superheated air out the top. And with the tragic mixture of gasoline and paraffin that had been used as a waterproofing agent, the tent's canvas proved to be the perfect fuel source to ignite a world-class conflagration.

Within moments, the entire roof of the arena exploded into a raging inferno. The big top immediately erupted in chaos, as melting wax rained down like napalm, scorching everything and everyone it touched. Thick white smoke billowed everywhere and the overpowering stench of sulfur hung heavily in the air. Ringmaster Fred Bradna pleaded with the audience not to panic and to leave in an orderly fashion, but the power had failed and his voice could no longer be heard over the loudspeakers.

People began running wildly for their lives in every direction, some with their hair and clothes on fire. Many were trampled; others ended up in giant piles near the exits, with those unfortunate enough to be on the bottom protected from the flames but slowly and cruelly suffocating to death.

Hal Belsky dove under the bottom of the tent's apron and rolled to safety in the grass on the outside, as did the bandleader and his musicians.

“You okay?” one of them asked breathlessly. Hal just nodded, too stunned to speak.

Others were not so lucky. Those who didn't immediately perish inside from the smoke, flames, and violent stampedes were found stumbling and crawling outside around the grounds with broken bones, incinerated lungs, and charred flesh hanging from their bodies.

After making sure their comrades were all accounted for, most of the band members scattered, trying to help the stricken. Fellow circus performers began setting up makeshift triage areas, laying bodies out in rows. They did what they could.

As several ambulances mercifully began to arrive, one of the drivers leaped out and shouted, “Hey, kid, give me a hand here!” Hal didn't have to be asked twice. He immediately grabbed the end of a gurney and helped place a horribly burned older woman into the back of a waiting vehicle. He spent the rest of that day and night riding with the critically injured as they were ferried to local hospitals, making one return trip after another, trying his best to comfort the stricken.

Witnessing all the horrible pain and suffering that day made an indelible mark on Hal Belsky's young mind. Life was precious and for the living. He would redouble his resolve to forge a career as a professional musician, no matter what it might take, no matter where it might take him.

*   *   *

One came from the South, one from the West, and one from the Northeast. They shared little in common other than an innate drive, a work ethic shaped by grinding poverty, and, for now, untapped musical talent. Yet somehow, Glen Campbell, Carol Smith, and Hal Belsky—a country boy, a girl from the projects, and a street-smart city kid—all found it within themselves to relentlessly hold on to their dreams as they went out into the world.

It would be these very qualities that would one day catapult this unlikely trio, along with a couple dozen other equally single-minded freelance musicians, into revolutionizing the music of an era—rock-and-roll music. They would become part of an aggregation known as the Wrecking Crew.

2

Limbo Rock

Man, I can write a song better than that in five minutes.

—B
ILLY
S
TRANGE

By the end of the Fifties, money had found the music business. Or rather, the substantial amount of cash to be made from selling popular music had suddenly caught the attention of some very shrewd businessmen.

Building on what had begun a few years earlier with the appearances of Elvis, Chuck Berry, and Little Richard on the national scene, the operators of several small, independent LA-based record labels started to sense that perhaps rock and roll, to paraphrase the 1958 hit song by Danny & the Juniors, really
was
here to stay. And their gambles on a handful of new acts paid almost immediate dividends.

Ricky Nelson, with his sultry style and teen-idol good looks—not to mention the pedigree of being Ozzie and Harriet's second son—became a breakout star in the late Fifties for cigar-chomping, streetwise Lew Chudd at tiny Imperial Records on Sunset Boulevard. Bobby Vee, with bouncy songs such as “Rubber Ball” and “Devil or Angel,” came along just in time to save Si Waronker's Liberty Records from the ignominy of mostly being known as the home of Alvin and the Chipmunks. And at fledgling Dore Records over on Vine Street in Hollywood, Jan and Dean made the Top 10 just before the dawn of the new decade with “Baby Talk.”

Indie labels all, these record companies were among the first in Los Angeles to welcome up-and-coming rock and rollers with open arms. No jazz snobbery here. To a man, the owners implicitly understood the fundamental tenet that this was always the music
business.
The goal was to give the public what they wanted, no matter how pedestrian, no questions asked.

Unlike their smaller counterparts, however, some of the major record labels—corporate behemoths like Columbia, Mercury, and others—were slow to recognize the revenue potential that this new “kids” music had to offer. Generally looking down their noses at what they assumed to be a passing fad, the big-label men often opted to stick with more traditional pop offerings by the likes of the New Christy Minstrels, Johnny Mathis, and Tennessee Ernie Ford. Those you
knew
would sell. They had cachet, a legacy.

It wouldn't be until years later, for example, that Columbia Records finally, grudgingly, signed their first bona fide rock-and-roll act (Paul Revere & the Raiders). Even then, the label showed remarkable hesitancy regarding the band and, for that matter, the style of music itself: the first Raiders LP didn't hit stores until a full year
after
the Beatles had already conquered American record charts during the initial wave of the British Invasion. But, the Columbia producer Mitch Miller (host of television's terminally bland
Sing Along with Mitch
) was also the head of Artists and Repertoire—the department that picks new releases—and he simply
hated
rock and roll.

“It's not music,” Miller scornfully proclaimed. “It's a disease.”

In the meantime, the ever-observant indie label owners knew exactly what
they
were going to do. With a variety of factors all simultaneously conspiring to create a seemingly insatiable desire among (mostly) teenagers for an ever-greater supply of new music, it was time to start turning out some new singles. Fast.

Transistor radios were getting cheaper all the time and practically every kid had one. In addition, Top 40 AM radio stations were springing up everywhere, catering to the growing throngs of youthful listeners by playing all the latest tunes. In particular, big-market broadcasters such as KFWB in Los Angeles, WLS in Chicago, and WMCA in New York became instant success stories, setting the tone for the rest of the country. And the kids just loved the often up-tempo, vaguely suggestive thrill and danger that rock and roll provided. Straightlaced heartthrob crooners of the day like Johnnie Ray, Eddie Fisher, and Pat Boone never knew what hit them.

It was the simplest of business equations, really, one that benefited everyone involved: playing rock-and-roll records on the radio equaled higher ratings, higher ratings equaled more and better-paying advertisers, and more and better-paying advertisers equaled increased revenue for station owners. The owners, in turn, were only too happy to perpetuate the cycle, in the process creating an endless stream of free marketing (via airplay) for the record labels.

From an economic perspective, unprecedented national prosperity also enabled individual households to enjoy larger levels of discretionary income, providing much of the wherewithal for kids to run down to the local record shop and buy those 45s they kept hearing on the radio. And in terms of sheer volume, the post-war baby boom created the largest number of junior high and high school students—and bumper crop of new music consumers—the country had ever witnessed. TV sets, too, were finally in most homes, regularly playing teen-themed music programs like
American Bandstand
to riveted adolescent viewers.