The Wrecking Crew (9 page)

4

The Little Old Lady (from Pasadena)

That just blows my mind.

—B
RIAN
W
ILSON

By the summer of 1963, Phil Spector was on a roll. With eight more Hot 100 singles to his credit in the first half of the year alone, Spector's carefully crafted, ever-expanding Wall of Sound production process had become a juggernaut. In particular, his work behind the glass for the Crystals on “He's Sure the Boy I Love,” “Da Doo Ron Ron (When He Walked Me Home),” and “Then He Kissed Me” generated two more Top 10 smashes and a third that just missed. Spector's power, prestige, and golden touch seemingly had reached its apex. No independent rock-and-roll producer had
ever
released so many hits in such a short period. And his favored vocalists, the Crystals, were fast becoming the biggest girl group in the land.

Yet it would ironically be Spector's first single with a very different trio of female singers that would soon secure his—and the Wrecking Crew's—positions as the most potent underlying combined force in rock and roll.

Standing alone one day along the back wall of Gold Star's Studio A in early July of 1963, Nino Tempo found himself quietly aghast. The handsome, stoutly built singer, sax player, and general aide-de-camp to Phil Spector had been watching a throng of Wrecking Crew musicians some fourteen strong, including by-now-familiar faces such as Hal Blaine, Jimmy Bond, Russell Bridges (aka Leon Russell), Frankie Capp, Steve Douglas, Al DeLory, Bill Pitman, Ray Pohlman, Don Randi, and Tommy Tedesco, plus several additional horn guys, play the same song over and over for several hours. Growing tired after forty-one takes, some of the players were naturally starting to make an occasional mistake. Not many, but enough so that it stood out to the ever-vigilant Tempo. Musical errors were something that always drove him crazy.

Having previously heard the tune at his house when Spector had stopped by one evening to play it on the piano, Tempo didn't think much of it then, and he thought even less of it now. But all personal preferences aside, at least a song should be played cleanly and correctly before committing it to tape. Of that much Tempo was sure.

“Phil, have you
heard
all the mistakes out there?” Tempo asked, stepping back inside the control booth. “How can you possibly make a record out of this?”

Phil Spector just smiled.

With his bombastic production methods now refined to a level of absolute commercial perfection, Spector knew that within his little kingdom the ends always justified the means, even if the individual elements might seem dissonant to the untrained ear. A few little errors were irrelevant when it came to the big picture.

“Don't pay any attention to what's going on out there,” Spector replied. “It's what's coming out of the speakers
in here
that matters.”

And he was right.

As Spector's now-trusted engineer, Larry Levine, once again began raising the master volume level on the mono mix of all the tracks, the small room filled with the sounds of the most beautiful backing arrangement Tempo had ever heard. It was nothing like the primitive little composition Spector had haltingly performed on the piano several days earlier. This was altogether
majestic
. There was Blaine, all right, front and center, banging out what would become his signature drum fill:
bom, bom-bom
, bap—
bom, bom-bom
, bap. And the myriad of competing guitar and piano performances by the other players that had all seemed so mistake ridden only minutes before now somehow blended perfectly, creating a sum vastly greater than its parts. Tempo had returned at just the right time. With tape rolling, this, the forty-second take, was clearly the keeper.

By the time the Ronette's vocals were added (featuring Spector's soon-to-be wife, Ronnie Bennett, giving her innocent, seductive all on lead), Nino Tempo stood in awe. This was Spector's finest moment, topping “He's a Rebel” and all the others, no questions asked. In Tempo's mind, this new song, called “Be My Baby,” was a true miracle. Perhaps the finest piece of recording he had ever experienced. Spector and his faithful Wrecking Crew charges had outdone themselves.

And Tempo wouldn't be the only one to feel that way. Though the song stalled at number two on the national charts for three straight weeks (bafflingly held off by Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs' version of “Sugar Shack,” which itself would be supplanted at number one by none other than Nino Tempo and his sister April Stevens with “Deep Purple”), Phil Spector's latest creation had nevertheless hit an aural bull's-eye. Among the public and within the music industry alike, “Be My Baby” was the biggest little symphony of them all.

But for one music producer in particular, “Be My Baby” would come to mean something even more. Its layered, stylistic renderings, all supplied by the Wrecking Crew's crackerjack instrumentation, would soon become a template faithfully emulated by one of the most important figures in rock-and-roll history.

*   *   *

In the early fall of 1963, as a skinny, six-foot-four-inch young record producer leisurely drove along Sunset Boulevard one afternoon in his new aquamarine Pontiac Grand Prix muscle car, a song came on the radio that suddenly made him pull to the side of the road.

“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed to his girlfriend as they skidded to a stop. “This is the best song I've
ever
heard.”

Listening intently as he turned up the volume, the twenty-two-year-old immediately seized upon the innovativeness of the production, especially the way the melody line seemed to remain constant while the three main chords kept moving around it. A simple yet ingenious production maneuver.

By the time all two minutes and forty-one seconds of “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes began to fade its way into the next big hit song on “Channel 98 Color Radio” KFWB-AM, the LA area's preeminent Top 40 station, the tension in the car had grown palpable.

“That just blows my mind,” an alternately amazed and anguished Brian Wilson said, slapping the steering wheel with both hands. “I could
never
do that.”

“Don't worry, baby,” his girlfriend replied. “You will. You'll see.”

*   *   *

Following his intensely personal roadside encounter with Phil Spector's crowning musical achievement, Brian Wilson did the only thing he could think to do: he immediately bought ten copies of the record. As the producer and co-founder of a rising band called the Beach Boys that had already scored a handful of Top 40 hits of their own, Wilson then proceeded to play “Be My Baby” incessantly, memorizing every note, every sound. With his competitive instincts now energized, he became obsessed.

Once satisfied that he had gleaned every production value he possibly could from the Spector recording, Wilson then called his friend Roger Christian, a lyricist and local disc jockey who held down the 9:00
P.M.
to midnight shift on KFWB. Having written songs for the Beach Boys with Christian before (“Shut Down,” “Spirit of America,” and “Little Deuce Coupe”), Wilson had an idea. This time out he wanted to really go for the gold, to write and record a song that would be every bit as strong as what Spector had been putting out. And not just in terms of the melody and lyrics, either, but the entire production process. If Phil could do it, he could do it.

As the two songwriters worked to finish their collaboration on what would become “Don't Worry Baby” (based on his girlfriend's words of reassurance when he first heard “Be My Baby” in the car), Brian Wilson instinctively knew he had a hit on his hands. Roger Christian could feel it, too.

“It's a damn good song, Brian,” he commented.

Now all Wilson had to do was to break his plans to the rest of his band. Though he had for several months brought in various session players on a sporadic, potluck basis to supplement things, the other Beach Boys generally played on the earliest songs, too. But not anymore. If he wanted to raise his game to Spector-like levels, Wilson knew that he would have to go all out. The arrangements would have to become more complex. No more cutting simple little three-chord surf tunes like “Surfin' USA.” To accomplish this, he began hiring the same full cast of Wrecking Crew musicians his idol Spector always used. Wilson wanted players with the kind of skills that could help him realize on vinyl the full-blown, multi-layered arsenal of sounds he had floating around in his head. Something that might take rock and roll to a new level, perhaps even eclipsing Spector's vaunted work.

*   *   *

On Christmas Eve, 1964, Glen Campbell received an early and most improbable holiday gift: he became one of the Beach Boys.

With Brian Wilson finally making good on his threat to quit touring with his band in order to concentrate solely on studio work, the rest of the Beach Boys were suddenly in need of a quality road replacement for their leader, someone who could play intricate bass lines while simultaneously singing various high-harmony parts. No easy task for even the best of musicians. But the lads in the striped shirts wouldn't have to look far for an able body.

Having recently worked on a number of prominent studio dates for Wilson with others in the Wrecking Crew (“Be True to Your School,” “I Get Around,” and “Dance, Dance, Dance” among them), the versatile Campbell perfectly fit the requirements. Clean-cut and handsome, he could play, he could sing, and the boys in the band—Al Jardine, Mike Love, Carl Wilson, and Dennis Wilson—liked him. Perhaps even more important, Campbell already knew most of their songs.

Now, just as he had done with the Champs several years earlier, Glen Campbell had stepped in as part of a separate touring unit for a stealth-like name-brand studio group. But unlike before, this time the producer wanted Campbell to continue playing on the record dates, too, right alongside the rest of the Wrecking Crew. With the lesson of “Be My Baby” still ringing in his ears, Brian Wilson had gradually increased his use of studio players to the point where they now played virtually every instrument. The other Beach Boys merely cut the vocals when they came home from touring. And with the change, the hits, growing exponentially more sophisticated by the day, just kept on coming.

Of course, Capitol Records made sure to keep the whole subterfuge well under wraps, never once considering the idea of actually crediting any sidemen on the Beach Boys' record jackets. Just like all the other labels in town that had bands being replaced in the studio by the Wrecking Crew, the notion of that particular secret making its way out to the world was enough to cause apoplexy. Those in power knew that millions of fans might well feel duped if the truth ever leaked. And that would be bad for business. Extremely bad. “What the public doesn't know won't hurt them,” one executive was heard to say, evidencing the prevailing sentiment.

For Campbell, joining what was now the most popular American rock-and-roll band proved to be the best of both worlds. It allowed him to stay active on the studio scene with both the Beach Boys and other groups (especially Jan and Dean, who were Wilson's friendly rivals), which was important. That was Campbell's bread and butter, and he needed to keep his name and face out there. But being onstage was a blast, too, and it also paid very well. Not to mention the fact that the Beach Boys traveled first class all the way, nothing like his days with the Champs, when five guys crammed themselves into a worn-out Pontiac after every show and drove until dawn.

Between the two pursuits, Campbell found his income pushing for the first time into the six-figure range, giving him enough cash flow to buy a nice four-bedroom home on Satsuma Street in North Hollywood and lease a brand-new gold Cadillac. From a personal and material perspective, life had gotten very good, very fast, for the in-demand Campbell. Better than he had ever expected. He now had a wife, three children, money in the bank, and a thriving livelihood.

But Campbell also knew that few studio musicians ever broke away and achieved any kind of successful recording careers on their own. Though it could be lucrative, being a sideman virtually guaranteed a future of invisibility and truncated creative freedom. The real joy, he felt, came from singing and playing out front, being the main attraction. Just like he had done back in Albuquerque. And Glen Campbell was determined to one day recapture that feeling.

*   *   *

As sixteen-year-old Donald Altfeld, a recently arrived transfer student from the Rust Belt region of the Midwest, nervously stood in line to register for his first day of classes at University High in West Los Angeles, he couldn't help but marvel at how his existence had suddenly, almost bizarrely, changed.

Like Dorothy summarily being blown into the mythical Land of Oz, Altfeld had just witnessed the contours of his world not only dramatically transform but also seemingly go from black and white to color, practically overnight. From the moment he had stepped onto the school's beautifully manicured campus, everywhere he looked he had seen tricked-out hot rods, billowing palm trees, muscle-bound athletes, and gorgeous blond-haired girls with golden tans, each manifestly more desirable than the last. His life back home in Cleveland—to him a bleak, moldering, and unbearably cold smokestack city—had been nothing like this.

After signing up for several courses, including journalism—his favorite of the bunch—Altfeld set about acclimating himself to his surreal new surroundings. Within days, he managed to wangle a high-profile position as a music columnist for the school newspaper, due in large part to his real-world experience in writing a similar weekly feature for
Dig
magazine, a nationally distributed teen 'zine. His lifelong obsession with album cover credits and record chart rankings had recently paid off, with his uncle (a dentist) helping him get the job through one of his patients. Now, in addition to earning fifty dollars a week as a part-time freelancer with his outside gig, Altfeld would be getting school credit, too, all for doing the thing he loved most in the world—writing about music.