Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music (17 page)

Although it’s thirty-four years old,
Blood on the Tracks
—a Bob Dylan classic—has retained its relevance.

So has the man, whose influence has nothing to do with age or the era in which one discovered him.

In recent years I’ve had teenagers and young adults come up to me and ask about
Blood on the Tracks
. Heartened by their interest, I smile. “How old are you? You couldn’t have been
born
when that record was made!”

I’ll never forget the day I met Paul Simon.

Our first collaboration was in 1972, on Paul’s hit “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.” Paul was cutting his first solo album (
Paul Simon
), and I was asked to engineer the session because Roy Halee—Paul’s longtime engineer and producer—wasn’t available.

One afternoon the phone in my studio rang.

“This is Paul Simon,” the voice on the other end said.

“Sure it is,” I replied, thinking that one of the other engineers was pulling my leg.

“No—it’s really Paul Simon,” the person said. “I heard you’re a good engineer. I’m doing a solo project, and I’d love to work on a song with you.”

At the time, Roy Halee was one of Columbia Records’ most progressive producers, and I admired him.

Simon and Garfunkel’s
Bookends
and
Bridge over Troubled Water
were albums that reflected a high musical and technical watermark; both records opened my eyes to the possibilities of production.

I distinctly recall hearing
Bookends
for the first time in 1968.

I was at a party, and the host had an elaborate stereo system with speakers in every room. The bathroom was probably the quietest place in the house, and when I chanced to use the facility, the sound of Simon and Garfunkel songs such as “Bookends Theme,” “America,” and “Old Friends,” offered a welcome respite from the cacophony outside the door.

“America” was a whimsical precursor to Simon and Garfunkel epics such as “Bridge over Troubled Water” and “The Boxer”—both of which established new rules for the standard three-minute pop single. The album’s contrasts—the understated gentility of the “Bookends Theme” juxtaposed with the dissonance of the violins in “Old Friends”—were especially haunting. I bought a copy of
Bookends
the very next day, and listened to it three times in a row.

There are few albums recorded during the last forty years in which almost every song on the album has become embedded in the musical lexicon.
Bridge over Troubled Water,
released in February 1970, is one such record.

The production and the sound of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel’s harmonies on this album are astounding. Then, the spacious sonority of songs such as “The Boxer,” “El Condor Pasa,” “The Only Living Boy in New York,” and “Bridge over Troubled Water” are unparalleled examples of Roy Halee’s expert touch.

When I prepared to make “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” with Paul, I considered the high standard that he and Roy had set with these groundbreaking records. How can I give “Me and Julio” an innovative bite? I wondered.

The answer came as the session began.

As guitarist Dave Spinozza rehearsed on his unamplified, solid-body electric guitar, I noticed that his pick made a percussive
chukka-chukka
sound when it hit the strings. There was no tonality and it was subtle, but I liked it. Instead of amplifying it, I placed a microphone directly in front of Dave’s guitar.

Paul began running down “Me and Julio” for the band, and I rolled tape. The combination of Paul’s acoustic guitar and the odd-sounding rhythm made by Dave’s guitar created a new percussive sound, and when we played it back Paul said, “I really like that.” I was thrilled to have pleased Paul, and thankful that I’d stumbled upon something that brought a fresh sound to one of his records.

I didn’t know if I’d ever see Paul in my studio again.

While he expressed delight in how “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” turned out, Paul didn’t say, “We should work together again.” But about a year later I got another call—again, from Paul himself—and shortly thereafter we began work on
There Goes Rhymin’ Simon
.

Our personal and professional relationship grew slowly, as Paul began to call more often. I was proud to have received the “Paul Simon Seal of Approval.”

What I’ve always loved about Paul is his inquisitiveness, and his voracious thirst for regional and world music. While he has become renowned for integrating the native music of Africa, Peru, Brazil, and other nations into American pop, Paul was among the first superstars to recognize the wealth of regional talent here in America.

Earlier, I mentioned the Muscle Shoals Sound Studio and the Muscle Shoals musicians. It was Paul who introduced me to the wonders of Muscle Shoals, Alabama, in 1973, during the sessions for
There Goes Rhymin’ Simon
.

The Muscle Shoals Sound Studio—immortalized in Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama”—was the legendary home to a four-man rhythm section of unrivaled brilliance. Many artists (including the Rolling Stones, who cut “Brown Sugar,” “Wild Horses,” and two other tracks for
Sticky Fingers
there) flocked to the studio for the fresh approach of the band, and the unique sound of the room.

The Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section (Jimmy Johnson, guitar; Roger Hawkins, drums; David Hood, bass; and Barry Beckett, keyboards) first began playing together in 1967, as part of the acclaimed Fame Recording Studio rhythm section.

Within a short time, the band became one of the most sought-after group of studio players in the country. The quartet opened their own studio in Muscle Shoals in 1969.

The rhythm section’s endemic style and solid backbeat helped propel such explosive records as Aretha Franklin’s “Respect,” Wilson Pickett’s “Mustang Sally,” Paul Simon’s “Kodachrome,” Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock & Roll,” and Rod Stewart’s “Tonight’s the Night.” During their years together, the group earned more than seventy-five gold and platinum albums.

When you worked at Muscle Shoals you made records
organically.

No written arrangements were necessary. The Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section used a musical shorthand that enabled them to create and play a chart quickly without having to spell out every note and chord change. Instead of writing chord symbols, the Muscle Shoals guys wrote down numbers. It was a technique based on solfeggio, and it was the common musical language of the South.

I can close my eyes all these years later and see keyboardist Barry Beckett playing the piano while calling out chord changes:
“Bridge, bridge, two bars
—
1, 2, 3
—
turnaround
—
4,”
he’d bark. Then,
“Go to cymbals!”

Paul admired Aretha Franklin’s Atlantic records—many of which were made in Muscle Shoals—and when he was thinking of ways to bring a twist to
There Goes Rhymin’ Simon
he said, “I love that sound—why don’t we just record where Aretha did?”

We both marveled at the way Muscle Shoals was set up.

“When you came into the studio you turned on a switch, and the sound was there,” Paul explained. “The drums were never moved, the bass was never moved. It wasn’t like it was in New York or
Los Angeles, where you had the studio for a block of time, and when you were finished you had to break down so another act could come in later that night. Because the instruments, musicians, and studio were always ready in Muscle Shoals, you never had to struggle to find the sound.”

The interplay between the Muscle Shoals musicians was unlike anything I’d seen anywhere except Nashville. The group played with a classic R&B style that, despite the studio’s location, wasn’t influenced by country or regional music.

Muscle Shoals cofounder Barry Beckett played piano on
There Goes Rhymin’ Simon
, and has vivid memories of recording with Paul in Alabama:

“The excitement of Paul coming in enabled us to psych ourselves up for at least two weeks before he arrived,” Barry explained. “We got some inkling of what to expect when we found out that he had booked four days to do one song! That surprised us, because [we normally finished] one song in an hour, or an hour and a half.

“The [first song we recorded] with Paul was ‘Take Me to the Mardi Gras,’ which had a reggae feel. I remember Paul walking over to me at the piano, and making a suggestion. ‘Barry, by every indication, the gentleman in the song is going to get to go to the Mardi Gras,’ Paul said. ‘He wants to go, so he’s going to go. Nowhere in the song does it say he
might not
get to go. Is it possible to get that feel?’ ‘Sure,’ I said.

“We cut ‘Take Me to the Mardi Gras’ within thirty minutes. Paul was flabbergasted that it took us so little time to get the groove and the attitude of the song. Attitude is something that Paul really concentrates on. He goes for attitude, then groove, and then color, and we caught all those ingredients very fast—and all at once,” Beckett concluded.

But recording in Muscle Shoals wasn’t just about the music or musicians. The entire Muscle Shoals experience was a slice of
Americana: the people were sweet, the food was delicious, and the businesspeople went out of their way to make you feel at home.

Some examples:

When Paul and I arrived at our hotel, a huge sign greeted us: WELCOME PAUL SIMON AND PHIL RAMONE. Seeing it made me feel very special. I’d never seen my name on a marquee before, much less on a Holiday Inn.

That night we had a sumptuous southern dinner—catfish, biscuits, and vegetables like you’ve never eaten—for a quarter of what it would have cost us to eat in New York. I left a tip on the table, and as we were leaving, the waitress came over and said, “You forgot your money.”

On a subsequent trip to Muscle Shoals I woke up with a horrific toothache. It was a Sunday, but Jerry Masters—the studio’s chief engineer—called a local dentist. “We don’t want you suffering,” the doctor said. “I’ll come and pick you up, and take you to the drugstore. Bill [the pharmacist] will meet us there, and make up a prescription for you.” Can you imagine such a thing happening in New York, much less on a Sunday
?

The Muscle Shoals experience offered Paul the chance to infuse his music with loads of color, and I loved taking part in his impulsive flights of fancy.

One never knew what direction—literally and musically—Paul’s whims would take us in, as I discovered during the
There Goes Rhymin’ Simon
sessions.

After cutting the basic track for “Take Me to the Mardi Gras” at Muscle Shoals, Paul decided that he wanted to take the sixteen-track master tape to New Orleans to overdub the Onward Brass Band. It was a masterstroke—one of those spontaneous decisions that lend Paul’s music just the right degree of verisimilitude.

I began making some calls, and was shocked to learn that none of the studios in New Orleans had sixteen-track recorders. The
idea, though, was just too good to abandon, so I persisted until I found a studio—Maleco Sound in Jackson, Mississippi—that could handle sixteen-track masters.

Jackson was halfway between Muscle Shoals and New Orleans, and the Onward Brass Band agreed to meet us halfway. Paul and I piled into a car and headed for Maleco Sound. We got lost, of course, and during one desperate moment we pulled into a gas station to ask for directions. I still laugh when I think of the puzzled look the attendant gave Paul and me; we were tired, unkempt, and at least one of us was famous—even in Jackson, Mississippi!

I didn’t know what we were stepping into when we’d agreed to go to Maleco, but I quickly learned that working with the Onward Brass Band was much like working with the Muscle Shoals musicians; it gave me a new perspective on professionalism.

For the Maleco session, the Onward Brass Band members came to the studio wearing their uniforms. It might not sound like such a big deal, but that gesture really impressed me, and I know it impressed the hell out of Paul. Image and propriety were clearly important to them, and it was reflected in their look, style, and performance.

There Goes Rhymin’ Simon
represents Paul’s coming-of-age as a solo artist, and yielded a number of Paul Simon classics including “Kodachrome,” “Something So Right,” “Take Me to the Mardi Gras,” “St. Judy’s Comet,” “One Man’s Ceiling Is Another Man’s Floor,” and “Loves Me Like a Rock.”

Muscle Shoals (and Maleco Sound) influenced the tone of
There Goes Rhymin’ Simon
—and the direction of Paul’s work for years to come.

Another wondrous moment that Paul and I spent together was in Brazil, when he was making
The Rhythm of the Saints
in 1989.

By then,
Graceland
—Paul’s groundbreaking world music album—had been hailed a masterpiece. With
Graceland
, and songs such as “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” “Gumboots,” and “You Can Call Me Al,” Paul skillfully blended his American pop
music sensibilities with the seductive, unrelenting rhythms of traditional South African music.

With
The Rhythm of the Saints,
Paul extended the concept, this time emphasizing the underexplored polyrhythms indigenous to West African music.

Roy Halee supervised production on
Rhythm of the Saints
, but Paul also asked a friend—Brazilian producer Mazzola—to assist. Although portions were recorded in New York and Paris, much of the album was recorded in Brazil.

For the Brazilian sessions Paul booked time at Transamerica, Impressao Digital, and Multi Studios in Rio de Janeiro. Because I had been on tour with Paul (and since Roy Halee opted to stay stateside and mix the tracks later, at the Hit Factory in New York), I accompanied Paul to Brazil.

Recording in Brazil was complicated.

Foreign engineers and producers weren’t permitted to bring recording tape into the country without prior authorization (the government wanted to know who you were recording, and where you were recording them). If permission
was
granted, the amount of tape you could get through customs was limited. Traveling to the country with recording gear of any kind—microphones, mixers, or tape recorders—was out of the question. The sessions at Transamerica were allowed because of Paul’s connection with Mazzola, and because only Brazilian studio space, engineers, and materials were being used.

Working around the restrictions was worth the result; the locale brought a spirit to the music that could never be duplicated in the United States. Everyone involved with the project knew that like
Graceland
before it,
Rhythm of the Saints
would signify an epochal moment in Paul’s world-music canon.