The Wrecking Crew (14 page)

“Sonny, consider yourself jive, all right?” the producer said, his voice honeyed with sarcasm, as he and the rest of the Wrecking Crew broke into knowing laughter. Bono was nobody's threat to become the next great bebopper.

But despite Sonny Bono's struggle to find his inner groove, he was always a dutiful manservant to Spector. And Bono's eagle eye, especially during the mammoth series of sessions in the late summer of 1963 for Spector's landmark holiday-themed album,
A Christmas Gift for You from Philles Records,
helped him reap the real reward he was after. It gave him the mental road map he needed in order to feel confident about producing his own songs. He was now sure he could do it. Maybe he couldn't play an instrument, maybe he couldn't sing very well, either, but he
had
learned from the best in the business about how to put the right elements together in the right order. How to make a hit record. All Bono needed now was the right opportunity.

*   *   *

By the end of 1964, Sonny Bono sensed that the foundation of Phil Spector's Wall of Sound formula was starting to crack. Though the producer was on the cusp of creating several Top 10 hits for a duo of blue-eyed soul singers called the Righteous Brothers (with various members of the Wrecking Crew on all the instruments), the rest of his Philles acts were by this time struggling to even make the Top 40. The era of the girl groups was clearly on the wane. And unfortunately for Bono, he made the mistake of telling Spector as much.

As per Bono's custom as the head of West Coast promotions, one December morning he decided to take the newest release by the Ronettes over to KFWB in Hollywood. The men behind the mics there usually loved getting a copy of Spector's latest and greatest creation before their archrivals at KRLA even knew it existed. The station had flipped over “Then He Kissed Me” and “Be My Baby,” helping in no small part to turn those songs into major hits.

But not this time around. As the disc jockey listened to the song “Walkin' in the Rain,” he noticeably grimaced, telling Bono that, in his opinion, the big Spector sound just didn't impress anybody anymore. Tastes were changing; the recent influx of powerhouse British bands like the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the Dave Clark Five had seen to that. A new style of rock and roll had taken hold.

“Have you heard what Lennon and McCartney are doing?” the DJ asked.

With a heavy heart, Bono knew the radio guy was right. The charts didn't lie. The Brits were now setting the pace. As Bono left the station and slowly walked over to a nearby phone booth on Hollywood Boulevard, a sudden wave of trepidation washed over him. He had to call the office and somehow break the news to Spector. The man in charge always wanted an immediate update on the latest song pitch. And he didn't take rejection well.

But in relaying the story to him about what had just happened, Bono made one fatal error in judgment. Instead of simply reporting exactly what the disc jockey had said and nothing more, Bono tried to soften the blow by adding, “Phil, I think we need to change the sound.”

That was all Spector needed to hear. No one talked to him that way. At least no one who had any realistic expectation of remaining in Spector's life. He was a genius after all. The press and other musicians had said so. And now one of his underlings had the gall to question his production methods?

But Spector didn't debate with Bono. Spector didn't scream at him, either. In fact, he didn't say anything. All Bono heard was the endless whoosh of midday traffic passing by. And as he waited through the lengthy, intense silence on the other end of the line, he instinctively knew that he was out. As in gone for good. Excised from the fold. For Bono had just committed the most heinous, unpardonable sin of them all. He had seen the elfin emperor without his clothes.

With a finality borne of one ill-worded transgression, it was now time for Sonny Bono to stake a musical claim of his own. To use the skills he had developed while standing so steadfastly in Spector's imposing shadow. It wouldn't be easy, but there was no other choice. Bono's exodus had probably been inevitable anyway. No one really ever lasted long in Spectorville.

Taking stock of his prospects in light of his new free agency, Bono thought he saw some potential in recording vocals with his girlfriend. She was a beautiful raven-haired teenager eleven years his junior who possessed a powerful vibrato and definite star-like presence. Perhaps they could forge a career together as some kind of a singing duo. It had been done before. And strong female vocalists, especially those like Petula Clark, Jackie DeShannon, and Dusty Springfield, were getting very popular. A trend to capitalize on for sure. At least it might be a way to keep the wolf from the door.

*   *   *

During the late spring of 1965, as Sonny Bono sat at the kitchen table late one evening inside his small Benedict Canyon house, he began to wonder where he had gone wrong. Having recently moved into the home with his eighteen-year-old girlfriend-cum-common-law wife, Cherilyn LaPierre (she had “married” them herself with an exchange of cheap souvenir rings in their old apartment's bathroom one day), the would-be tunesmith and producer desperately wanted to write a hit song. Bono had seen his old boss Phil Spector do it countless times. For that matter, it seemed like everybody Bono knew in the music business was finding some kind of success, writing and otherwise.

Following his abrupt and disheartening departure from Philles Records, the ambitious Bono had been nothing if not active. His first order of business had been to create a singing duo with Cher (as her friends and family referred to her) called Caesar & Cleo. The shaggy-haired, fur vest–wearing pair cut a few self-funded demos, with several members of the Wrecking Crew agreeing to help out their old friend Sonny by accepting fifteen bucks a head in cash under the table. The well-connected Bono also managed to score a distribution deal for his new recordings with Reprise Records. One of the singles, “Baby Don't Go,” even made a respectable showing on the local LA record charts in late 1964. That was enough to get the duo some live work in small clubs throughout the area, which, in turn, was just enough to pay the rent on their tiny bungalow. But nothing was breaking for them nationally. And that was where the real money and fame were to be found.

With all this on his mind, Bono eased back in his chair and let out a long sigh. No point in trying to sleep on a night like this. Leaning forward again, he absently began scribbling down a bunch of seemingly unrelated snatches of song lyric ideas on a discarded sheet of thin cardboard that had been part of the latest delivery from the local laundry. The exercise was more of a habit than anything else. Something he liked to do to blow off steam. Nothing important had yet come from it.

But the more he wrote that night, however, the more Sonny Bono felt that, for once, he might actually be on to something. He found himself in a mode of emotional free association, unexpectedly tapping into the honesty of his domestic situation, with the feeling that although he and Cher had yet to make it big and had very little to show for themselves in terms of material possessions, at least they always had each other.

After finishing about half the lyrics, the suddenly energized Bono raced downstairs to the banged-up fifty-dollar upright piano he kept in the garage for just such songwriting purposes. Maybe he knew only a handful of chords and couldn't even play those very well, but they would have to do. In a burst of inspiration, the words and music flowed through Bono's mind and fingertips like never before. Plunking away with all he had, he managed to complete the full song in less than an hour.

As Bono excitedly played and sang his new creation for Cher, she gleefully grabbed the piece of cardboard with all the lyrics and declared, “I'm saving this forever.” The two singing hopefuls instinctively knew that this was the hit they had been waiting for.

*   *   *

Within days of Sonny Bono's late-night songwriting breakthrough, at his request a dozen-plus Wrecking Crew musicians piled into Gold Star's tiny Studio A. As the session got under way, it quickly became clear to everyone that Bono was right: his new composition, called “I Got You Babe,” was indeed no ordinary song.

But as had become characteristic of a Bono-produced session—à la his role model Phil Spector—getting to the final recorded take on any given song was a lengthy, painstaking process. And “I Got You Babe” was no different. As the musicians played their respective parts over and over while Bono slowly worked his way through creating a mix that he thought radio might go for, the drudgery ultimately became too much to bear for one of the guitarists. A mild-mannered and highly respected regular by the name of Barney Kessel felt compelled to speak up.

“Oh, Sonny,” Kessel called out during a break in the action.

“Uh, yes, Barney?” a surprised Bono replied over the talk-back mic from the control booth.

“If the doctor told me I had only two weeks left to live, I'd rather spend them with you. Because each moment is like an eternity.”

Taking the off-the-wall comment at face value, the guileless Bono seemed pleased with the sudden showing of brotherly love from one of his favorite guitarists.

“Gee, thanks, Barney,” he said.

Between the normally taciturn Kessel's wry observance and the ever-slow-on-the-uptake Bono, it was all too much for the Wrecking Crew to handle. They burst into laughter.

But by the time “I Got You Babe” finally made it into the can at the end of the three-hour session, the merriment had turned to awe. The song was an obvious smash.

Taking advantage of his time spent as a smooth-talking promo man, Bono quickly cut an acetate demo of the song—now credited to Sonny & Cher—and rushed it down to a new, red-hot Top 40 radio station on Melrose Avenue called KHJ, offering it to them as an exclusive. Hungry to get the jump on his two main competitors, KFWB and KRLA, the program director, Ron Jacobs, snapped up the recording and put it into regular rotation. The phone lines immediately lit up, with “I Got You Babe” soon vaulting to the top of the local, then national, and even the UK charts. Sonny & Cher had achieved a rare rock-and-roll feat: an across-the-board transatlantic number-one hit.

After years of dreaming, plotting, and hustling, Sonny Bono—with plenty of in-studio help from the Wrecking Crew—finally had made it to the pinnacle of his profession. A lofty lair where esteemed names like Spector, Wilson, Jagger, Lennon, and McCartney were considered to be the gold standard. And though he felt like a bit of a fake when being mentioned along with them by the press, Bono's vision had nonetheless been realized. He
had
made the big time. Now it would just be a matter of finding some way to stay there.

7

Mr. Tambourine Man

Don't be nervous, kid. Just take a deep breath.

—H
AL
B
LAINE

On January 20, 1965, at the same time that Lyndon Baines Johnson stood before America delivering his inaugural address underneath the U.S. Capitol's East Portico for his second term in office as the nation's thirty-sixth president, Jim McGuinn, a little-known folk guitarist, nervously slid into
his
place of honor on a simple metal folding chair inside a giant, windowless recording studio on Sunset Boulevard.

But unlike the highly anticipated speech going down three thousand miles to the east—during which Johnson waxed rhapsodic about his belief in the divine mandate of his controversial Great Society program—the newcomer McGuinn had absolutely no reason to think that anything remotely historic was about to happen on his end of the line. Rather, McGuinn's biggest concern on that winter Wednesday morning was just making sure he didn't somehow make a fool out of himself.

Several months earlier, like so many other aspiring musicians, the twenty-two-year-old Chicago native and recent LA transplant had gone to see the Beatles' film debut in
A Hard Day's Night
. It was McGuinn's first real chance to see the group up close, to dissect what they did and how they did it. And it would be an event he would never forget.

At the precise moment the movie had begun, as George Harrison, the Beatles' lead guitarist, delivered one mighty downward strum on his Rickenbacker 360/12 twelve-string electric guitar, Jim McGuinn had felt a surge of adrenaline go through his body. The pulsating, chiming sound of the guitar filled both the theater and his imagination. “A Hard Day's Night” was now in play, and McGuinn, for all his musical experience, had never seen or heard anything like it. If one simple Fadd9 chord can be said to have changed a man's life, it occurred in that room, on that day.

Soon thereafter, the still-mesmerized McGuinn boldly traded in his acoustic twelve-string guitar and his five-string banjo—the tools of his livelihood—and bought the same semi-hollow-body Rickenbacker guitar model that Harrison had brandished up on the big screen. From its polished rosewood fret board and lacquered maple body to its two single-coil, high-gain pickups, McGuinn immediately fell in love with everything about his new Rick. The way it felt in his hands, the unique bell-like tonal quality. Now he could finally fully express himself as an artist, particularly in regard to exploring the more advanced jazz textures of those like John Coltrane and others.

Practicing for eight hours a day on his new axe, McGuinn quickly became far more than proficient. He taught himself a variety of complicated jazz and blues scales, even incorporating banjo-style picking patterns along the way. And he especially loved taking a potluck approach toward mixing and matching various elements of folk and rock, creating a musical Mulligan stew distinctly his own.

During this same period, Jim McGuinn also co-founded the Byrds, a folk-based quintet that had formed out of the Troubadour nightclub on Santa Monica Boulevard (where he had played many solo gigs). Through a lucky break, they had recently received the help of jazz trumpeter Miles Davis in securing a much-coveted recording contract with Columbia Records (Davis's label). The big catch, though, was that the five folkies with the rock-and-roll pretentions would be allowed to cut just one single. If it performed well on the charts—and, more important, at retail—the group would be permitted to record another. If not, they would be dropped.