The Wrecking Crew (15 page)

With so much riding on the one-off recording, the pressure was on for both the Byrds and Columbia's management. The label still had not made any sort of real commitment to rock and roll (Paul Revere & the Raiders' first album wouldn't come out until later in the year), and they were cautious about investing too much time or money in a genre they felt could still very well prove to be a fad. This would be an important test.

Understandably interested in hedging their bet, Columbia promptly assigned an ever-so-mellow flaxen-haired twenty-two-year-old by the name of Terry Melcher—the youngest, hippest West Coast staff producer they had on the payroll—to see what he could achieve with the Byrds in the studio. Melcher's successful background as a writer, producer, and singer with his own surf/car rock outfits like Bruce & Terry and the Rip Chords (“Hey, Little Cobra”—a number-four hit in 1964, featuring Hal Blaine, Glen Campbell, and several other Wrecking Crew regulars) made him just about the only person at the label who had any actual experience with rock and roll. It also didn't hurt his in-house status and clout that his mother, the singer and actress Doris Day, was Columbia's biggest recording star.

Soon deciding on an as-yet-unreleased song by Bob Dylan called “Mr. Tambourine Man” to be the most promising vehicle through which to showcase their complex vocal harmonies, the Byrds primed themselves to hit the studio at Columbia and make the most out of their lone recording opportunity. Time to break out the instruments, they figured, and show the world what they could do. This was their time to shine. But, instead, the band found themselves on the receiving end of a rude, music business–style wake-up call: with one exception, Terry Melcher made it plain that he planned to use the Wrecking Crew in each of their places.

Having been an acoustic guitar–playing sideman for several years in New York for seasoned folk acts like the Limeliters, the Chad Mitchell Trio, and Judy Collins, Jim McGuinn (who would soon change his first name to Roger) already knew his way around a recording studio. And his years of practice and dedication had helped him evolve into a strong player, someone capable of studio-quality work. With this in mind, Melcher had no issue with using McGuinn's services. In fact, he welcomed it: the Rickenbacker gave the Byrds a much-needed signature sound.

But the young producer had a very
big
problem with the other four members of the band. In his view, they were utterly incapable of playing their own instruments at a professional level. He had caught a couple of their rehearsals, immediately realizing that they were, in essence, a bunch of beginners. And Columbia wasn't in the habit of doling out music lessons or allowing hours of precious studio time to be wasted while amateurs learned their craft.

In addition, Melcher had been heavily influenced by his friend Brian Wilson's now-almost-exclusive use of the Wrecking Crew in the studio, a gambit that had immeasurably increased the creative depth and efficiency of the Beach Boys' recorded work. With time being money and with his growing reputation at stake, Melcher wanted the same arsenal of pros at his disposal. It was essential that he put out the best possible product in the shortest amount of time.

One way or the other, the members of the Byrds would just have to deal with it.

*   *   *

As Hal Blaine casually walked into Columbia Records' Studio A at a little before 10:00
A.M.
on the day of the recording for “Mr. Tambourine Man,” he first popped his head into the control booth to say hello to Terry Melcher. Having worked together several times before, they had a good rapport. And young though Melcher might have been, Blaine considered him to be an important up-and-coming talent. In turn, Melcher always thought of Blaine as the finest studio drummer in town.

“Gonna really need your help today, Hal,” Melcher said from his seat behind the large mixing console. “The label's watching this one.”

“Ready when you are,” Blaine said with a smile.

Stepping back out into Studio A's main tracking room—a huge, now-converted 1940s-era radio broadcast theater formerly known as the Columbia Playhouse, once capable of holding an audience of over a thousand—Blaine entered to greet an array of familiar faces scattered about, all in various stages of warming up on their instruments. Guys he worked with practically every day of the week like Jerry Cole and Bill Pitman on guitar, Russell Bridges (aka Leon Russell) on piano, and Larry Knechtel on electric bass. It sometimes seemed like Blaine saw them more than he saw his own wife (he had recently married a beautiful young woman named Lydia, his third try at matrimony).

While putting his stick bag next to his set of blue sparkle Ludwig drums, Blaine also happened to notice a young face he had never seen before. Someone holding an electric twelve-string guitar in his lap, clearly appearing apprehensive.

Walking over, the always-welcoming Blaine extended his hand to the worried-looking guitar player.

“I'm Hal,” he said warmly. “You with the band?”

A startled Jim McGuinn looked up at the figure standing before him. No one else in the place had even bothered to acknowledge his existence.

“Yes,” McGuinn replied tentatively while returning the drummer's handshake. “I'm the lead guitar player. My name's Jim.”

In reality, however, Jim McGuinn already knew who Hal Blaine was. McGuinn knew who the rest of the Wrecking Crew musicians were, too. He had long been in awe of Phil Spector's productions, and McGuinn was well aware of who had played what on those heralded Gold Star sessions. Having bought most of the big Wall of Sound singles like “Be My Baby” and “Da Doo Ron Ron (When He Walked Me Home),” the studious McGuinn had privately spent many hours meticulously picking them apart, instrument by instrument, while they blared through his hi-fi.

No, McGuinn needed no introductions. These cats were his idols. They were the best in the business. And now he was actually sitting in the same room with them, about to cut a record. He felt both honored and daunted. It didn't get any more intense than this.

Sensing McGuinn's continued unease, Blaine offered a quick piece of advice.

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

And then, flashing his trademark double-thumbs-up as he headed back toward his drums, Blaine added, “You'll be fine.”

*   *   *

Having seen his share of jittery young musicians over the years, the well-seasoned Hal Blaine proved to be as solid as his unwavering sense of time in his assessment of Jim McGuinn. The Byrds' guitarist
was
fine in the studio that day over at Columbia. In fact, he was more than fine.

With McGuinn's nervousness fortunately fading as soon as the red “recording” light came on, his Bach-inspired intro and outro riffs on “Mr. Tambourine Man” provided the perfect set of jangling bookends to a tight two-and-a-half-minute tune. Combined with Blaine's expertly executed drum licks, Jerry Cole's syncopated guitar “chinks” (borrowed directly from his own work on the Beach Boys' “Don't Worry Baby”), and Larry Knechtel's memorable sliding bass line, the whole production was spot-on.

Melcher was happy. McGuinn was happy. The Columbia execs were happy. Everyone seemed happy.

Everyone, that is, except for four-fifths of the Byrds.

In particular, the band's drummer, Michael Clarke, was flat-out angry. Though he had spent precious little time to that point playing on an actual drum kit (strapped for cash, he mostly had been practicing on a jury-rigged set of cardboard boxes), it never interfered with Clarke's firm opinion of his own place and position within the flock. Novice or not, he had no taste for being relegated to a bench role. This was a
band,
man. And he was their drummer. Or hadn't anybody gotten the memo?

After the release of the “Mr. Tambourine Man” single in mid-April, with Columbia starting to get a good feeling about the record's commercial prospects, the Byrds were invited back into the studio to cut what would become the rest of their first album, appropriately titled
Mr. Tambourine Man.
While having reluctantly agreed in the interim to allow the other four members to now also play their own instruments (through heavy pressure from the band's management), Melcher still found the occasional need to bring in Hal Blaine to “sweeten” some of the percussion. Having a rock-solid rhythm track was vital for any song—it was the foundation upon which everything else was built. But the unrelenting Michael Clarke saw Blaine's presence in a different light.

“We don't need another drummer in here,” a still-resentful Clarke said to Melcher one afternoon as they and the rest of the band listened in the booth to a song on which Blaine had contributed. “It should just be the five of us. I can handle all the playing. I've been doing it onstage every night at Ciro's, you know.”

Here we go again, thought the producer.

“We've already been through this, Michael,” Melcher said evenly, trying his best to remain patient. “Playing live is very different from what is needed in the studio. In some ways, I just don't think you're quite there yet.”

“Bullshit,” Clarke replied.

That finally tore it. Clarke never did know when to quit. And Melcher had taken all he could of the rookie drummer's constant complaining.

“Listen,” said Melcher, his voice rising as he spun around in his chair. “You need to sit down and shut the fuck up right now. Or leave this studio. Your choice.
Got
it?”

A silence fell over the small room.

Melcher obviously meant business. And with their one-shot record deal for a big-time label all that stood between the Byrds and the street, it was not the best time to push personal agendas. For now, anyway.

Clarke grudgingly took a seat.

But the producer and the drummer would each soon be able to claim a measure of vindication. Exceeding all expectations, the title track, featuring the Wrecking Crew, raced to number one on the singles charts. And the album itself, with the full band laboriously playing their own instruments on ten out of the twelve tracks, trucked in at number six.

Even more meaningful, their successful debut established the Byrds as one of the founding fathers of a new genre of popular music called folk rock. With a skillful blend of vocal harmonies, social messages, and a unique combination of acoustic and electric instrumentation, the band hadn't just become successful; they had become seminal. McGuinn had made social history on the same day as LBJ after all.

In short, by mid-1965 the Byrds had helped take popular music from “I wanna hold your hand” to “I wanna change the world” in one fell swoop. Their success instantly, and ironically, also served to further marginalize the now increasingly dated-sounding, over-the-top rock and roll put forth by Phil Spector—the very person Jim McGuinn had studied so closely in his earlier days. Yet the determined Spector was in no way ready to go down without a fight. To hell with folk rock. The brilliant musical auteur had one more creative card up his sleeve, one last way to deal himself back onto the top of the charts. And, as always, he would need the Wrecking Crew by his side to help him pull it off.

8

River Deep, Mountain High

See you around, Phil. Take care.

—M
ICHEL
R
UBINI

During the late fall of 1945, just after the end of World War II, inside an expensive home located along the shimmering waters of the Pacific Ocean just north of Los Angeles, a precocious curly-haired toddler with large expressive eyes sat frozen in place, staring. Having pressed his young face between two narrow wooden stairway balusters high above his family's elegantly appointed living room, the three-year-old watched intently from his secret perch as two men, who seemed to be very far below, made the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard.

One of those playing was the boy's father, a world-famous classical violinist by the name of Jan Rubini; the other was his longtime piano accompanist. And as the two musicians diligently rehearsed for an upcoming concert tour, the only thing running through the young child's mind was wondering how soon he could be just like them.

For some people, becoming a musician is a rational, well-planned vocational decision. Much like becoming a doctor or a firefighter or an accountant, it is a deliberate career choice that evolves through considerable thought and planning. For others, the desire to spend a life in the musical arts is a feeling unexpectedly thrust upon them by the vagaries of fate. Like choosing to become a guitarist after watching the Beatles' first appearance on
The Ed Sullivan Show
or suddenly realizing the ability to sing while sitting with friends around a campfire.

Though for a select few, however, the idea of becoming a musician is never viewed as some kind of occupational option. It is simply an automatic extension of who they are: the fortunate recipients of highly specific familial DNA. And so with a celebrated concert figure for a father and a principal with the Royal Conservatory of Music in London for a grandfather—not to mention many other similarly employed forebears—little Michel Rubini, late of Old Malibu Road, didn't
become
a musician; he was born one.

But birthright or no, making the most out of an innate musical talent still takes practice. Plenty of practice. And it was no different for Rubini. His parents cut him no slack, requiring that he sit before the piano—his instrument of choice—for a minimum of one hour before
and
after school, every day. He faithfully did as he was told, too, even while he heard the other kids in the neighborhood through the open windows having the times of their lives playing baseball, riding bikes, and just generally goofing off.

From the works of Chopin, Mozart, and Schumann to every classical composer in between, Rubini quickly excelled at playing anything and everything put in front of him. So much so that by the age of fourteen he became his father's regular piano accompanist during a string of prestigious performances around the country. An unheard-of experience for someone so young, and a career-making opportunity to be envied.