The Wrecking Crew (27 page)

*   *   *

By the spring of 1967, with the Vietnam War, campus unrest, and racial strife increasingly preoccupying American youth, Top 40 radio playlists also began to take a more serious turn. Innocent fare like “Everybody Loves a Clown” by Gary Lewis and the Playboys and “Cherish” by the Association gradually ceded airtime to more provocative social anthems like “Respect” by Aretha Franklin and “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles. Songs increasingly needed to have a message, some
meaning
—a commercial reality not lost on either Johnny Rivers or the 5th Dimension.

One day, in the absence of Rivers (who was overseas attending a music festival), Jimmy Webb stopped by Sound Recorders at the corner of Yucca and Argyle in Hollywood with an idea. The 5th Dimension were coming to the studio to rehearse and he wanted to try out a buoyant little number for them he had just written called “Up, Up and Away.” Inspired by the exhilaration he had experienced during a hot-air balloon ride back home in San Bernardino, Webb felt certain his creation would be a success. But with happy, hopeful lyrics and a bouncy, hook-laden melody, it seemed better suited for
The Lawrence Welk Show
than for a soul group launching a career. The 5th Dimension wanted relevance, to catch the ear of a changing pop marketplace. A song about a balloon wasn't exactly what they had in mind.

“Sounds more like an album cut than a single to me,” observed Billy Davis, diplomatically, as Webb demoed the song on piano. Davis, the group's lead male singer, always leaned more toward R & B anyway.

“It's just too pretty, Jimmy.”

But Webb would not—could not—be deterred. Time to bring in the heavy guns. A call went out to Hal Blaine, Joe Osborn, Tommy Tedesco, and Larry Knechtel from the Wrecking Crew to come over and cut the basic instrumental tracks. With Webb encouraging them to “let it fly,” Tedesco, in particular, came with his “A” game, adding a series of improvised, flamenco-flavored flourishes on the acoustic gut-string guitar that really helped knock the song out of the park.

Webb then one-upped himself, scoring a complex, lilting vocal arrangement that actually
sounded
like a beautiful balloon in flight. By the time they recorded the last of the vocals, the 5th Dimension stood in awe. After listening to the final playback, now complete with a full string section, they knew Webb was right all along. “Up, Up and Away” was definitely like nothing else on the radio, but in a good way. A very good way.

Having played on literally thousands of recording sessions to this point, the Wrecking Crew also knew a surefire hit when they heard one. You couldn't always tell, but every once in a while, when all the pieces came together, a song could take on a life of its own. “Be My Baby” was like that. “Good Vibrations,” too.

“It's got ‘hit' written all over it,” Blaine said. “A real winner.”

“Up, Up and Away” did indeed become a hit, worldwide. In addition to being rush-released as a single, it also became the title of the group's first album. Both quickly went gold, in the process rocketing the 5th Dimension to international fame. Webb, too, became
the
hot songwriter with whom every Hollywood music producer suddenly wanted to get cozy.

But despite the heady success of “Up, Up and Away”—something most songwriters and musicians could only dream about—the astoundingly fruitful collaboration between Jimmy Webb and the Wrecking Crew had barely even begun.

*   *   *

In the fall of 1967, at the same time the 5th Dimension began their climb to stardom, Wrecking Crew guitarist Glen Campbell was in the process of taking some serious steps of his own. In a last-ditch attempt to jump-start his flagging solo career as a singer, Campbell's label, Capitol Records, assigned fellow Wrecking Crew member (and ace pianist) Al DeLory to produce Glen's next—and maybe last—recording. “See what you can do with him,” came the word from on high.

Campbell's previous personal recording efforts had done poorly. Try as he might, he'd never been higher than number forty-six on the pop singles charts. He'd had a couple of flirtations with the country charts that did a little better. But after five frustrating years, Capitol was running out of patience. With several promising new artists on their roster like Bobbie Gentry, the Stone Poneys (featuring a young Linda Ronstadt), and a psychedelic rock group out of San Jose called People! label execs had other, better ways to spend their time and money.

Just when Glen Campbell needed it most, however, serendipity—or perhaps divine intervention—appeared from an unlikely source. Coming into Western 3 one day for another session as a sideman with the Wrecking Crew, Glen happened to notice a record album lying on a table. It was by Johnny Rivers and contained a track that caught his eye called “By the Time I Get to Phoenix.” Now that's an interesting title, Campbell thought. Is it about the city or that bird that rose from all the ashes?

Out of curiosity, having gigged around the Phoenix area many times over the years, Glen decided to give the song a quick spin on the studio's turntable. What could it hurt? Didn't they used to say back home that a stone unturned is opportunity lost? Or something like that.

Within seconds of listening, the one-day Rhinestone Cowboy experienced a life-altering epiphany. A feeling he'd never had before. He knew—instinctively
knew
—that this semi-obscure album track was going to be not only his next single but also his first bona fide pop hit.

Rushing to meet with DeLory in Capitol's Studio B the next day, Campbell couldn't wait to share his discovery.

“I've found our song, Al.”

With the help of fellow Wrecking Crew mates Hal Blaine, Carol Kaye, Al Casey, and Mike Deasy, “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” did in fact become Campbell's first pop success. Released in November, it nosed into the Top 40 at a respectable number twenty-six (with a number-two showing on the country charts), reinvigorating Campbell's shaky solo career in the nick of time. It also set the stage for an event so far-fetched, so surreal, that those involved could scarcely believe their good fortune.

*   *   *

Back in 1961, as the soaring production costs for the infamous box-office dud
Cleopatra
finally pushed the 20th Century Fox Film Corporation in West LA to the verge of bankruptcy, the powers-that-be made a momentous decision. They decided to do the unthinkable and sell off a good share of the studio's historic back lot, the filming location of such classics as
The Ox-Bow Incident, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,
and
Carousel
. Striking a deal with developers, Fox parted with 180 prime acres of land, which became a futuristic “city within a city” called Century City.

Easily the most prominent addition to this new office, retail, and residential development occurred in 1966 with the construction of the nineteen-story, crescent-shaped Century Plaza Hotel. The five-star hostelry immediately became the luxurious home to a variety of awards shows and also a popular social destination among politicians and celebrities. The
Apollo 11
astronauts were enthusiastically welcomed back there from the moon at a big ballroom ceremony by President Richard Nixon. Old Hollywood stars like Cary Grant, Bob Hope, and Debbie Reynolds often dined in the swanky Lobby Court restaurant. And perhaps most infamously, in 1967, President Lyndon Johnson spoke at a Democratic fund-raiser at the hotel while ten thousand raging Vietnam War demonstrators clashed in a bloody melee out front with thirteen hundred club-swinging riot police.

But on February 29, 1968, all was glory and good cheer. It was the tenth annual Grammy Awards ceremony, grandly taking its first bow on center stage at the opulent hotel. Always a much-anticipated event among music business insiders, the show had also in recent years become a highly rated TV special, too. Though not broadcast live, the NBC-TV show, called
The Best on Record,
served to spotlight the most important performers and categories. And with home viewership levels providing a direct stimulus to record sales in retail stores across America (and, for that matter, around the world), the Grammy Awards had essentially evolved into a lucrative promotional vehicle for everyone involved.

As Hal Blaine walked through the Century Plaza's front doors that evening, he couldn't have felt more proud. He'd come such a long way from his early days playing drums around town for the Diamonds, Jan & Arnie, and other fledgling LA rock and rollers. Now here he was at the Grammys. Blaine (just like the rest of the Wrecking Crew) had played on a covey of songs in '67 that were nominated in a variety of categories, so chances were good that his efforts might win at least something. Of course, as a hired drummer he wouldn't actually qualify to take home a statuette of his own. But still, just to be in the company of so many great talents all in one room, with the whole world looking on, was an unbelievable thrill all by itself.

Once the ceremonies got under way it quickly became clear that this was no ordinary Grammy show. Something was in the air, the smell of an upset. Powerhouse performances on nominated albums like
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
by the Beatles and songs like “A Whiter Shade of Pale” by Procol Harum were getting overlooked.

Stunning the crowd, three songs, two by solo artists and one by a group—“By the Time I Get to Phoenix,” “Ode to Billie Joe,” and “Up, Up and Away” by Glen Campbell, Bobbie Gentry, and the 5th Dimension, respectively—virtually swept the pop categories.

Further, in an improbable coup, the 5th Dimension's version of “Up, Up and Away” didn't just win; it
dominated
by earning awards for record of the year, song of the year, best performance by a vocal group, best contemporary single, and best contemporary group performance. Another recording of the tune, by the Johnny Mann Singers, also got the nod as best performance by a chorus.

But the ripple effects of young Jimmy Webb's magic pen didn't stop there.

As the rest of the Grammys were announced, “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” won Glen Campbell the awards for best male vocal performance and best contemporary male solo vocal performance. Campbell also walked off with awards for the best country and western recording and best country and western male solo vocal performance for another song he had cut almost a year before called “Gentle on My Mind” (also featuring the Wrecking Crew on the instrumentation). Quite a showing for a guy who came within one more failed 45 of getting dropped by his label.

In a memorable aw-shucks-style acceptance speech, the prolific Campbell bashfully thanked “all the people I've backed up on guitar over the years for their votes,” providing the knowing audience with its biggest laugh of the evening.

Jimmy Webb, for his part, ran up to the stage so many times during the show that he thought he was in a dream. And in an act of generosity and gratitude not always on display in an industry known for its me-first myopia, Webb singled out a beaming Hal Blaine from the podium, asking the audience to give the well-respected drummer a round of applause for all his contributions.

At final tally, the Wrecking Crew's instrumental prowess supplied the musical foundation for no fewer than nine Grammy Awards that February evening. And if people hadn't heard of Jimmy Webb before the show, they sure as heck had afterward. Writing two songs that generate eight Grammys in one night can do that. The kid who used to unknowingly listen to the Wrecking Crew on his transistor radio late into the night back home in San Bernardino had done all right.

14

Classical Gas

I've been working on this … idea for orchestrated rock and roll.

—M
IKE
P
OST

By 1967, network television, like the pop music charts, had begun to change. Slowly at first, perhaps, but a metamorphosis nonetheless. The social and cultural voices of a big segment of young America—the so-called New Left—were simply getting too loud to ignore.

Programming executives at the Big Three (ABC, CBS, and NBC) knew that continuing to offer up a steady diet of silly sitcoms about flying nuns, maladjusted hillbillies, and dim-witted secret agents could only last so long. With the country at war, rioting in the streets, and changing views on sex and drugs, those in their teens and twenties now wanted more. They hungered for television that would finally reflect
their
realities. And just as in radio, advertisers—the lifeblood of all three TV networks—wanted to reach as many young people as possible. Those under thirty, so the theory went, were the ones most easily swayed into buying more stuff.

Among the new TV entries that year was an innocent-sounding variety show called
The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour.
Starring the folk-singing comedy team of Tommy and Dickie Smothers—famous for their immortal sibling rivalry routine, “Mom Always Liked You Best”—the series premiered on CBS in February of 1967 (as a mid-season replacement) to instant ratings success and widespread acclaim. For its part, the network loved having a new Top 20 program that appealed to a more youthful demographic, one that could perhaps give the number one–rated
Bonanza
some real competition on Sunday nights for a change. CBS execs did not, however, love all the controversy that came with it.

Irreverent from the start,
The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour
pointedly poked fun at just about every American institution possible, from church to government to motherhood. It was nothing like
The Red Skelton Show
or
The Andy Williams Show
, but that was all very much by design. That was the old way of doing things. Sly wit, with a decidedly left-leaning political bent, all couched within a highly entertaining, fast-paced presentation, was the new order of the day, giving the program a unique, almost subversive appeal, especially among the young.