Her blond hair and light lipstick made me think of Connie Stevens.
“How do you do, gentlemen? I’m ready whenever you are.”
We played eight songs. Jan thanked us and asked to speak to Eddie and Kenny alone. We moved to a table back by the bar.
“That felt great. Sounds incredible in here,” I said.
“How long’s this gonna take?” Ronnie demanded in an anxious whisper.
“Shut up, Ronnie ho-hey,” Toney commanded in New York street jive. “She’s probably seen us at Gazzarri’s anyway. We should just have had her come to the club rather than tearing down all this shit and hauling it back again. What am I, a friggin’ moving man?”
When Eddie and Kenny were finished speaking with Jan, Eddie walked over to the band.
“Well? What’s the story, morning glory?” Ronnie asked inquisitively.
Eddie smiled. “We got it! Start in two weeks, as soon as we give Gazzarri notice.”
11
He’s So Fine
Joey stood behind the two lead recording engineers wondering how much longer he could stand being low man in the studio. He had confided those feelings to me in his recent letters, and his frustration was clear. He knew everything about recording and was a gifted musician to boot. Now he wanted more.
“I’ll be right back, Dell. We’re out of tape.”
Dell waved his hand as Joey left the studio. Dell Stewart and Glen Cross were busy attending to business over a large recording console. The Hit Factory in New York City, located in the four hundred block of West 54th Street, had become over the years one of the best studios—if not the best studio—to record for the elite of rock and roll show business. The state-of-the-art equipment that occupied this recording castle was the best money could buy. The deep, red-carpeted room was a maze of microphones, a Yamaha Grand Piano, and small portable walls (sound baffles) that could be moved by one person to control loud sound and music bleeding into other microphones. Joey’s letters made it sound so amazing, I could only hope that we might record there one day.
Tonight, the room was crowded with the equipment of a band sent over by RCA Records, one of the Hit Factory’s usual accounts. There was a set of silver Rogers’ drums, a Fender Classic bass, a Gibson hollow-body electric guitar, and a Farfisa portable keyboard that stood on silver legs.
A four-piece blues group was recording. The bass player, Chucky, a two-hundred-and-eighty pound linebacker-gone-musician, was concentrating very hard on not messing up another take.
Joey walked back into the control room carrying a large white box of blank eight-track recording tape. On the side and the top of the fresh new box appeared the word “Ampex.” In a business-as-usual style, he took the tape out of the box and threaded one of the two eight-track machines. One was recording the band while Joey was threading the other. The part Chucky was playing was sounding solid. The other members of the band were sitting at their recording positions, but not playing. Nodding their heads in silence, they were completely mesmerized by the magic of the music they just recorded. Some were smiling, some were concentrating.
Without looking back, Dell, the head engineer, spoke up loudly over the music track where the part was being mixed.
“Joey, turn the highs down two notches on track six.”
Joey turned, took one big step from the tape machine to the recording board, put his right hand out to channel six’s fader switch, and lowered it. He pointed his head toward the double unit of JBLs hanging from the ceiling. Listening for a minute like someone hearing a message from the “other world,” he moved his head to the left and said, “Good.”
Glen, who had both of his hands on fader switches, glanced one quick look toward Joey and grinned. “Primo.”
This procedure had all the earmarks of master surgeons at work in the operating room. The three-man team worked perfectly.
Joey turned back to his other duty and continued feeding the one-inch, grayish tape into the eight-track machine.
“Joey, fade the mains when I say go,” Dell commanded. “Glen’s hands are full. Fast! Be there.”
“Done!” Joey eclaimed in the pattern they operated in together.
As fast as a leaf would get caught in an air stream, he leaped to the right side of the recording board. His hands came down on the master main volume control. He waited for his next command.
The song was going into the fade section. Glen and Joey positioned their ears toward Dell.
Dell worked extremely fast now. “Both of you follow my count. I’ll say ‘go,’ then start counting 1-2-3 and give me one notch per count. And…go! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and…we’re out.”
“Ouch!” Joey howled. “That be some bad shit, boys!”
With the pressure off, everyone relaxed and the musicians all slapped Chucky’s hand, congratulating him. Glen shook Dell’s hand and Joey stood between them, bumping each of their hands with the backs of his own.
“I think that’s the keeper,” Glen said, almost singing. “He didn’t fall out of time like the other ones. Might have to punch that one bar just after the bridge…I don’t know. Maybe I can fix the mix.”
Dell turned to Joey. “Great, Zagman,” he said. “You’re getting better with age. Heard it’s your birthday tomorrow, boy.”
“Aw, shit…How’d you know that? I always keep it under wraps,” Joey whined. “Don’t do anything that’ll drive me crazy. Come on, you guys.” He knew these two. He knew he was in trouble. Dell and Glen broke out in laughter, bending their swivel chairs back.
Chucky banged on the window, wanting to hear his part back. The three of them turned. Glen hit the switch so the musicians’ voices would be heard over the in-house monitor.
“Sorry, Chucky. Man, we all loved it in here. Did you?”
Chucky’s voice came back, “Yeah, man! I grooved. Can I hear it back?”
“Sure,” Glen said. “Rewinding and coming back.” He hit the rewind. The guys in the studio all lit smokes.
Dell looked at his watch. “It’s now 10:36. At 12:30 your present is due to arrive. But we can’t tell you till then. That’s the surprise.”
“Is it one of those stripper telegram chicks?” Joey guessed in excitement.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But here’s the condition. You have to go get us dinner at Jerry’s Deli, and we’ll give you a boot up the old proverbial ladder,” Glen mocked.
“Cool! It’s a deal! Ante up. What do you want?”
“Pastrami on rye plain, chips, and coffee,” Glen said. “I can’t stand the coffee here,” he explained. “It’s burnt.”
“Meatballs and pasta, and a salad with oil and vinegar.”
Dell laughed as he handed Joey a ten spot. “You’re not going to believe what old Uncle Glen and Buddy Dell got you for your birthday, young man. You’ll probably stutter and embarrass the shit out of us.” He roared with laughter.
“If you pee in your pants, promise you’ll leave.”
Joey whined, “What? What is it? Tell me!”
Chucky’s voice came over the intercom. “Glen, take it back to the bar right before the bridge and punch me in.”
Glen turned to Dell and Joey with that “See? I told you so” look. He hit the button to talk to Chucky. “Just what we were thinking, Chuck. No problem. I’m setting it up.” He released the button. “Okay, Joey, dinner. Dell, punch him in right at that bar.”
Joey left the room and went for the dinner.
While waiting at Jerry’s Deli, he dialed Karen on the pay phone. Joey had told me that their relationship continued to grow and he really love her. They hoped to be married soon.
“I gotta work late,” he told her. “Some session at 12:30. Dell and Glen are cooking up some kind of surprise. I think maybe they’re kicking me up from third man to second man tonight.”
“Oh, honey! Really?”
“I don’t know for sure. I’ll call you when I get up tomorrow and we can have dinner. I’ll have to be back h
ere by 6:30 tomorrow night.”
“If you get kicked upstairs, does that mean you’ll get that raise they’ve been promising you?” Karen asked.
“I would think so, but they’ve got to find a spot for me first. Dell’s still number two man besides William. But maybe somebody knows something I don’t know. I should find out tonight.” He suddenly lowered his voice in a lover boy impersonation. “So if I get that raise, will you marry me and we’ll have big, fat baby musicians all over the house?”
She laughed. “Yep, buster, just like I promised.”
“Groovy, baby. Love you. Bye.”
As Joey came in the studio, Dell was final-mixing the song. His hands were moving a mile a minute.
“Bring up the kick-drum just a hair,” Dell said. “Yeah, that’s good. Drop the highs off the guitar two notches.” He motioned Joey over as he set the bag of dinner down. “Joey, set the echo up one notch on the lead vocal and crank the background voices down one.”
“Perfect,” Glen laughed. After a slight mix, he threw each of the band members a cassette copy.
“Go home, get some sleep, and we’ll deliver the master to RCA tomorrow.”
The band left and Glen, Dell, and Joey ate. An underlying current of locker room outrageousness started.
“Listen, Joey, the big guy upstairs came in while you were gone and said you have to take that package of tapes to the airport—like now. They have to rush it to Capital in L.A. Big money account. So if you hurry…” he grinned at Dell, “…you won’t miss your birthday surprise.”
Glen grinned in a mischievous way.
“Okay, I’ll leave now. I can’t wait for this!” He picked up the package and tossed his dinner wrapping into the trash.
Under a mild drizzle, he raced out of the parking lot for the airport.
Joey’s mind raced as the door to the studio got closer. He stopped at it and took a deep breath before he entered.
Glen and Dell turned and saw his innocent stare. Joey glanced around the room to see who, if anyone, was here to record. He noticed a third chair was closer than normal to the console. Did this mean they were breaking him in as just another third? Hey, time out, he thought. I’ve been doing this flunky gofer shit too long as it is. I’m gonna be second or quit.
Dell got up from his number one chair position and walked slowly to Joey. “Okay, Glen, you can make the move now.”
Glenn got up and sat in the other chair that had been moved up.
“Joey, you have great hands and ears as a recording engineer,” Dell continued, “and tonight we’re going to take advantage of that talent of yours. Glen was just offered a job at the Record Plant in Hollywood and after a week of discussing it with the big guy upstairs, he’s gonna take it, which opens the door for you.”
“Yes yes yes!” Joey spouted excitedly. “Well, I mean, I don’t want to see Glen go, but if it’s for a better job and all…Wow! I don’t know what to say.”
Glen got up and came over to Joey. “Listen, man, I want to do this coast thing. It’ll be great.”
Dell and Glen stood right in front of Joey, blocking his view of the studio. But Joey realized there couldn’t be anyone set up in there anyway. It was way too quiet.
Glen went on, “So, my man, we’ve decided that for your birthday, you are officially moved up to the second man. You know that means you get the raise, too.”
“God, Glen!” he said, the whole thing finally sinking in. “Thanks, man. That’s boss. Really cool. Wow.”
“And for your first session, which we’ve so professionally trained you for,” Dell continued, breaking into the increasing excitement of his unveiling, “we’d like you to second a guitar player friend of ours. Oh…I don’t know…I guess he’s a lot like you…I mean…Uh…Who did you say your favorite guitar player was?”
Both of them had now slowly put their buddy-buddy arms around Joey and were leading him thoughtfully and comically toward the door that connects the control room to the recording studio.
“Hendrix, of course. He’s god.”
Glen had arrived at the door. He slowly started to open it.
“I think Hendrix is this guy’s favorite, too,” Glen said.
The dark door slowly opened. Joey’s face went completely white. Heat pounded in his temples so hard he thought he would faint. His heart throbbed so fast, he believed everyone could hear it.
“I’d like you to meet your second man for tonight,” Glen said to the man sitting there. “Joey Zagarino, say hello to Jimi Hendrix.”
Jimi offered his hand to Joey. “I hear it’s your birthday tonight. Congratulations, birthday man.”
Joey was speechless for a moment. “Wow, Jimi,” he finally managed, “you don’t know what an honor this is for me, man.” Tongue-tied for a moment, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “Jimi, there’s a story been going around for years that you played guitar with Joey Dee and the Starliters at the Peppermint Lounge in the early 1960s. They had that song, ‘The Peppermint Twist.’ Is that true?”
Jimi broke out in a wide grin and laughed out loud. “Oh, God, yes, that’s true. Before I moved to England…Man, we had pompadours, silver sequin jackets, and all that stuff. Man, Joey, you’re good. Some of the guys from the Starliters eventfully broke off and formed the Young Rascals. Great band. Cool days. Man, you know your stuff.”
Joey beamed like a small kid in front of his idol knowing he’d hit on something that brought up good memories up for him.
“The guys tell me you play guitar,” Jimi said.
“Yeah, I started in California with a band I named the Upsets. I played here in Jersey with a band called Chips and Company. We did ‘Miss Teen USA’ tours and shit. Also landed a bunch of TV gigs. We signed with RCA, got our pictures in the papers and stuff, but nothing became of it.”
“Keep at it, man, it’s all in the persistence. Hell, you’re good or you wouldn’t be working here,” Jimi said.
Joey smiled. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Thanks, man. So, what’s up? What are we recording for you tonight?”
“I’m laying over in New York for a week and thought I’d book some time for some new songs I’ve written. We’ll just see how it goes. I’ll be laying tracks mostly of guitar, and one of the songs needs some vocals, so if you set up a vocal mic we’ll start cranking.”
“You got it, man. Should be one of the greatest nights of my life. Only take a second to get you hooked in.”
Joey set up mics and they continued chatting about music. When everything was ready, Joey turned on the intercom from the control room and asked Jimi if he was ready.
“Ready,” Jimi said, standing up from his chair with some papers he’d been looking at. Dell and Glen looked like proud parents.
“Okay, sport,” Glen said. “Record your first client in the first chair position.”
Joey looked back at them. “I love you guys. Thanks.” Joey hit the button. “Take one of unnamed song. Rolling, Jimi.”
The music Jimi had already laid down at some other studio kicked in and he started playing. Joey stood behind the control board feeling ten feet tall.
When I read about this in Joey’s letter, I could picture him there in the studio recording Hendrix. He told me he was flabbergasted to be part of recording the incredible artistry of Hendrix and to be sitting ten feet from him. Mere mortals could only watch in awe as this being—like Mozart—was the total musical experience and essence. A move of his hand was musical. A motion to light a cigarette was harmony. Drinking a glass of water seemed to exude a rhythm and pace.
Later, he wrote me that he wished Eddie and I could be part of this new world he had fallen into through engineering. But he also told me how severely he missed performing live on his own guitar.
12
Get Ready, ’Cause Here I Come
In a deep sleep, I was dreaming about dating Maryann Faithful and directing Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, and Elvis Presley as back-up singers on the Pacific Ocean’s lat
est million-dollar top-of-the-chart-busting album. I was suddenly shocked by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Grabbing at the receiver, I said my first word of the day.
“Hello?”
The word echoed in my head in a dreamy time tunnel.
“Johnson?”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I said, unable to come up with anything better.
“It’s Eddie. You’re not gonna believe this one.”
“Try me,” I yawned in that sang-too-many-songs-last-night growl.
“We’ve just landed the gig of the century! We’re subbing for the Jefferson Airplane! We’re booked at the San Francisco Convention Center playing for thirty thousand people. Bill Cosby is the host! We’re sharing the stage with—get this—Peter Lawford, Raquel Welch, Kim Novak, Jerry Lewis, Eddie Fisher, Milton Berle, Don Ho, Rowan and Martin, and every other star on the planet!”
Yes, this was indeed a good one, I thought.
“The gig is for Robert Kennedy. Did you hear what I said? Robert Kennedy! His campaign fund raiser concert. All the networks are going to be covering this monster. I say monster! Do you hear me, boy?”
My eyelids were now glued to the top of my skull. I surmised that we might have hit pay dirt after years of tentatively bathing in it. Maybe I’m not dreaming, I thought, groggily pouring Coffee-mate into my “Hey Hey We’re The Monkees” cup. Each time I glanced at Mickey, Peter, Davy, and Mike, my blood ran cold. It would be years before I would get over missing the audition at Screen Gems to be made immortal in TV re-run heaven.
“Bobby will be sitting right in front of us! The front row, dude! After the concert, we all go to a star-studded victory party at the Fairmont Hotel for entertainers only. That’s you, that’s me, and the rest of the band!”
I wiped the sleep from my eyes for a second time.
“Hey, Eddie…How’d two kids from the wrong side of the tracks land this primo gig?”
“That lady from The Factory audition yesterday,” Eddie explained. “Jan Martin.”
“Oh, yeah, the pretty blond one.”
Walk, Don't Run Page 10