by Al Kooper
He thanked me profusely, we shook hands on it, and I left for the airport shortly thereafter. I really did trust him. Ronnie Van Zant was a man among men and the rest of the band followed his direction. That is how we had gotten to this point. I knew that two weeks from now it was gonna be the worst hell ever trying to finish that album replete with an overambitious engineer who could not conceal his desire to replace me. I spent my whole time in New York partying my ass off, ’cause I knew of my impending prison sentence. I checked in periodically with Ronnie and he claimed they were making good progress. When the two weeks were up, I bit the bullet and clambered aboard that jet straight to Hell.
When I arrived, everyone was in good spirits and anxious to show off what they’d done on their summer vacation. I saw immediately that we had our Free tribute song with “On the Hunt,” perhaps Ronnie’s most misogynistic lyric ever.
So we had “On the Hunt.” We had “Whiskey Rock-A-Roller,” a nice shuffle with some great mood change-ups in it. There was a song Ronnie wrote to Bob Burns called “Am I Losin”’ that was the mellowest, most country thing Skynyrd had ever cut, and “I’m a Country Boy,” a great groove with really great Ronnie lyrics, which was one of my favorites. Ed and Ronnie had collaborated on “Railroad Song,” which lyrically traced their country roots with a nice Beatles-inspired track. With the addition of “Saturday Night Special” in the can already, we had six songs. I needed two more, but somehow, I wasn’t worried; they were three-quarters done with the writing and ready to rock. We set about cutting the basic tracks. and other than my distaste for the drum sound (which the band did not share), things began to coalesce.
For the first time since I began to work with these guys, there was room for my input on arrangements, and they were open to it. I patched up some holes, and we began to move along, albeit in sixteen-hour increments. I was having a hard time keeping up with the excruciatingly long hours logged each day. I bitched about it and continually ended the sessions before the band was ready to quit. Believe me, folks, great work rarely gets done after 2 a.m. if you’ve started at noon that day. But they were getting fed up with my early shutdowns, and somebody actually slipped some speed into my can of soda one afternoon. About midnight I was naively shouting: “I feel good tonight. We can go as late as you guys want!”
Little bastards. Next day I was sick as a dog, figured out what they had done, and gave them massive shit for it.
We spent one whole day, out of the fourteen left, creating the song “Cheatin’ Woman.” Ed and I wrote the music together, and Ronnie, of course, wrote the words. I played piano and organ because there simply was no time to teach it to Billy. This third album was a lesser Skynyrd work due to time constraints more than anything else. On the first album we had done a kind of jug-band song called “Mississippi Kid.” Ronnie wrote another one real quick this time around, and we cut it jug-band style with marching-band bass drum, mandolin, dobro, harmonica, synthesized tuba, and piano. It was called “Made in the Shade,” and it’s the only Van Zant song I’ve ever covered on any of my albums. Jimmy Hall, lead singer of Wet Willie, came down and played harmonica on that one and “Railroad Song.” I played piano on “Made in the Shade,” while Barry Harwood, a friend of the band, played the mandolin and dobro parts, and David Foster played piano on “Whiskey Rock-A-Roller,” overdubbed in California while I was mixing the album.
As the last day of recording approached, it got a little meaner and uglier. Ronnie was overdubbing the vocal to “On the Hunt,” and the chorus was actually pitched about half a tone too high for his voice. He was out there straining at the seams to hit the notes and barely getting them. He was as angry (at himself) as I had ever seen him. Finally, in one take he hit every note right and knew it. Dave Evans, however, had employed the equipment incorrectly, causing Ronnie’s voice to distort on various sections of the choruses. I pointed this out to the band ’cause I didn’t want it blamed on me, nor for there to be any surprises later on. Ronnie said just to keep it anyway because he couldn’t possibly perform it any better. On the record (in case you ever wondered), I had to bury his voice a bit on those parts because of the distortion. After the album was finished, I didn’t see Dave Evans again until Ronnie’s funeral. He was the presiding clergyman! All dressed in robes. And I thought I had a well-rounded resume!
On the very last day of recording, their tour bus and Peter Rudge arrived. We had finished, and we were all thankful to be out of each other’s hair. They had to go right out on tour. I had to go back west and mix this mutha. There were hard feelings. As we all gathered around for goodbyes, I spoke honestly:
“Guys, this is my last album with you. We’ve all made money together, but we damn near killed each other on this one. In the end, I would rather remain your friend than your producer. I still love you guys, and I’d rather not be put in this position anymore. It’s too much of a strain on our friendship.”
We all hugged and laughed, and I knew that I had made the right decision. Three weeks later, under cover of night and on the first leg of their tour, Ed King snuck away to the airport and left the band. Things were weird. Nobody was happy.
1974-1979:
THE TUBES,
NILS LOFCREN,
RICK NELSON,
LIFE IN MODERN-DAY ROME,
ORCIES,
NITROUS OXIDE, AND
LEAVING AMERIKA
After Nuthin’ Fancy, as Skynyrd’s third album came to be called, I was free to produce other people for the first time in three years. My first choice was a new band called The Tubes.
Two years prior, Irving Azoff, The Eagles’ manager, had played me a tape of The Tubes that was circulating around. I loved it. He told me that no one was brave enough to sign them. So, one day in 1975, I was chatting with Dorene Lauer, one of my contacts at A&M Records, to find out what artists were looking for producers.
“We just signed this band called The Tubes but can’t find anyone to produce them,” she offered.
“Connect me to the head of A&R, quickly!” I responded.
A tape was dispatched to me, and I must tell you, it was way over my head, musically speaking. I told A&M I wanted to do it, but that I had another commitment that would take me about a month and asked whether they would wait for me.
Recording The Tubes’ debut album—Studio B, Record Plant, Los Angeles, 1975. (Left to right) Lee Keifer (engineer), Rick Anderson, Kooper (producer), Fee Waybill, Roger Steen, Vince Welnick, Prairie Prince, Bill Spooner. (Photo: Al Kooper Collection.)
What I actually needed was time to figure out what the hell these Tubes were playing on their demo tape. Musically, they were incredibly ambitious, but unlike Skynyrd, the arrangements needed a lot of editing and fixing. If I, as a producer, suggest changes to anybody’s work, I feel I must always have an explanation why I ask for those changes. And I certainly can’t look a musician in the eye and say, “Change this chord here,” and if he asks which chord, not be able to answer him. That’s why I studied The Tubes’ tape for a month—so I would have the answers to any and all queries. A great deal of reconstruction would be necessary to translate their vision to vinyl. And I would be the contractor for that reconstruction.
Their live show was even more ballyhooed than their music. I decided not to see their show until the album was finished. We began with two weeks in a rehearsal studio. As we set to work, I ripped and tore through their arrangements, and not a discouraging word was heard! They took to the editing and changes like ducks to water. They did not question one edit! And they were great musicians.
Bill Spooner was the musical leader of the group and a fine guitarist and singer. Roger Steen rounded out the guitar section in good stead. Fee Waybill, their former roadie when they were called The Beans back in Arizona, now fronted the band as lead singer. Vince Welnick, later of The Dead (Grateful, that is), played keyboards, and Rick Andersen played bass, while Mike Cotten (who played synthesizers) and Prairie Prince (who played drums) supplied the artwork for the va
rious skits in the show. Prairie, a dead ringer for a young Robert Mitchum, was an amazing drummer.
My approach to this album, based on the material and what I had heard about their live show, was to make an original cast album of a Broadway show, the likes of which had never been seen on Broadway yet. And might never be seen there! The album began with an overture that wasn’t an overture, titled “Up from the Deep,” that had groove changes every few bars. This then segued into “Haloes,” an interesting Marlboro commercial sound-alike that had a bombastic ending. Spooner played an incredible guitar solo that was mutated through Mike Cotten’s synthesizer, while Prairie’s double-bass-drum sixteenth-note playing pushed the ending to a musically orgiastic climax. Prairie’s Keith Moon imitations throughout the song are spot-on as well.
To augment the band and make it Broadway-sounding, we enlisted strings, horns, and choirs. To save time, I felt I should hire an arranger, but the regular rock arranger would not have understood what was afoot here. So I took a chance and called film composer/arranger Dominic Frontiere. Dominic wrote “Hang ’Em High” for Sergio Leone, and scored the original Outer Limits television series. He came to the house and I played him the basic tracks and explained to him what I was looking for. “This is good stuff,” he said. “I’m glad you called me. I know exactly what you want here.” He was the right choice and we set to work writing the arrangements.
“Space Baby” was a mini-opera goof on David Bowie. This was one of our true Broadway show numbers. Dominic’s augmentation really set this one off.
The boys had a tape from a Mexican radio station of “Malaguena Salerosa” and had learned it note for note as an exercise, I guess. It had become one of their best numbers on stage and they decided to record it. They really wanted Herb Alpert, president of A&M Records and famous trumpeter, to play the mariachi trumpet parts on it. I put in the request, but alas, was told: “Mr. Alpert is out of town and won’t be back until [the day after your sessions end] further notice.” We were crushed, but Lee Kiefer, our engineer, was friends with the guy who did the voice-over for the Juan Valdez commercials, and we got him to do narration on the track. A poor substitute for Herb, but funny nonetheless.
“Mondo Bondage” was one of the band’s best arrangements and only lacked an ending that matched the rest of the song. I took care of that with the help of Dominic and some ideas I’d always wanted to try. But I’ll always treasure the memory of the staid string section all yelling out “OWWWWWW!” in unison at the final coda. “What Do You Want from Life” was a fifties’-style, sociological comment on and paean to the TV game show, The Price Is Right. We spent the better part of an afternoon writing the script of possible prizes you could win, climaxing with “a baby’s arm holding an apple,” which some of you may recall as Lady Chatterley’s description of her lover’s “package.” This survived censorship because not many DJs had read D. H. Lawrence at the time! “Boy Crazy” was the ultimate glam-rock send-up and one of the coolest instrumental tracks on the album. “White Punks on Dope” was an extravaganza. This was the finale, and cannons were heard, flags were waved, and confetti was everywhere, until, to end the piece, Prairie’s dad laughed at the top of his lungs: “Is that alright??”
One Monday night after work, we all went to talent night at the Palomino Club in North Hollywood. This was the major country & western venue in the Los Angeles area and The Tubes, operating under the pseudonym “Heifer’s Dream,” were out to win the talent contest. I had no doubt they’d be splitting up that $300 at the evening’s conclusion. They performed Marty Robbins’ “El Paso” replete with blank-loaded guns and animal blood. First shots rang out. And then—the horror as Fee, apparently truly wounded and covered in blood, fell to the stage floor. The stunned looks on the faces of these hardcore C&W fans are forever etched in my mind. Nobody could compete with those guys. The prize money was theirs!
We finished the album after two months of incredibly, hard, well-thought-out work. It was the first album I had ever recorded on twenty-four-track tape, patiently sticking with sixteen tracks until I felt that the new technology was state of the art. This made mixing all the more difficult and the band got nuts during the mix, so much so that I had to dispatch them home to San Francisco, at much peril to my tenure as producer. But an air of calmness was needed in the control room to mix this gargantuan property properly, and it was anything but calm with seven guys climbing all over the console, each wanting to make sure the listener could hear his part. We very carefully and methodically mixed the album, and the result was, in my opinion, the best record I have ever produced. The band was angry with me for asking them to leave, but at least they were happy with the mix. They asked that everyone’s credits on the album be in their full given names. This became the only album ever produced by Alan Peter Kooper. My parents loved it!
A rare cameo appearance onstage with The Tubes—The Roxy, Los Angeles, 1976. (Left to right) Quay Lewd (Fee Waybill), Sputnick Spooner, Insect Kooper, and Reliable Roger Steen.
(Photo: Richard Creamer—Al Kooper Collection.)
With the album’s release, major showcases were set up in various cities. I attended the New York and Los Angeles shows and they were the hottest tickets in town. A&M did a great advance job, and everyone wanted to see what all the fuss was about. For me, it was one of the best, most hilarious live shows I have ever seen and totally unique at that. Kenny Ortega, a young dancer from San Francisco, beginning a career that would see him end up as Hollywood director, invented incredible choreography and the three female dancers also doubled as backup singers, including the fabulous Re Styles. There were costume and set changes, and incredible between-song patter. No matter what your ticket cost, ya got your money’s worth. In New York, during the finale of “White Punks on Dope,” there must have been twenty-five people on stage (including yours truly and Lee Keifer). In Los Angeles, Fee started up a real chainsaw and buzzed through the tables at the Roxy, causing an embarrassed Clive Davis to hide a stain in the front of his trousers that might have been the result of unintentional urination. I’m just hazarding a guess here. I sat at a table with Ken Scott, an English producer who had engineered one of my early albums when he was a pup. Neither of us knew he would end up producing the second Tubes album. (Well, at least I didn’t know....)
A&M was happy with my work on The Tubes’ album and asked me if I’d have a go with Nils Lofgren. I was a big fan of Nils, especially his guitar playing. I had first heard Nils a few years back when he fronted the band Grin. A track called “See What Love Can Do” came on the radio and the guitar solo took my breath away. Then I saw Grin live-opening for Van Morrison at Carnegie Hall in early ’72. They were incredible. After four or five albums, they broke up. Nils cut a solo album for A&M that was quite good. And now A&M was asking me to work with him. It seemed irresistible.
Nils and I sat down and discussed a plan for this album. For personnel I suggested Jim Gordon, drummer from Derek and the Dominos (who would later murder his mom with a hammer following the instructions of “voices in his head”), and Paul Stallworth, bassist buddy of super-drummer Jim Keltner. Nils countered with his brother Tom on rhythm guitar, and I took the keyboard chair. I wanted to feature his guitar playing on this album. We were spending a great deal of time together planning, so I went to San Francisco with him to watch a live gig. The day after his gig we adjourned to the familiar Record Plant in Sausalito for a live radio concert. I sat in on keyboards as I had just about learned his show now. It was a great session, luckily recorded, and pressed in a limited edition for radio and promotion. It was a greatest-hits-up-to-then kind of thing, with a few Grin songs thrown in and a nice reading of King-Goffin’s “Going Back.” Be nice to see it on a legal CD someday.
Gary Kellegren had constructed a bizarre studio for Sly Stone at the Record Plant in Sausalito. The control room was in the center of the room with no glass or partitions around it. Different levels were built around it amphitheater-style for the various instruments, and
it looked like something out of Thunderdome. It was here that we decided to cut the basic tracks for Nils’ album. Add to this my new fascination with nitrous oxide. The studio was able to convince the Marin Gas Company that we needed nitrous oxide in the record-making procedure as a crucial tool, and tanks were dispatched to the studio weekly. I loved this. Unaware of the different mix between industrial and medicinal nitrous (cut with oxygen; as in the dentist’s office), I plunged into each tank. I recall sitting on one of the levels in the studio playing acoustic guitar on one of the basic tracks, feet dangling over the side with my trusty tank right by my side. After each take, I’d slip the tube in my mouth and take a strong hit.
One night I was in the control room after the session, tank in tow. Nils came in and was about to shave in the bedroom in the back, before a dinner engagement. He took one look at me and walked over.
“Al? Hello, Al?” he said.
I knew he was right in front of my face but I was busy bouncing around the metallic valleys and nitrous canyons of my mind and his presence was peripheral at the very least. He took the can of shaving cream and started covering my face little by little. I watched from miles away, barely cognizant that my entire face was now covered with shaving cream. What a fun drug, huh?
It lasted only a few days, this nitrous binge. One morning I woke up so incredibly ill I wanted to die. The uncut nitrous had created little pockets of hydrochloric acid in my stomach, something that my already functioning ulcers did not welcome with open arms. Boy, was I ill. That was an instant panacea for nitrous usage. The next week, one of Gary Kellegren’s friends died, alone with the tank. While in a dream world, the tank toppled over on him, the tube remained in his mouth, and his lungs froze, killing him instantly. And that was certainly the end of that.