I sighed and hit the rewind button on the old tape machine one last time. The tired motors, close to a half-century old, tugged at the tape that I had found tucked among the outtakes in the bowels of the basement at “799,” of Paul razzing Artie, but the reels didn’t move. I had to give the machine an assist, twirling the reel with my finger, until the tape was back in its home. I put the relic back in its box, and unplugged the recorder. The machine sighed, too. I thought it would be happy to be in use again, but now it was tired and just wanted to get some rest.
As I put the cover on the reel-to-reel, and coiled the power cord, I felt sad for my dad, who never got to experience the moments of glory, meaning, and purpose that I have had the blessing to have in my life. He was one of those poor souls who had been so badly wounded that he didn’t believe in the possibilities of life and died a broken and unfulfilled man. I felt sad that he didn’t get to live long enough to see that his son did do something with his life, not merely by making some good records back in the day but by the work I do now as a therapist. Maybe that would have eased his pain a little.
I felt sad for all the therapy clients that I work with who are wasting their precious few moments of their lives because of fear, because they live with the conviction that they somehow aren’t good enough, because they have never imagined that they can get what they want out of life. If they just paid attention … the way I wish I had paid attention …
And then, for some crazy reason, Maneri, the guy I visited at the Boston Conservatory, popped into my head.
After I left New York, I followed Maneri’s path. I studied Schoenberg’s method and learned all about harmony. But I couldn’t abandon the biz completely. I eventually came back to New York. I was producing this girl act called Little Diva. Three girls, around twelve years old. All with killer voices. After recording and rehearsing, we had our first gig. It was in Atlantic City. We thought it was going to be at a dance club. When we got there, we discovered that Atlantic City was a nightmare — pathetic, desperate loners spending the few pennies they have on a dream they always lose. It was noisy, ugly, crude, vulgar. The girls were a little freaked. Then we went into the place where the gig was, and there was a convention for kids with disabilities. The audience was just a row of kids in wheel chairs. This was not the glamorous show biz moment they were envisioning. I could see their disappointment and fear. They didn’t want to do the gig.
Backstage before we went on, we stood in a circle holding hands, all the girls looking at me. I told them the story about Maneri, about the time he played in the nursing home for the deaf guy. And when I finished the story, I said, “You all think that you’re gonna end up playing in stadiums and making a million dollars. And whether that happens or not, that’s not what it is about anyway. Those kids, in the wheelchairs out front, that’s what it’s about.”
I could see the light bulb go off, the look of understanding, on their faces. They relaxed, looked at each other, and smiled. One of the girls said, “Let’s rock!” They ran out on stage and sang their hearts out.
Everything was quiet for a minute. Then I looked over at my book shelf, and one book stared back at me. It was What Makes Sammy Run?, the book Milton Brooks gave me when I first started at A&R, now forty years before. I’d always wondered what his intention was in giving me this book about a guy who destroyed everyone on his way up the ladder and ends up destroying himself. I had thought that Brooks wanted me to make it in the biz, but the book seemed to say that Sammy’s way of making it, the only way to really make it, was, well, hell. I could never figure it out. Was it intended as an instruction manual, or a cautionary tale? Now that became clear. It was meant for me to ask that question. I could go either way. I had both parts, everything, within me. I was the schlepper and the superstar. That choice would determine my life. And when I thought of that moment in Atlantic City, I realized I had made my choice.
I had just a few seconds to savor this reverie before my kids came in, “Dad, let’s do something else!”
I carried the tapes and the machine back up to the attic.
As I put the stuff into a corner, I thought of an old phrase we’d use when evaluating whether a particular recording was good enough: “close enough for rock ‘n roll.” But that phrase was mostly used ironically. Everyone involved in the crafting of a recording took their task absolutely seriously, whether it was the producer, the studio musician, the engineer, the piano tuner, the arranger, the artist, or, even me, the schlepper.
Despite the power and exuberance of the hot, tight, funky tracks we cut, there was a deadly earnestness to the process. In our twentieth hour, weary to our bones, we’d cut a track. When it was done, the troops would march into the control room. During the playback, the cats would stand around the control room silently, listening intently for the slightest, most imperceptible, flaw in a performance. At the end of the take, there’d be no burst of applause. Usually, rather, there was a sullen acknowledgment that it could be better. The producer would say, “That’s great. Let’s try it one more time.” And then, all the musical soldiers would march out to the studio to do it again.
I wish that we could do life that way. I wish we could do a playback, listen closely, reverently, self-critically, consider the mistakes, and, like good soldiers, stolidly return to our lives, to get another chance and try again.
As a kid it was so important for me to present myself as being cool. I didn’t want to ask questions or admit that I didn’t know something. I couldn’t be humble and ask for help or advice. Out of my own narcissistic insecurity, I had to appear the know-it-all.
If I could have another take, that’s what I’d do differently. I’d soak up everything I could from all the great women and men who had so generously taught me. I’d gather together all the people from those days: the folks from the beginning, like Susan Hamilton and Buddy Edel, who took an interest in this cocky little kid and made things possible for me. I’d thank Plotnik for his love and craziness, and Tony for his eternal lessons, and the assistants for their friendship. I’d thank the engineers, the musicians, the producers, and the arrangers for showing me how to make a really, really good record.
These wonderful human beings, who all worked hard to be the best in their field and, beyond the confines of our musical world were often unsung, were even more special because their goodness, generosity, and egolessness were rare in a culture that feted jerks. I’d tell them all how amazing they were and say thanks.
I’d even thank the jerks. Confucius said we can learn something from everyone, either what to be or what not to be. To the jerks, I can say thanks because without you this book, and a great deal of great art, wouldn’t exist.
And Mr. Simon, I’ll admit it. The truth was, it was all you.
I am honored to have known you all, both the mensches and the schmucks. I will cherish forever the times we shared.
Thank you. And, I’m sorry.
As I folded up the attic ladder, I smiled. I remembered an old joke. Two friends meet on a street and plan to get together one day after work. The first guy says to the second, “I work in the circus. Come meet me at the menagerie.”
The second guy gets to the menagerie and finds his friend shoveling elephant shit. He says, “Man, this is the most disgusting job in the world! How can you do it?”
And the first guy says, “What, and get outta show biz?”
I closed the attic door, and stood in the hallway where my one gold record hung, and I looked at my life as it was right at that moment: the house I lived in, my spectacular wife and children, my career, and all the beautiful, struggling people who are, and have been, my therapy clients. But given the strange way that memory and imagination works, I also saw my past and my future. I knew where I had been, more or less. The future was less certain, except for the final outcome. As I looked around, seeing it all, I understood the true import of the A&R way, the first lesson that Tony had taught me all those years ago. It wasn’t enough to say the words. You had t
o mean them. Nothing was close enough for rock and roll. You had to care. You had to care to the depths of your soul, no matter the cost, no matter the pain, no matter the outcome. You couldn’t do things half-assed. You had to do it again and again, until you got it right.
I looked at the life I had led, the life I was leading, and the life to come, and I heard Tony’s dictum resounding in my head. My entire being reverberated with love. This schlepper was ready to get to work. Give me my hand-truck. As if I was Aretha, I sang, at the top of my lungs, yes.
THE END
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my teachers in the craft of recording; the making of art; the workings of the psyche; the ways of the word; and how to love.
Thanks to my first teachers, the folks who helped get me into the biz: Willie Edel, Herman Edel, Buddy Edel, and the great Susan Hamilton.
At the top of the list of my teachers in recording is my mentor Phil Ramone.
Next are the world-class engineers Don Hahn, Eliot Scheiner, Dixon Van Winkle, and Rich Blakin. I thank all of the assistants who generously welcomed me into their world, including Brad Davis, Randy Masser, Dave Masson, Gary Roth, and Major Little. I would like to thank my assistants Ollie Cotton, Chaz Clifton, Georgi Offrell, and Anne Pope. I thank my studio compatriots Nick DiMinno, Dave Smith, Nancy Sorkow, Leanne Ungar, Vicki Fabry. Brad Leigh, Laura Doty, and Helene Stansky.
Thanks to all the generous producers, arrangers, contractors, and musicians who taught me about music and what it means to be a professional. I cannot mention you all, but I want to give a special shout out to Emile Charlap, Michael Small, Pat Williams, Ralph Burns, Arif Mardin, Steve Burgh, John Simon, Paul Shaffer, Will Lee, Eliot Randall, David Spinozza, Don Grolnick, Steve Gadd, Tony Levin, Rick Marotta, Warren Bernhardt, Ralph MacDonald, Tom Bones Malone, Alan Rubin, Blue Lou Marini, Kenny White, Murray Weinstock, Ken Bichel, and Mason Daring. Thanks to studio owners Bob and Janet Lawson.
Thanks to all the great artists I worked with who do not get mentioned in this book, from whom I learned how to make great art, including Ray Charles, Michael Franks, Steve Forbert, Susan Osborn, Bill Staines, Jeanie Stahl, Fiddle Fever, Rory Block, Ashford and Simpson, Leiber and Stoller, Paul Anka, Kate and Anna McGarrigle, The Starland Vocal Band, The Holmes Brothers, and Bobby Scott. Thanks to all the great singers and musicians who made me look good when I worked in the jingle world. Thanks to Marc Blatte and Jeanne Neary for their belief in me and their sage advice.
Thanks to my teachers in the arts of psychotherapy including David Yarosh, the staff at the Gestalt Associates for Psychotherapy, Harville Hendrix, and all of my clients who must remain nameless.
On top of the list of those who taught me how to write, I would like to express profound gratitude to my wonderful publisher and editor, Tim Schaffner, whose genius allowed me to realize my vision.
I would also like to express thanks to the wordsmiths and publishing gurus Tom Staudter, Helen Eisenbach, Ruth Greenstein, Irene Reichsbach, Michael Pietsch, Jill Cohen, and Tracy Behar.
A special thanks to Robert Couteau for his time, effort, modeling, support, and wisdom.
A very special thank you to Don Shewey for his overwhelming generosity, invaluable brilliance, unstinting moral support, and impeccable standards. This book wouldn’t be what it is without him.
Thanks to friends Chuck Granata, Denise O’Connor, Joe Magnetico, Neeta Ragoowansi, Michael Cohen, Mary Murphy, Lisa Fragner, and Jason Eaton for their encouragement, wisdom, and life lessons.
Thanks to my publicists Scott Manning and Abigail Welhouse for their enthusiasm, belief, patience, and being cool people.
Thanks to my book and cover designer, James Kiehle, for his great sense of style.
Thanks to Ebet Roberts for taking great photographs.
Thanks to my distributors at IPG and all the sales reps who are championing this book.
Finally, there are no words to capture my gratitude and love to my teachers in love: my wife Sharon, my kids Maya and Ethan, and my pets Ollie and Bruno. Without you, none of this would matter a whit.
Glenn Berger: A Select Discography
1974
Paul Simon, Live Rhymin’; assistant engineer
Urubamba, Urubamba; assistant engineer
Terry and Maggie Roche, Seductive Reasoning; assistant engineer
Mood Jga Jga, Mood Jga Jga; assistant engineer
Phoebe Snow, Phoebe Snow; assistant engineer
The Magic Show, Original Cast Recording; assistant engineer
Gilbert O’Sullivan, A Stranger In My Own Back Yard; assistant engineer
The Harlots of 42nd Street, “Cool Dude & Foxy Lady/Spray Paint Bandit” (single); engineer
The New York Dolls, Too Much Too Soon; assistant engineer, engineer
Bo Diddley, Big Bad Bo; assistant engineer
1975
Bob Dylan, Blood on the Tracks; assistant engineer
The Rolling Stones, Bedspring Symphony; assistant engineer
Judy Collins, Judith; assistant engineer, engineer
Paul Simon, Still Crazy After All These Years; assistant engineer
The Dynamic Superiors, Pure Pleasure; assistant engineer
Felix Cavaliere, Destiny; assistant engineer
1976
New York Tuba Quartet, Tubby’s Revenge; engineer
Steely Dan, The Royal Scam; assistant engineer
Phoebe Snow, Second Childhood; engineer
Judy Collins, Bread and Roses; engineer
Ashford & Simpson, Come As You Are; assistant engineer
Starland Vocal Band, Afternoon Delight; assistant engineer
Bobby Scott, From Eden to Canaan; engineer
Paul Anka, The Painter; engineer
1977
The Jimmy Carter Inaugural Album; engineer
The Arbors, The Arbors; engineer
Judy Collins, So Early in the Spring; engineer
John Handy, Carnival; engineer
Joe Thomas, Here I Come; engineer
Jimmy McGriff, Tailgunner; engineer
Kate & Anna McGarrigle, Dancer with Bruised Knees; engineer
Film Soundtrack, The Turning Point; engineer
1978
Phoebe Snow, Against the Grain; engineer
Ray Simpson, Tiger Love; engineer
Steve Forbert, Alive on Arrival; engineer
Film Soundtrack, Superman – The Movie; engineer
Ray Charles, United Negro College Fund; engineer
1979
Toledo, Crime Doesn’t Pay; engineer
Michael Franks, Tiger in the Rain; engineer, mixing
Carolyne Mas, Carolyne Mas; engineer
Mikio Masuda, Goin’ Away; engineer
Television Soundtrack, “Jack Frost”; engineer
Film Soundtrack, All That Jazz; engineer, producer
1980
Gary McMahan, Colorado Blue; engineer
1981
Bill Staines, Rodeo Rose; engineer, producer
1982
Hypertension, Got This Feelin’; engineer
Bill Staines, Sandstone Cathedrals; engineer, producer
J.B. Hutto & The New Hawks, Slideslinger; engineer
1983
Jeanie Stahl, I’m Just Foolin’ Myself; engineer, producer
Paul Winter, Sunsinger; engineer, mixing
Film Soundtrack, Lianna; engineer, producer
J.B. Hutto & The New Hawks, Rock With Me Tonight; engineer, mixing
Rory Block, Rhinestones and Steel Strings; engineer
David Mallet, Open Doors & Windows; producer, engineer
Hazel Dickens, By The Sweat of My Brow; mixing
Russ Barenberg, Behind the Melodies; engineer, mixing
1984
Solomon Burke, Soul Alive!; engineer, mixing, editing
Various Artists, They’ll Never Keep Us Down: Women’s Coal Mining Songs; engineer
The Kentucky Colonels, On Stage; mastering
Johnny Adams, From
the Heart; mixing
1985
Buckwheat Zydeco, Turning Point; engineer
Paul Winter Consort, Concert for the Earth; engineer, mixing
Carpenters, Lovelines; engineer
1986
Paul Winter, Whales Alive; engineer
Susan Osborn, Susan; engineer, producer
Paul Winter, Wintersong; engineer, mixing
Mike Metheny, Day In, Night Out; engineer
Paul Winter, Living Music Collection ‘86; engineer
1987
Oscar Castro Neves, Oscar; engineer, mixing
Paul Sullivan, Sketches of Maine; consultant
Buckwheat Zydeco, Buckwheat’s Zydeco Party; engineer, mixing
1988
Rory Block, Best Blues and Originals; engineer
Various Artists, Downtown NYC: A Compilation of the Best NYC Artists; engineer, producer
Hazel Dickens, A Few Old Memories; engineer, mixing
Paul Winter, Wolf Eyes: A Retrospective; engineer
John Fahey, Popular Songs of Christmas & New Year’s; mastering
1989
Paul Shaffer (featuring Steve Cropper, Don Covay, Ben E. King, Wilson
Pickett, Bobby Womack, Mavis Staples, Darlene Love, and Ellie Greenwich), Coast to Coast; engineer
Bill Staines, The First Million Miles; producer, mixing
1990
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