by Jimmy Webb
I invited Richard Harris, Kathe Green, Lady Pelham-Clinton-Hope, and some other guests over for a Champagne brunch on the deck outside. I arranged for a Rolls-Royce Phantom V to stand by at the Playboy Club for a trip to the venerated Connaught in Grosvenor Square, where I planned to collect Evie in a covert getaway, so she could join the party. I greeted my guests, one an executive from EMI, who brought me their entire collection of classical albums in a huge crate. We stood outside in the fine spring weather, sipping Champagne from flutes and chatting, oblivious to the fact that thousands of activists and demonstrators were forming a march at Trafalgar Square to protest the war in Vietnam, led most prominently by Vanessa Redgrave. They were headed in our direction.
The phone rang insistently inside the suite and I went to one of the old-fashioned London telephones in its heavy cradle. I picked it up half expecting Evie’s voice, but quickly had to reorient myself as I recognized the caller.
“Hello, is this Jimmy?”
“Ye … uh,” I replied in a moment’s panic.
“Hi, Jim, this is Paul McCartney.”
I searched for the right response. Not too fatuous but not unfriendly. I wanted to sound like a cool guy.
“Hi, Paul,” I said. “How are you?”
“Oh, fantastic. Listen, Jim, I’m doing a record with Mary Hopkin and I’m getting the best writers to do her songs. I’ve spoken to Brian Wilson.”
“Oh, great, fantastic!” I blubbered.
“I was wondering if you might want to write a song for Mary.”
“Oh yes, that sounds fine.” What was the matter with my brain, my tongue? I sounded like some phony prick who was staying at the Playboy Club.
“What do you need for her, Paul?” I retreated to my bedside manner.
“Oh, anything, just anything really. Brian’s writing a song about puppies.”
“Uh-huh, well, thanks for the honor. I’ll try my best.”
“Okay, Jim, thanks then. We’ll be in touch. Cheers.”
That was it. I was humbled and excited. Lopsided really. It was one of those bends in the river that could lead to something stupendous. Why didn’t I bear down? Right then. Of all the industry people in the world I wanted to know, Paul McCartney was the most admired.
There was a hubbub out on the balcony. I dropped the heavy receiver back into its cradle and the watch work of pinioned wheels and levers that changed the scenery of life whirred and another set came wheeling in on hydraulic pistons, one backdrop ascending into the proscenium with this universe while another came whining down on steel cables stretched taut.
I went to the patio, where everyone was staring off toward Trafalgar. Vanessa Redgrave with her rippling mane of reddish gold hair was easily recognizable in the vanguard as she passed our overlook. What a noble, splendid sight she was. The leading edge of a throng of twenty thousand people came into view on the roundabout where Victory reigned in her rampaging four-horse chariot and lifted a laurel crown in her outstretched right arm, high above the Victory Arch. There was a color guard of red banners rippling in the breeze on the front ranks: some were flags of the British Communist Party, others of the Soviet Union, the Union Jack, and other smaller fry but the unifying theme was the color red. I gaped. The Communist Party wouldn’t dare go on parade in Times Square, yet here was the hammer and sickle, bold as brass.
It seemed decadent to be standing on a penthouse balcony while the battle raged in Vietnam, watching courageous people of different political dispositions gathered in such numbers for a common cause. We watched, fascinated during a few moments of silence and our Champagne flutes were set aside as the marching mass came up even with our balcony, chanting, waving signs and banners. It was an ocean of humanity that quickly paralyzed traffic on Park Lane and suddenly I had a concern for Evie at the Connaught Hotel. The march was headed in her direction. I grabbed my coat and called downstairs to alert Terry Naylor that we were getting ready to leave.
There was a chorus of oohs and ahs from the walkway and I stuck my head out to see what happened. Unaccountably the entire column of activists and demonstrators had come to a screeching halt, bunched up in the middle of Park Lane a couple of blocks north of us. The throng was staring upward at one of the prominent balconies on the Park Lane side of the Dorchester. I focused on a pontifical apparition that had suddenly appeared on the balcony in question.
“Bloody hell,” I said, already adopting the expressions of the Richard Harris crowd. “Do you see that?”
“It’s fucking Tiny Tim,” Richard cackled, unable to restrain his glee. And by God it was. The androgynous, soprano-voiced, ukulele-playing recording artist, famous for his revival of a twenties number called “Tiptoe through the Tulips” (w. Al Dubin), had appeared in his trademark waist-length hair on a balcony far above the crowd. His arms were elevated and spread wide in imitation of a papal blessing.
Such is the power of momentary celebrity that Tiny Tim almost derailed the massive march of protest. Seriously, a number of hardened activists actually dropped to their knees. However, a more single-minded contingent of dissenters moved on purposefully toward the general area of the Connaught. On high Tim continued to wave and yoo-hoo delightedly.
“They’re headed for the American embassy!” said Lady Pelham-Clinton-Hope. I bolted for the elevator. Six floors below, Terry Naylor was waiting in his gray uniform, white shirt, and black tie, complete with military-style bonnet and braid.
“Terry, we have to make all haste to the Connaught Hotel.”
“Yes, sir.” He smiled, revealing the conflicted array of large teeth in his uppers.
I dashed across the street and got into the back of the waiting Phantom. Terry opened the driver side door just after.
“There is a lady waiting, Terry, must hurry,” I spoke as he slammed his door and settled behind the wheel. He started the beast and accelerated away from the curb. I was momentarily pushed back into the coachwork.
“This crowd is a bit out of order, sir,” he commented as we made a hasty right turn on Audley Street, proceeding northwest and parallel to the line of march on Park Lane.
We managed the next four blocks, but at South Street the crowd poured across the intersection in a rowdy river that seemed to slowly carry us along toward Grosvenor Square, the site of the U.S. Embassy. We crept impatiently, at times almost nudging the demonstrators, who repeatedly slapped our high metal fenders hard and yelled “Tory!” or “Fuck the U.S.!” We were being mistaken for diplomats.
I agreed with our antagonists on principle but persisted in my attempt to extricate a lady from a situation that seemed balanced on the thin edge of riot. As we approached Mount Street the crowd pressed closer to the car and we were now caught up in its inertia, creeping toward the corner, a block west of the Connaught, which reigned supreme on the corner of Carlos Street.
Police vehicles were audible in ever-closer proximity with their seesawing electronic sirens playing the theme of the constabulary: two pitches repeating a tritone interval. The crowd roared in response as though to say “Bring them on!” Ahead we could see blue-clad vehicles and blinking yellow lights but the movement of the protest was increasingly random and unpredictable. It swirled. We pressed on.
Once we negotiated the corner, we were within sight of the Connaught, a Victorian ice cream cake of a building, bountifully decorated with quaint early-twentieth-century rococo. When we came up even with it I toggled Terry again.
“Sit tight, Ter, I’m going after Evie.”
“Would you like me to fetch her, sir?”
“I’ll get her. Take care of the car.”
“You’re the guvnor.” He tipped his hat and I made my exit.
I pushed my way around the corner and found myself in front of the quaint entrance to the hotel. I saw Evie crowded into the little anteroom behind the glass doors, a bleak look on her face that struck me in the heart like an arrow.
“Baby!” I yelled through the door. “Let’s go!” She smiled readily.
/> With me pulling and her pushing we got her through the door and, dodging the most physical displays of civil disobedience, we made it around the corner to find Terry under siege. Protesters were pounding on the car with protest signs and bare fists, apparently oblivious to the fact that there was only an innocent working-class driver inside. Evie and I pushed and shoved our way to the car through a barrage of verbal abuse. I opened the big door against the crowd and ushered her safely inside. With a sigh of relief I slammed the heavy door closed and at that moment one of the most dramatic spectacles of my life transpired.
Over a hundred mounted officers had made a charge to clear Grosvenor Square. Some of the grittier combatants had made a stand and physically engaged the police. Most of the throng, however, had made a sudden retreat directly south on Carlos Place. As Evie and I settled in the car this wave of protestors surged past the Connaught and into Mount Street. It was chaos. The bulk of the demonstration piled up around us, clinging to our door handles and each other, suddenly taking refuge behind and around the big car, faces pressed against the windows, cheeks and noses squashed against the glass. Behind this press of fleeing demonstrators appeared the flak jackets and riot helmets of cops; bobbies toting batons and tear-gas launchers. Many in the crowd turned, ready now to fight. A pitched battle erupted with the Rolls suddenly thrust into the role of a barricade. A cop on foot was rushed by three spoilers and bent backward over the gleaming bonnet of the big machine. Through the glass we saw him disarmed and given a severe beating, his helmet rolling off and into the street. He left behind a faint, theatrical spray of blood and saliva on the windscreen. Terry was pale but determined. Hanging his big arm up on the divider he began tenaciously and carefully to back us up Mount Street.
It took a half hour to extricate ourselves from the aftermath of the so-called Battle of Grosvenor Square, eventually landing us back on Curzon via Berkeley Square. We drove past the White Elephant, eatery of the stars, finally laughing with relief, and drew up to the Playboy.
I stood with Terry for a moment as he helped us out of the back.
“Very cool under fire,” I complimented.
“Glad to be of service, sir,” he acknowledged, a bull of a man.
Evie and I went up the elevator even as escapees from the confrontation scattered through the neighborhood toward Kensington and other tube stations. Upstairs, we gladly joined our friends who greeted us like long-lost comrades. We stepped out on the balcony with champers and watched a peace warrior, limping from the fray, as he carried a red flag bearing the hammer and sickle proudly into the lengthening shadows of Hyde Park.
1968, New York
The Devil and I went to visit Frank Sinatra at the Waldorf Astoria. It was a goodwill mission; we didn’t mention Jimmy Webb’s television special for Universal, but we blatantly intended to influence him favorably. Mr. Sinatra maintained a residence at the Waldorf. We rode the elaborately decorated elevators to one of the upper floors and were immediately admitted to the apartment by Sarge Weiss, president of Sinatra’s publishing interests and keeper of the calendar. The soles of our shoes disappeared in the lush straw-colored wool carpeting of the living room. The colors were muted, the overall impression one of spaciousness and well-chosen antique furniture punctuated with tasteful works of art, all lighted by the full-length plate glass windows facing the Hudson River.
The demigod of American pop music arose from a chair and walked toward us, his blue eyes alight with energy. He extended his hand and the irresistible flash of white teeth against a Palm Springs tan and his ready smile completely disarmed me. Why, there was no doubt we were going to be compadres and make a television show together! He wore a one-piece beige leisure suit. He was in excellent shape and looked lithe even in such a revealing garment zipped up the front. He, thankfully, did not ask me when I was going to get a haircut. He said: “It’s a pleasure to meet someone who is actually writing music!” And for a moment his face was more serious. What does one say to someone when, more than anything, one wants to make a favorable impression? His career was soaring after a hit record with daughter Nancy called “Something Stupid” and another solo effort, “Strangers in the Night.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir” was the best I could muster. The Devil shook hands with him as well and we were ushered to a plush couch facing a couple of armchairs where the four of us were seated. There was something not completely direct about him, I decided. Not egocentric but perhaps he was just unwilling to involve himself in any unnecessary intimacy. He was not brusque; he was brisk. We chatted for a while about songwriting, a subject obviously close to home with him. “You know, kiddo, you write a great saloon song!” he complimented me. “‘By the Time I Get to Phoenix’ is the greatest saloon song ever written.” He asked me if I would like a drink and I declined. He ordered a Jack Daniel’s: two fingers straight up, and lit a cigarette from a silver box on the coffee table.
He began to mention me in the same company with Hoagy Carmichael, Jimmy Van Heusen, and Harry Warren. I felt my collar getting tighter. However unfashionable it may be or implausible it might sound, I am a somewhat modest person. These names were from a golden age and I didn’t feel as though I belonged in such rarified company. I was more comfortable when the conversation edged toward more contemporary writers, Lennon and McCartney and Paul Simon, whom Sinatra also admired. As Sarge attended to a nonalcoholic drink for the Devil, Mr. Sinatra walked me over to the plate glass windows facing the west side of Manhattan, and beyond that, New Jersey.
“Jimmy, over there is Hoboken. I was born over there.” He stood in silent contemplation for a moment.
“Let me tell you, it takes a lot longer to get from Hoboken to the Waldorf than it takes to get from the Waldorf to Hoboken.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s the theory of relativity, right?” I proffered helpfully.
“Well, not exactly.” He looked at me slightly annoyed. I repented deeply for a comment that I suddenly realized made me sound like a smart-ass.
“You know, I recorded your song ‘Didn’t We?’” he said as we turned back to our armchairs. We sat and fresh drinks and cigarettes appeared as though by magic.
“There was a broad”—he paused thoughtfully—“probably a little bit before your time, but I had a thing. I thought it was going to kill me … or maybe both of us.”
He looked at me, amused, and his blue eyes glinted.
“Some chicks, they get under your skin and they stay there.”
I nodded.
“But I know you know what I mean.” He smiled, but I didn’t. I had endured a bumpy ride or two but at that time I had never been knocked down by an eighteen-wheeler. Not yet.
“Ava,” he said finally.
I recognized the cautionary note in his words for a young flash in the pan like myself. We talked briefly about doing a whole album together before a certain change of tempo in Mr. Sinatra’s speech was, to my alert ear, a precursor to the end of the meeting. A week or so later I called him from my cabana at Universal and asked him flat out if he would do my television show with me. His reply was an enthusiastic, undiluted yes. Diablo and I jumped up on top of my desk and did a Mexican hat dance.
1968, Los Angeles
Marc Gordon called again, always a good omen. He told me he had made a wonderful discovery in the person of one Thelma Houston, a young singer who was unsigned, and he wanted me to hear her before he took any other steps. We agreed to meet the next afternoon and she showed up with a list of songs she was prepared to audition. She was a fountain of joy and happiness, her smile an endless source of pleasure. I fumbled about for a couple of minutes setting her key and found out she could sing strongly across a broad spectrum, possessing a remarkable tessitura.
She sang and when she put her shoulders back and opened up, the penthouse windows rattled in their frames. When she finished her third song I turned to Marc and said, “Okay, fine, when do we do the record?” Thelma and I began rehearsing on almost a daily basis.
/> In the performance of music, particularly between an accompanist and a singer, there occurs a deep mixing of souls. We were of different races and backgrounds yet music creates a powerful confluence based on the interpretation of each precious note, a telepathy conveyed through the eyes and ears that addresses the unspeakable. It draws the participants together with an irresistible magnetism. I discovered there was little to nothing I could demand of her musically that she could not deliver tenfold. She was of the ilk of an Aretha Franklin or Mahalia Jackson. I resolved to craft the best arrangements of my career. We would push the envelope for Thelma. We would eclipse what we had done for Richard Harris. In her I had found the perfect instrument. I was at the height of my powers, I had the songs and a technical team that would bring this project to perfect realization. I had the Crew, all to myself. The budget was expansive. Any strength I found wanting was erased by one of Thelma’s twinkling smiles. It was a dream project.
One night, working on one of the tracks, I went on for sixty-eight passes (takes). There were tape boxes piled all over the control room. After take sixty-eight Armin, the chief engineer, flatly refused to continue. I probably blew off a little steam over it. If I had it to do over right now I would fire his ass and find another studio.
The next day I was summoned to Jay Lasker’s office. I wasn’t used to being summoned. I was even more taken aback when I walked into Jay’s office and saw Armin sitting there. Both of them ganged up on me with the bedside manner of a couple of psychiatrists addressing a difficult child. I wasn’t to waste money in the studio anymore. They had been around the business long enough to know when a producer’s behavior was becoming obsessive and compulsive. I could have laughed out loud. Armin had been up to take eighty and ninety with Johnny Rivers and Lou Adler, and who knows how many with John Phillips or Brian Wilson, whom he coddled? I tried to explain that any investment was worthwhile if we were successful in achieving perfection. What would Aretha Franklin’s first album be worth? They seemed unimpressed by this line of reasoning.