by Tommy James
Morris had DJ copies sent to all the radio stations in the United States. He wouldn’t let me do a final mix. So the single of “Crimson and Clover” that we all know was from the tape of a rough mix that was never supposed to see the light of day.
“Crimson and Clover” took off and was the biggest record we ever had. Jim Stagg left WCLF not too long afterward. As it turned out, it was more his funeral than mine. The record broke all over the world, except, of course, in Britain.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Crystal Blue
Persuasion
We had been asked, by FM radio, to make a long version of “Crimson and Clover” for the album. They thought it would be a cool thing to do and I agreed. The Shondells and I went into the studio, and because of the history of the record, we had to make a long version out of the short version. It is usually done the other way around. I had to take pieces of the track and stitch them together to make a six-minute version from a three-minute version. When I mastered the original single, I ever so slightly sped it up. We did this occasionally because the slightly faster speed worked better on AM radio. The variable-frequency oscillator had just made its way into the studio. It was a device that allowed you to speed up a tape without doing anything mechanically different to the tape recorder by using the current that was coming through the wall. Normal current came through at 60 cycles. If you raised it to 61 cycles, it meant that you were putting a little more power into the tape recorder motor and everything would speed up relative to the amount of current. If you went to 62 cycles it would speed up more, if you went to 59 cycles, it would slow down. This was a revolutionary way of altering tape speed without fooling around with the mechanism.
When we mastered “Crimson and Clover” at Bell Sound Studio, we did not use the oscillator because Dom, an engineer at Bell, was expert at an esoteric art form known as “wrapping the capstan.” He would take a little piece of Scotch tape and wrap it around the capstan of the tape recorder. Doing that sped things up as well. The problem with that method was that it was never exactly 61 or 62 cycles. It was always 61.3 or something like that. Our final mix was now slightly faster by this one loop of tape. We had to speed up the master to the exact speed the single was running at. We had to go back and forth and back and forth. We finally got it right and made tape copies of the first two verses without the background vocals because we had to put guitar solos on for this longer version. We used steel guitars and fuzz guitars and it came out nicely except that when we glued it all together, there was a difference in tape speed we could not account for. None of us knew this, but it took the oscillator about ten minutes to completely warm up. And we had created the tape copies before it had a chance to completely warm up. It was just a breath slower than it was supposed to be. The only way I could synchronize it perfectly was if I went back to the drawing board and started the entire process over again. So we said the hell with it, no one will ever notice, and we glued the new tape we made into the old master tape. So for thirty years, every time the long version came on the radio I always heard the drop in tone and it drove me crazy. When Rhino Records bought the masters from Roulette in the late eighties, Bill Inglot, the engineer, finally fixed it digitally. Just a normal day in the studio. Is it any wonder we were always high on pills?
We also started work on “Crystal Blue Persuasion.” I had played a gig awhile back in Atlanta and a young fan had come over to me with a poem he had written. It was a Christian poem inspired by the book of Revelation and contained the phrase “crystal blue persuasion.” I never heard from this kid again. I was so taken with the poem and particularly that phrase that I knew I wanted to use it somehow in a song. Eddie Gray came up with the opening riff and it was exactly what I wanted, airy and ethereal with a Latin feel.
“Crystal Blue” was the hardest record we ever made. When we first recorded the song it was filled with instrumentation, heavy guitars, drums, and very complicated arrangements. It tended to be lush and overwrought, and when we heard the playback, we didn’t like it. The track did not match the song. So we went back into the studio and began taking things out, which was exactly the opposite of what we normally did. We produced the record and then unproduced it. We kept extracting practically everything we had put in, and the more we took out the better it sounded. By the time we were finished, there was little more than a flamenco guitar, tambourine, a very effervescent bass line, and a conga drum. But it was a hit and I knew it. I could feel it in my bones. I did not release it right away as I normally would have, because the “Crimson and Clover” single was still selling and receiving endless airplay. And by now we were ready for the release of the album.
The Crimson album was released just before Christmas 1968. Vice President Hubert Humphrey wrote the liner notes. It was the hottest record in the country and we were booked to do our first Ed Sullivan Show the following February. At the time, it was the biggest show on television and for years had been the high-water mark of success in the industry. It was the most watched show in the country, every Sunday night. Because “Crimson” was screaming up the charts, we were the hottest group at that moment. The Crimson project made us keenly aware that if we did not score with this album we were finished. We had gotten rid of all our production crew, and the Shondells and I created Crimson as a self-contained unit. We wrote the songs, played the instruments, produced and arranged all the material, and even designed the album cover. As much as I loved being left alone by Roulette, it meant that all the responsibility was on us. I felt I had to show Morris something. If we had failed with Crimson, I don’t think we could have picked up the pieces. Appearing on The Ed Sullivan Show was our vindication and laurel wreath. Otherwise, it would have been like the funeral wreath that Jim Stagg had so graciously sent me months before.
Several weeks before our appearance, we had done several dates with the Beach Boys, who had done the Sullivan show many times. The week before we were to go on, we stopped by their rooms at the Hyatt House in Los Angeles. They were going to walk me through all the protocols because preparations for an Ed Sullivan appearance took all week. No matter what your status in the entertainment world, it was a scary thing appearing with Ed. The Sullivan show could break as well as make careers. The Beach Boys and I were watching that Sunday and I was particularly interested because Ed always came out at the close of the show to announce who the headliner would be for the following week. Sure enough, just before the end of the show, Ed stepped in front of the camera and said, “And next week on our show, for all the youngsters… Tony Jones and the Spondells.” We looked at one another. “Great. He never heard of us and he can’t read.” It got worse.
Tuesday morning we went to the Sullivan Theater because you had to commit to being on the set, around the clock, for several days. They wanted us to do the show live and I begged them to let me do a lip sync. They always insisted on live performances but they would compromise as long as I could give them a four-track tape with different layers of sounds so they could regulate the output and not have it sound like the record.
I went to Allegro Studio, which was just across the street. I mixed a four track of “Crimson,” but instead of giving them different mixes, I gave them different levels and different EQs, which meant they couldn’t fool around with the mix, but the needles on their machines would be jumping around. All they could do was change the volume. They never caught on and I got to do a lip sync, which took a lot of pressure off because there was no way these guys were going to get the fade at the end of the recording of “Crimson and Clover.” That was a train wreck waiting to happen.
Each day they marched us progressively into the final show. It was literally a zoo backstage because there were always hundreds of people, animal acts, the Vienna Boys Choir, a guy practicing his spinning plates routine. Our show included John Byner, Stiller and Meara, and Sergio Franchi. They custom built a stage set just for us. The band was on platforms at different levels and they shot us against funhouse mirrors that would slightl
y distort our features: an Ed Sullivan acid trip. As we were watching the dress rehearsal on Sunday, Bob Precht, who was both the producer and Ed’s son-in-law, walked over to me with that week’s copy of Billboard opened to the chart page. He tossed it on my lap. “Crimson” had gone number one at that moment.
In reality, The Ed Sullivan Show was almost live. They taped a show before a live audience from 5:00 to 6:00 and then took an hour for dinner. Then they taped another show before another live audience from 7:00 to 8:00. At 8:00 P.M. sharp, they went on the air and the production crew ran both tapes simultaneously and aired the best performance. They were incredibly skillful at split-second timing.
At the end of the show, if you were the headliner, you got to talk to Ed. It was another thing the Beach Boys had warned me about. While the acts were performing, Ed would stand in a narrow alcove watching the show on a little black-and-white TV set. He would also unwind with a little nip. We finished our last song and Ed, who by this time was on his sixth scotch, called me over. “Now, Tommy, I understand you were born and raised in New York City.” I froze. Where the hell did he get that info? I could not let that stand because I had relatives and friends watching and the whole town of Niles was glued to their sets. “Well, actually, Ed, I’ve lived in New York City for a couple of years but I was born in Dayton, Ohio, and raised in Niles, Michigan, but I’ve lived here since I was eighteen.” I gave him every opportunity to exit gracefully. He wanted none of it. “Once again born and raised in New York… Tommy James.” At least he got my name right.
After the show we all went down to the Copacabana to celebrate. Jackie Leonard was the headliner. I walked in with Ronnie, who was dressed in a gothic-style gown. My hair was hanging down my back. The maitre d’ sat us ringside. It was too good for Leonard to pass up. “Oh, it’s a male witch and Lady Gwendolyn.”
If that wasn’t enough to start the year off right, I received a letter from my draft board announcing my change in status. When I divorced Diane and married Ronnie I lost my 3-A classification. Married with child was good enough for a deferment. I was still married and still had a child but the State Department did not see it that way. I was reclassified 1-A and the week following The Ed Sullivan Show I was due to appear at my local draft board for a physical. I was upset and the only person I could talk to about this was Morris. I told him I had a problem. Morris didn’t say anything except to tell me not to worry.
I tried to get my psychiatrist to write a letter saying I was a bed wetter. After hearing Hubert Humphrey’s dread prediction about the Vietnam War, I was really in a funk. I worked in the studio the night before my physical and stayed up popping pills all night long so I would look my best in the morning. Nate McCalla picked me up at my apartment at nine o’clock and drove me to my appointment. It was horrible, but I felt better with Nate with me. He was a decorated veteran of the Korean War and was as relaxed as could be. The first thing that happened when I walked in was that I was recognized. When you are on The Ed Sullivan Show, everybody remembers. I spent the first couple of hours signing autographs and shaking hands. It was sort of like getting a physical in an airport terminal: “Ah, Tommy, before you bend over and spread your cheeks, could you sign this for my wife?” I went through the physical and psychiatric exams but I must have looked like a zombie. I wasn’t pretending to be crazy, I was just being myself and at this time in my life, that was one step away from being a bone fide mental case. I answered all the questions from the psychiatrists and went out to the waiting room to hear the sentence.
When the whole ordeal was over, you had to walk up to a three-man tribunal and get your draft card. When they handed it to me I could not believe it. I had been classified 4-F. Nobody was getting 4-F in 1969. It just did not happen. I looked at the sergeant who handed me the card and said, “What’s this?” He did not say a word. He looked at me and pointed his finger at the side of his head as if to say, “You’re nuts.” Nate grabbed me and said, “Let’s go.” When we were outside, he had a sheepish grin and said, “I told you not to worry.” I found out later that as soon as I left Morris’s office after telling him about the draft board he went to work. One of his friends on the board of directors of Chemical Bank was also on the Selective Service Commission.
* * *
On February 14, 1969, Valentine’s Day, Vito Genovese died of a heart attack in the federal penitentiary in Atlanta, Georgia. This caused a major earthquake at Roulette. Morris’s partner Tommy Eboli had been the acting boss of the family ever since Vito was sent to prison, which meant he was the liaison between Vito and the rest of the family, giving Vito’s orders to the boys, making sure they were followed, and keeping Vito up to date about business. It always amazed me that this went on for nearly eleven years, right under the noses of the guards, but that’s the way it was done.
For about a week after Vito’s death, Roulette almost stopped being a record company. Business wasn’t getting done. Morris was in and out of the office and nobody could talk to him. Guys I had never met before, and didn’t want to meet, suddenly descended on the building, going into Morris’s office and then leaving as if on a mission. Nate McCalla pulled me aside one afternoon and told me, “Don’t walk in or out of the building with me.”
I would always watch Red carefully at times like this. He always seemed to know what was going on, especially when things got weird. I took my cues from him. He came to work as little as possible, and the few times he showed up, he barricaded himself in his office with the door shut. When I finally got in to see him, he had his head buried in his hands. He had just talked to Karin. “Nobody fuckin’ knows what’s going to happen, if there’s going to be a power play, or what. Anything could happen with these fuckin’ guys.” I thought to myself, How fucked up is this? I come up to talk about Crimson and Clover, and I get this shit. I felt totally helpless and I wasn’t even sure if I should hang around. I stayed home for a few days, and Ronnie and I followed the story on TV. They talked about it on almost every newscast. They even talked about who the new boss would be, like it was some sick soap opera. They flashed pictures of the top candidates for the job, including Tommy Eboli.
About a week later, I went up to Roulette. Red’s door was still shut but things seemed to have calmed down a little. I went into Red’s office and he said, “Sit down. We have visitors.” “What do you mean?” “The boys are in Morris’s office. All of them.” “You’re shittin’ me?”
We talked about seeing the whole story on the news. Red was trying to act normal, calling radio stations. All of a sudden, Karin rang Red. “Is Tommy with you? Morris wants to see him.”
“Oh shit!” I slowly got out of my chair and stood up. Red just looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. I turned around and walked out of Red’s office, kind of weak in the knees. “Why the hell does Morris want to see me?” Morris was standing in the doorway of his office waiting for me. I looked for some kind of clue from him as to what this was all about but there was no expression on his face. He just said, “Hi, I want you to meet somebody,” and came around and put his hands on my shoulders, and walked me into the office.
Inside Morris’s office, it was eerily quiet. Sitting on the L-shaped sofa and some scattered chairs were half a dozen very serious-looking men, with very solemn faces. Morris shut the door, which he never did, and walked me over to a guy sitting on a chair. He was leaning forward, elbow on knee, with his right hand cupping his chin. He had a shock of black hair and wore a white dress shirt opened at the neck and black slacks. “This is Mr. Gigante.” I knew this was serious shit. Morris never called anybody “mister.” Mr. Gigante shook my hand and said, “Hey.” This was Vinnie “the Chin” from the Genovese family. I had just seen him the other night on the news as one of Vito’s possible successors. Morris turned me toward the sofa and said, “This is Mr. Cirillo.” Better known as “Quiet Dom” Cirillo. I used to see him talk with Karin once in a while when Morris was having meetings, but had seen him more recently on TV. Next was a heavy, bald-
headed, scary-looking older guy with a cigar sticking out of his mouth. I knew who he was because I had seen him several times on TV. It was “Fat Tony” Salerno from the Jersey wing of the Genovese family. He would later be immortalized as HBO’s Tony Soprano, just as Morris would be portrayed as the character Hesh in the same show. Morris hadn’t said anything this time, so when I went to shake Fat Tony’s hand, Mr. Cirillo said, “This is Mr. Holiday.” Maybe they were afraid I’d recognize the name.
Next came Mr. Vastola, whom I knew already as Sonny Vastola, another member of the Jersey clan. Then Morris said, “And you know Mr. Eboli.” Everyone but Sonny would eventually become heads of the family over the next four decades.
With his hands still on my shoulders, Morris said to all of them, “He’s a good kid. He’s got the number one record this week.” They all gave a collective, deep-throated grunt of approval. “It was nice to meet you all,” I mumbled. Morris said, “We’ll talk later,” and I left the room.
As I was walking back to Red’s office, all I could think of was how many murders, crimes, and God knows what else I had just shaken hands with. But I kept wondering, what was this all about? Was Morris showing me off? Was he letting me know who he was? Was I in some kind of danger because I could place these guys in Morris’s office? My head was spinning. A few days later, I learned that Roulette Regular Tommy Eboli, alias Tommy Ryan, was elevated to capo di tutti capi, the boss of bosses. Morris’s buddy and business partner was now officially the head of the Genovese crime family.
After the big meeting, Roulette was really humming along. Morris actually seemed happy. It seemed like his troubles with the IRS had vanished. One day, they packed up and left and I never saw them again. “Crimson and Clover” was on the charts for a long time but we decided to do something different. We released “Sweet Cherry Wine” as a follow-up. This was an aberration because “Sweet Cherry Wine” was not on the Crimson and Clover album. We recorded “Sweet Cherry” after we recorded “Crystal Blue Persuasion.” I wrote “Sweet Cherry Wine” with Ritchie Grasso, who was married to Morris’s secretary, Karin, so politically it was a good thing.