by Ramone, Phil
I clearly recall going to a screening of the film at Movie Lab with an invited audience of seventy or eighty people. John Schlessinger became upset because the audience hadn’t laughed in the spots where he thought they should have. To Schlessinger, that meant the film was doomed.
“How can you judge what’s going to happen?” I asked.
I was with both Johns—Schlessinger and Barry—when I saw the film for the first time in a theater with a regular audience, and they screamed, hollered, and did all of the things an audience does when they like something.
The comparison taught me a lot about what and what not to expect from a film. It also made me aware of how narrowly the person responsible for each portion of a film’s production views the final product. During both screenings I was hypersensitive; I wanted to be sure that the music mixes came across the way I’d intended them to.
Following what is still film-studio tradition, we scored Midnight Cowboy “to picture,” meaning the musicians sat in the studio and played each cue as the film was projected on a screen.
As we spent time together, I discovered that John Barry preferred to record long sections of scoring in one piece. For this reason, we decided that in addition to the short cues that were cut to the picture, we’d also record extended versions of the Theme, Main Title, and several other important cues, which could later be used on the soundtrack album or released as singles.
In those days, we didn’t waste much time recording a film.
The bulk of the music for Midnight Cowboy was probably finished in three or four days, in large part because John Barry’s scoring and orchestrations were so precise.
Midnight Cowboy is a good example of how scoring and mixing a film in New York differs from scoring and mixing it in Hollywood, where they have individual mixers to record dialogue, music, and effects. The recording setup was fairly simple: We recorded the sessions on eight-tracks of magnetic tape (which were later transferred to 35mm film), and I premixed the score and songs to three separate stems (tracks). Later, film sound mixer Dick Vorisek added dialogue and effects on his board for the final mix. He was happy just to move the music up and down, with a pencil taped to three faders!
The most memorable song to emerge from Midnight Cowboy was Harry Nilsson’s new interpretation of Fred Neil’s “Everybody’s Talkin’.”
Harry had originally recorded “Everybody’s Talkin’” in 1968, for his second RCA album, Aerial Ballet. For Midnight Cowboy, we rearranged the song, and had Harry rerecord two versions: one for the opening credits, and a reprise for the end. The most noticeable difference between Harry’s RCA recording and the Midnight Cowboy versions is that the film renditions include harmonica, played by Toots Thielemans.
The inclusion of “Everybody’s Talkin’”—already familiar to many because of Harry’s first recording—helped make the United Artists soundtrack album for Midnight Cowboy a best-seller. “Everybody’s Talkin’” was not, however, a song that the producers had planned to include in the film.
When a film nears the end of production, the director assembles a rough cut: a draft version of the film that approximates their vision for the final cut.
Rough cuts are truly rough. Scenes that have not yet been filmed are missing, edits are choppy, and the film’s color hasn’t been corrected. Since music cues often are incomplete, the rough cut’s soundtrack often contains only bits of the actual score, and temporary music in between.
At first, John Schlessinger put “Everybody’s Talkin’” into the rough cut of Midnight Cowboy as a placeholder, since Harry Nilsson and John Barry were still working on an original song, “The Lord Must Be in New York City.” But as often happens when everyone lives with the temp track in a rough cut, John and producers came to love “Everybody’s Talkin’,” and the way it blended with the visuals. Nilsson had the voice of an angel, and his folksy rendition of “Everybody’s Talkin’” was exactly the kind of theme song the picture needed.
The scoring for many motion pictures (in whole or in part) took place at A&R, including The French Connection (1971), Cops and Robbers (1973), and Fame (1980).
I went to Hollywood to work on films, too.
Earlier I described how I came to supervise the recording of A Star is Born in 1975. It was one of the proudest moments in my life.
It’s rare for someone like me to join a film production team as the script is being completed, and rarer still to be accepted as one of the crew. I was relieved when everyone who was working on A Star Is Born welcomed my participation. When I took the assignment, I promised Barbra (and myself ) that I’d do whatever was necessary to make the soundtrack reflect what she had in mind.
Regardless of the sensationalized stories you may have heard, Barbra is a kind, sensitive person who demands from her colleagues only what she expects of herself, and A Star Is Born is a film of consequence. With it, Barbra opened the door for things that people in the film industry had long wished for. From true live action to technological freedom, working on A Star Is Born expanded all of our horizons.
Were there tensions on the set? Of course there were. With all of the aggregate talent working on the picture, there were bound to be squabbles.
With my wife, Karen Ramone, and Barbra Streisand, 1983 Courtesy of David McGough
By the time I got to Hollywood, there had been numerous script changes, and there was a pressing deadline to start production. The issue of song selection also hung in the air.
When I arrived, Barbra was sifting through dozens of songs submitted by Paul Williams, Kenny Ascher, Rupert Holmes, Leon Russell, Kenny Loggins, and others. “Let me help you preview them,” I requested. “That’s part of the music supervisor’s responsibility, and as the film’s producer, you’ve got enough to worry about.”
One of the memories I savor is hearing “Evergreen” for the first time.
Barbra was learning to play guitar so her movement would look real in the film, and she’d improvised a pretty melody while practicing one night. The next day she came in and played it for us and it was superb—almost classical in its simplicity. She also played the song for Leon Russell, who also affirmed its beauty.
Barbra was very proud of “Evergreen.” She was reticent about contributing to the film something she’d written, but it was by far the finest song in the picture. Paul Williams took Barbra’s melody, added lyrics, and “Evergreen” became the movie’s theme. It went on to win both an Oscar and a Golden Globe for best song, and is still one of Barbra’s most-requested tunes.
Original tape box for mix of “Evergreen” Phil Ramone Collection
To that point, A Star Is Born was the most ambitious project I’d ever done. We were recording live on the sets, then editing and mixing the sound in several places: in the sound truck on location, at the Burbank Studios, and at Todd-AO. To help us work efficiently I had forty Class-A phone lines installed between the Burbank Studios and Todd-AO, and we began feeding the mixes from Burbank to Hollywood, where Barbra was supervising the assembly of the D/M/E (dialogue, music, and sound effects) track.
When I called to request the forty phone lines, the head of Pacific Bell’s technical department asked if we’d like to use an experimental satellite to bounce music off Mount Wilson. It had never been done before, and when they said they’d give us sixty lines, I jumped at their offer.
The soundmen in Burbank thought I was crazy. There were trucks with receiving dishes scattered all around, and maintenance men constantly calling, “Where’s Phil? Where’s Phil?” We compared the sound of the satellite transmissions to that of the Class-A phone lines and found that the satellite worked very well.
I would prepare one or two mixes at whichever studio we were in and send it via satellite for Barbra to hear. Barbra would listen to the mix, fix the vocal line from where she was, and bounce it back to us wherever we were. I spent more than enough time driving back and forth between Burbank and Hollywood! The payoff came when everything Barbra had imagined came together and t
he studio, critics, and audiences reacted favorably.
One of the things I’m most proud of is that A Star Is Born was the first magnetic Dolby surround sound film, and that it premiered in true surround sound in fifteen theaters. The late dialogue mixer Buzz Knudson and I personally tested the print and equalized the first five theaters so they would sound like the mixing theater at Todd-AO. Then the Dolby technicians tuned each theater to what we called the “Todd-AO curve.”
While the pace of working on A Star Is Born was frantic, I had my share of fun, too.
Because Barbra and producer Jon Peters had disagreed with director Frank Pierson over the first cut of the film, Barbra decided to recut it herself. To accomplish this, she installed a full editing suite in a cottage on her Malibu ranch.
I spent a lot of time there with Barbra and Jon, and was treated to all of the estate’s amenities, including the gym and pool.
One night, I decided to take a swim in the buff.
It was late—maybe two o’clock in the morning—and no one else seemed to be alive. I dove into the cool water, and when I surfaced found the barrel of a gun pointed at my head.
The assailant was one of Barbra’s round-the-clock security guards—a serious bunch who patrolled the borders of the property. As I treaded water, I frantically tried to explain that I was not an intruder but an invited guest who was staying in the guest house. The guard eyed me dubiously.
I was splashing around, trying to stay above water, when I heard a familiar voice from the apartment above the cottage.
“Who’s that in the pool? Is everything okay down there?”
It was one of Barbra’s assistants, a lady who was staying in the apartment above me.
“Tell him who I am!” I screamed.
“Well, who are you?” she yelled back, having a good laugh at my expense.
She knew I was swimming in the buff, and all she wanted to see was my embarrassment when I was forced to come out of the pool naked. The story was the hot topic at breakfast the next day.
Flashdance (1983) was a terrific film and a great challenge.
The team of Jon Peters, Peter Gruber, Jerry Bruckheimer, Don Simpson, and Dawn Steele were out to produce an original musical, and they asked if I was interested in producing the soundtrack. To help them capture a modern spirit, they signed Adrian Lyne to direct. Although Lyne had only directed commercials, I admired his work and hoped I’d get the chance to work with him on his first feature film.
Because of the producers’ efforts, Flashdance has the two most important elements that make for an entertaining picture: a good story and exciting music. After reading a script that offered an elaborate view of the characters and plot, I signed on as coproducer of the music for the film.
For a musical to be successful there has to be a reason for each song, and the songs have to interlock with the story. Few people could write to the style of the period as well as Giorgio Moroder, who was at his peak.
Giorgio’s “What a Feeling” (sung by Irene Cara) was upbeat, and Michael Sembello’s “Maniac” provided the relentless, driving beat punctuating Jennifer Beals’s frenetic dance sequence. “Manhunt” has since become a camp classic, and the movie’s big ballad—“I’ll Be Here Where the Heart Is,” written by Kim Carnes, Duane Hitchings, and Craig Krampf—signaled a pivotal moment in the film, and in Kim’s career.
The dance form was far different in the early 1980s than it was during the days of Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, and Gene Kelly. Marrying music and dance can still be a Herculean task.
Dance is like an Olympic sport; it’s physically demanding, and professional dancers are as strong and agile as any athlete. Choreographing a tight dance routine for a film requires concentration and repetition. Allowing ample time for rehearsal is essential.
When we first ran through Flashdance’s dance sequences, we rehearsed in one half of a trailer on the studio lot. I quickly realized that doing so successfully would be damn near impossible.
I had Jennifer Beals and the other dancers streaming in and out to hear what we were doing with the music, and when they started dancing, the trailer shook like mad. When that happened, the writers on the other end of the trailer would yell, “Shut up! Turn off the music—we’re trying to write a script in here.” The only place with enough room for our dance rehearsals was the commissary, which was available only between two and four in the afternoon.
To keep the peace, Jon Peters consented to renting us a house off the studio lot where the choreographer, songwriters, a few keyboardists and I could work without distraction. Being secluded from the rest of the production staff for those twelve to fourteen hours a day calmed our nerves and let us do much more than we would have otherwise.
One night when I was back in New York, I called Don Simpson and said, “You won’t believe this, but there are a group of kids on the corner of Fifty-ninth Street, playing music and spinning themselves around on a piece of cardboard! You’ve gotta see this—it’s incredible. It would be just right for the Pittsburgh scenes.”
Simpson sent a friend down to shoot some videotape of the break-dancers. He loved what he saw, and worked them into the movie.
“Should we write original music for the scene?” he asked.
“Giorgio Moroder and I agree that we don’t have to write anything new,” I explained. “Let’s lease the music track that the kids on the street were using.”
The kids had thrown their mix together from a bunch of dance records, and God only knew whose records they’d sampled. Today it would be unaffordable to license every sample they had used; when we made Flashdance it was easier—and far more cost-effective.
There’s a lot to be said for this kind of spontaneity, and that’s what made working on Flashdance so interesting.
I also have a special fondness for Flashdance because it let me work with the young woman who had recently become my wife—singer-dancer Karen Kamon, whom I’d met at a Peter, Paul and Mary concert in 1979. Karen was their production assistant, and I thought she was cute.
Karen’s coming to Flashdance happened in a funny way. I wouldn’t have suggested that she audition; I didn’t think that mixing business and family would be a smart move. But Ken Topolsky—my production assistant at the time—saw Karen’s potential and snuck her into the studio to do the demo of “Manhunt.”
For Karen, the song was a natural.
At the time she cut the demo, Karen was pregnant with our son BJ. There was a greater chance that the song would be cut from the movie; Karen never thought she’d be coming back in her eighth month to record her final vocals!
Karen was quite uncomfortable, and she called Donna Summer for advice. “How the hell did you record ‘Last Dance’ when you were pregnant?” Donna laughed. “Sing it in phrases,” she suggested. “Take a deep breath, hold on to your belly, and sing your ass off!” Donna and Karen were ahead of their time, singing to their babies in utero before it became fashionable.
Flashdance also affirmed Ken Topolsky’s eye for talent. After leaving the A&R nest he moved to Hollywood and became a producer of the hit television series The Wonder Years.
As actors Bob Hoskins and John Goodman have said, “No good film enjoys a trouble-free ride.” Flashdance was no exception.
The studio lost faith in the director and only halfheartedly supported the production, and no one expected the film to do well. But after the first preview, I got a call at home from Dawn Steele. She was so excited I could barely understand what she was saying. “They’re dancing in the aisles!” she exclaimed. “Come on—that’s what publicists write,” I retorted. “No, Phil—I’m not joking. They are dancing in the aisles!”
At the next screening there was more dancing, cheering, and jumping up and down, and Flashdance became one of the biggest films of the eighties.
TRACK 21
On Broadway
With composer-lyricist Stephen Sondheim Phil Ramone Collection
Musical theater has always been a part of my
life.
When I was a teenager, I could rarely afford tickets to a show, so a friend and I would go down to Broadway and search for discarded Playbills outside the theaters. The next night we’d go back to the theater, tuck the programs under our arms, and scavenge the ground for ticket stubs. During intermission we’d give the usher a story like, “We’re sitting upstairs—would you mind if we stand in the back of the theater for the second act?” Most of the time she’d let us in; many of the ushers were would-be actors who knew what it was like to crave something you couldn’t afford.
I’ve recorded a number of stage shows—both on Broadway and in London—and they’re among the sessions I get the most pleasure from.
The assignment of recording or producing such cast albums as Promises, Promises; Pippin; The Wiz; Chicago; Little Shop of Horrors; Starlight Express; Passion; Company; A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum; Big (The Musical); The Wild Party; Seussical (The Musical); The Boy from Oz; and Billy Elliot (The Musical) has brought me backstage, and into the minds of the composers, producers, and performers who put every ounce of their body and soul into giving us a rich, satisfying theater experience.
The best stage musicals dazzle the audience with color, movement, and lighting cues that stimulate the senses, but the record producer doesn’t have the benefit of those elements when he or she is bringing the show from stage to record. This prompts the question, “Is it possible to transpose all that the audience sees and hears in the theater into a credible cast recording?”
It all depends on what your idea of a Broadway cast album is.
To me, a cast recording is more than a souvenir—it’s history. Because of Actors’ Equity union rules and music licensing issues, producers aren’t prone to film or tape a Broadway show for commercial purposes, so once a production closes it’s lost to the ages. A cast album lets you hear it over and over again.