by Ramone, Phil
We insiders knew he was a genius the moment we saw him work. We knew he was a “musician’s musician,” and that his eclectic musical taste and fastidious approach were something quite special.
Being immersed in his musicality gave one a chance to learn; in this regard, he set the pace for us all. As I reflect on everything that accompanied Genius Loves Company, I think of something that Ray said once: “I’ve been makin’ music since I was three. You hear about people saying they’re gonna retire, but retire to what? I don’t wanna do nothing but what I’m doing.”
To be continued…
BONUS TRACK
Kindred Spirits
With Charles L. Granata, NYC, 1999 Charles L. Granata Collection
I met Phil Ramone in 1998, when we appeared together on a speaking panel to discuss the music of Frank Sinatra.
Although he didn’t know it, I felt like I’d known Phil for years.
At the time, I was writing and lecturing on the way Sinatra recorded his music; Phil was my subject’s greatest living exponent. After one such discussion, I asked Phil if he would consider writing the foreword for a book I was writing on Sinatra’s recording methodology. “Absolutely,” he said. “Here’s my number—call me, and we’ll talk.”
I called, we talked, and Phil’s warm recollections helped get my Sinatra story off to a very good start. It was the beginning of a pleasant friendship.
Our collaboration on the Sinatra piece in September 1999 brought me to the Shire, the ten-acre farm in Bedford, New York, that was (until recently) the Ramone family’s home. The visit offered my first glimpse of Phil’s superb taste, and the tasteful way in which he lives his life.
Despite being a relative stranger, I was treated with warmth and graciousness.
It was pouring outside, and there was a fire burning in the main parlor. As I set up my tape recorder, a friendly woman with a thick Irish accent came in and asked if she could make me some lunch. Soon, a sandwich and a Coke appeared. So did Andre Previn’s son, who was a houseguest—and, like me, hungry.
The Shire, I learned, was a spacious, cozy place where family, friends, and business associates were always welcome.
Phil and I sat in a corner near the fireplace and chatted for the better part of two hours. He spoke fondly of his love for Sinatra and his music.
He recalled the first time he’d watched Sinatra record in May of 1961, when Bill Putnam snuck him into a recording session at United-Western Studios in Hollywood. Frank was recording “Granada” and a few other songs with Billy May’s big band; as a fellow engineer and Phil’s mentor, Putnam knew that “the kid” revered Frank, and thought he’d get a kick out of running the tape recorder.
Then, Phil talked about the Sinatra sessions he’d engineered at A&R in 1967. They were Frank’s first New York sessions in more than a decade; for the occasion Phil literally rolled out a red carpet. The sessions wrought the Sinatra favorite, “(Over and Over) The World We Knew.”
But it was Phil’s recent projects with Frank Sinatra—L.A. Is My Lady in 1984, and Duets and Duets II in 1993–94—that we dwelled on. The former was Sinatra’s last all-star jazz record; the latter two were million-selling, Grammy Award–winning efforts that became the biggest-selling records of the singer’s career.
The stories of Phil’s days and nights in the studio with Mr. S. delighted me, and I was sorry when our interview drew to a close. As I packed up my microphones, I casually asked Phil what had turned him on to Frank Sinatra.
“I grew up with his music,” he explained. “And I loved his album covers—especially the ones that show him standing in the studio, with the orchestra crowded around him in a semicircle. I studied those pictures to see what kind of microphones they used, and what instruments they were used on…”
In that moment, I realized that Phil and I were kindred spirits.
As a youngster I was obsessed with records. Anything having to do with sound recording, actually: LPs, seventy-eights, reel-to-reel tapes and tape recorders, turntables, amplifiers, and microphones all made their way into my bedroom—and my life. The best place for a kid to find records in those days was the old-fashioned, neighborhood yard sale.
It was at such a sale, circa 1973 or ’74, that I bought my first copy of Getz/Gilberto. I had no idea who Getz or Gilberto were, nor did I care. The album cost me a dime, and I fell in love with the cover and the cool Verve label. It was the first time I saw the name Phil Ramone on a record jacket.
Not long after, another Saturday afternoon record-hunting expedition yielded a stack of Frank Sinatra’s Capitol and Reprise records—including Sinatra’s Swingin’ Session!!! and The Concert Sinatra—two albums with covers depicting the singer standing in the studio, with the orchestra crowded around him in a semicircle.
I, like Phil, studied those covers.
Kindred spirits.
I was fourteen years old when Billy Joel’s The Stranger was released in 1977, and I spent hours blasting the album through a pair of old Sony headphones. The record packed a mean wallop.
As an amateur drummer, I was drawn to Liberty DeVitto’s solid beat, and the unrelenting drive of Doug Stegmeyer’s bass. The sound was crystal clear; the bass tones throbbed with a focus that I’d rarely heard before. To my ears, the punchy, resonant quality of the drums was the way drums should always sound on a record. Best of all, every song on The Stranger was great.
The Stranger solidified my love for Billy Joel, and his producer—Phil Ramone.
Thereafter, I relished each new Billy Joel release—52nd Street, Glass Houses, Songs in the Attic, An Innocent Man, The Nylon Curtain, and The Bridge—not as a Johnny-come-lately, but as a young musician and audiophile who bought them the minute they came out. I can mark each moment of my adolescence through those individual Billy Joel albums, and the landmark songs that sprang from them.
It seemed that everywhere I turned in those days, Phil Ramone was there, an omnipotent and omnipresent figure on the record scene, simultaneously producing soundtracks, jazz records, and pop albums by the likes of Paul Simon, Billy Joel, Phoebe Snow, and a plethora of other great artists.
I was thrilled to learn that it was Phil who engineered Ben E. King’s “Spanish Harlem,” “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Simon and Garfunkel’s “My Little Town”—even the Starland Vocal Band’s “Afternoon Delight.” All were Top 40 pop songs that were in heavy rotation on WABC-AM radio in New York, and they piqued my pre-teen interest. I simply wanted to hear them over and over; even then I recognized the sophistication of their production.
But Sinatra was our nexus.
When Frank recorded at A&R with Quincy Jones in 1984, it was Phil behind the board. They filmed the recording sessions and made a documentary showing Sinatra at work in the studio. I watched the tape with rapt attention, and there, to my delight, was Phil Ramone. It was the first time I put a face to the name.
I was in a meeting at Sony Music’s New York headquarters in early 1993 when I first heard of Frank Sinatra’s Duets project.
My colleagues and I were planning a massive reissue of the nearly three hundred sides that Frank Sinatra had made while at Columbia Records in the 1940s, and Frank’s business manager, Nathan “Sonny” Golden, was conferring with our team. During a break, I asked Sonny about The Man:
ME: How’s Mr. Sinatra doing?
SONNY: He’s fine. He’s getting ready to do the Duets album.
ME: He’s going to sing face-to-face with the rock and rollers?
SONNY: They’re using some kind of fiber-optic line to let his partners sing from remote locations.
ME: Really? Who’s producing?
SONNY: Phil Ramone.
I was not surprised.
While a bit controversial in its day, Duets represented cutting-edge technology and reflected the progressive thinking of its producer.
Before I left the Shire on that wet September day in 1999, I told Phil that he should write a book. “I’
d love to work with you on it,” I said naively. He was a world-famous record producer, and I was a first-time author.
Phil and I crossed paths a few times after that.
Joe D’Ambrosio, his assistant at the time, kept in touch and helped arrange for me to interview Phil again for my second book, on Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds. I bumped into him at the Grammy Awards in Los Angeles in 2002—the year that Carlos Santana’s album Supernatural won big.
Through the years, the idea of writing a book with Phil was always in the back of my mind.
And so, I was flattered to receive a call to meet with Phil and his (now our) literary agent, Lisa Queen, in April 2003. They outlined an idea they had for Phil’s book, and I jumped at the chance to help write it. After all, Phil is a kindred spirit.
It has been my privilege to collaborate with Phil, and to help turn his recollections into this volume. It’s been three years in the making; during that time I’ve spent hundreds of hours with Phil, talking about music, recording, life, art, politics, and just about every other topic imaginable.
I was again welcomed to the Shire—this time as a frequent guest, many times overnight. The warmth I had experienced on my first visit several years before had only offered a taste of the lively spirit of the household.
During the course of our work, I’ve spoken at length with dozens of Phil’s friends, artists and colleagues—including Quincy Jones, Billy Joel, and Tony Bennett. To a person, the admiration and respect that artists, arrangers, engineers, record company executives, and friends have for Phil Ramone is evident in their words, their hugs, and most of all, in the music they create under his watchful eye.
More than anything, I’m fortunate to have had the rare chance to watch Phil as he recorded (on separate occasions) Carole King and Elton John, and as he mixed albums for Olivia Newton-John (with engineer Joel Moss) and Elton John and Ray Charles (with engineer Frank Filippetti).
To illustrate the surety of Phil’s direction, I’ll reconstruct (from my hastily scribbled notes) a bit of the magic I saw in the studio as Phil recorded Carole King at Right Track Studios on West Forty-Eighth Street in June 2004:
Phil greets Carole at the door, and kindly introduces me. Once her coat is off, he walks Carole into the control room so she can meet the crew. Then, it’s into the studio where a music stand and boom-mounted microphone await her.
CK: Oh, Phil! You have my lovely Neumann mike…
PR: Naturally. [He returns to the booth.]
PR: We’re ready when you are. [Carole runs through the song—“Ton Nom”]
CK: I’m trying that first line two or three different ways, but it’s all coming out the same.
PR: That’s okay—experiment all you want. [Carole sings again]
PR: It’s fine, but there’s one line where it’s a little phlegmy. One more for me would be great. [Two more takes—still a little rough]
There’s a short break. The song has some difficult changes, and Phil asks if Carole is comfortable with the tempo. She returns to the studio, and does another take—her fifth.
PR: Let’s try one more. The only way to play it is softer, but then we might lose the emotionality of it.
CK: Do you want me to try it a bit softer? [She sings a few lines to give Phil an idea of the level she’s thinking of]
PR: Yes! That’s great. You’re still in the range—you’re still breaking our hearts! [On the sixth take Carole nails the vocal]
PR: It’s a beauty! I love you for that…
At the mike, Carole thinks like a producer. She knows exactly which words from which take work best, and she mentions them as she goes along. Phil, following the lyric sheet, makes small notes in the margin.
When she comes back into the control room, Phil suggests a tea break.
Carole and I sit in the green room, talking about politics and current events. The Iraq War is foremost on everyone’s mind, and Carole isn’t shy about expressing her views. She breaks me up when she grabs a yellow Post-it note and “sketches” her impression of the current administration. The drawing—a musical lyre—is as metaphoric and pointed as one of her songs.
Those songs—“Up on the Roof,” “You’ve Got A Friend,” “I Feel the Earth Move,” “So Far Away,” and “(You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman” have been part of my life since childhood. They moved me then, and they move me now—in the somewhat inexplicable way that great songs should.
As we chat, Phil is in the studio, cutting together a rough edit of Carole’s best vocal takes. He dashes in and out of the green room, asking if there’s anything he can get for her. When he’s finished editing, he calls her in.
Before playing the rough edit of “Ton Nom,” Phil mentions that Peter Cincotti, a young artist he’s been working with, has just recorded “Up on the Roof.”
“Would you like to hear it?” he asks.
“Of course,” she answers.
Cincotti’s rendition of Carole’s “Up on the Roof” is exceptional. Its tenderness of spirit embodies all of the sentiment that Carole surely thought of when writing the song.
After the preview, Carole beams.
“I love it!” she exclaims. “Please tell Peter how beautiful it is, and how much I love his voice,” she says.
“Would you like to tell him yourself? I’ve got his cell number right here—I can call him,” Phil ventures.
The call is placed. The conversation between King and Cincotti is warm and natural. “It’s wonderful, Peter,” she says. Phil sits quietly, watching like a proud papa.
After the respite, Carole listens to the playback of “Ton Nom.” As Phil explains how he’ll smooth out the edits, Carole nods affirmatively. “I trust you so much, Phil—I know that whatever you do will be fine.”
Those words say it all.
Everyone trusts Phil Ramone, and that trust is well placed. With Phil at the board, one knows that the music is in good hands.
What can I tell you about Phil Ramone that hasn’t been said?
That he isn’t simply a musician, a recording engineer, or the preeminent record producer of his time. Phil Ramone is a true Renaissance man.
He’s in tune with the arts, well versed in politics, and has a deep understanding of social issues. He can compare the coaching strategies of the Yankees and Mets, explain the history of French advertising art, and point out the merits of using rare sea salt instead of regular on your food—all in the same conversation.
Phil is also an inveterate thinker.
As the stories in this book amply demonstrate, Phil Ramone is one of the music industry’s great problem solvers; a person who would be as comfortable working in a think tank or science lab as in the recording studio. He studies people and situations like an efficiency expert, constantly devising ways to improve the way things work.
Then too, Phil handles every aspect of his personal and professional life with meticulous care—a quality that rings true in the plethora of great music he’s had a hand in creating. He’s organized, fastidious, and loathes unpreparedness.
But more important than any of these things is the human, altruistic side of Phil Ramone. Although his work often takes him from his family, he’s never really far—spiritually or emotionally. Genuine concern for others is one of Phil’s most endearing personal qualities.
So are modesty and humility.
Phil would never tell you that he was a child prodigy, or that he played a Royal Command Performance for the Queen when he was just ten years old. But I will.
He would never admit that he had a major role in helping Billy Joel craft some of his best-known songs, but I’ll tell you that, too. “Phil Ramone was as responsible for writing many of those songs as I was,” Billy told me at the start of our first conversation. “He helped me sort out my ideas and bring structure to them.”
Phil’s style is elegant and simple, his approach to life unpretentious.
The accolades of a lifetime spent at the forefront of American pop culture—the coveted G
rammy Awards (fourteen and counting)—aren’t prominently displayed in Phil’s home. Neither are the hundreds of photos of Phil with every major figure in the history of music, film, art, and politics. They’re there, of course: the Grammys are elegantly tucked into nooks in the library, the photos carefully filed away in the office. But these are places where few people get to roam.
My life has taken twists and turns; the road that led me to music and writing has been rather unconventional. Had I known as a teenager what I know today, I would have fulfilled my passion for the recording arts by calling Phil Ramone, and volunteering to sweep the floors at A&R.
Though I could kick myself for not doing so, I can honestly say that collaborating with him on this book was the next best thing. Thank you, Phil—for sticking to it and seeing this book through. Love you, man!
Charles L. Granata
Livingston, New Jersey
April 2007
CREDITS
I owe a special nod to all of those in the A&R Recording Studios family who gave so much of themselves to the artists, musicians, and me, and who helped make A&R one of the greatest recording studios in the world: Roberta Ash, Laura Loncteaux Benn, “Reverend Bob,” Janet Boyd, Jim Boyer, Jacquie Buchanan, Diane “Foxy” Charlap, Sherry Day, Nick DeMinno, Laura Doty, Dolly Drum, Larry Franke, Don Fry, Carol Peters Gadd, Michelle Galfas, Muriel Gellis, Maria Hein, Patty Ido, Bradshaw Leigh, Jay Messina, Georgie Ofrel, Elliot Scheiner, Al Schmitt, Bob Schwartz, Michele Slater, Bernie Teitelbaum, Ken Topolsky, Art Ward, and Mary Wood.
And for those I’ll never forget: Jack Arnold, Milton Brooks, Tom Dowd, Ahmet and Neshui Ertegun, Arif Mardin, Bill Schwartau, and David Smith.
As in the making of a record, the creation of a memoir requires the assistance of many people. The authors are deeply indebted to the following friends, colleagues, and family members who generously offered us their time and talent during the preparation of this manuscript:
Jeff Abraham, Chuck Ainly, Steve Albin, C. Scott Amann, Dennis Arfa, Kerry Aylward, Karen and Russel Barling, John Barry, Barry Beckett, Tony Bennett, Danny Bennett, Alan and Marilyn Bergman, Steve Berkowitz, Adam Block, James Bordino, Jim Boyer, Betsy and Frank Bresnick, Joshua Bresnick, Alan Bronstein, Hugh Brown, Buddy Cage, Greg Calbi, Gerard Campanella, Richie Cannata, Hank Cattaneo, Amedeo Ciminnisi, Jill Cooperman and Dylan Camche, Elvis Costello, Diana D’Angelo, Jill Dell’Abate, Didier C. Deutsch, Don DeVito, Liberty DeVitto, Laura Doty, Maureen Droney, Marty Ehrlichman, Michael Feinstein, Frank Filipetti, Robert Finkelstein, Larry Franke, Don Fry, Steve Friedman, Will Friedwald, Josh Getlin, Astrud Gilberto, Neil Gilles, Joann and Wayne Goldberg, Nathan “Sonny” Golden, Burton Goldstein, Joyce Gore, Adrienne & Guido Granata, John and Mary Beth Granata, Randy Haecker, Roy Halee, Jane Hecht, George Helmy, Bob Irwin, Ted Jensen, Billy Joel, Elton John, Jeff Jones, Quincy Jones, John Kelly, Matthew Kelly, Carole King, Marc Kirkeby, Jamie Krents, Bradshaw Leigh, Karen Lemquist, Tommy LiPuma, Roosevelt Louis, Meaghan Lyons, George Massenburg, Andreas Meyer, Joel Moss, Liza Minnelli, Rob Mathes, Rob Mounsey, Dan Palmere, Charles Pignone, Darcy Proper, Felix Ramirez, Andrew, David, Lauren, and Walter Reinfeld, Clarke Rigsby, Mark Rupp, Philipe Saisse, Rob Santos, David Sarser, Elliot Scheiner, Eric Schilling, Al Schmitt, Wynn Schwartau, Walter Sear, Bernard Searle, Paul Simon, Nancy Sinatra, David Smith, Kip Smith, Jude Spatola, Rani, Mark, and Matt “Bean Dean” Steinberg, Barbra Streisand, Steve Sussman, Creed Taylor, Bob Waldmann, Sylvia Weiner, and Mark Wilder.