This may be insulting, but I have a feeling I’m being put on . . .
A little bit. But I don’t know. People would have to be real for a week. And it might help the rest of the year. There would have to be some form of ritual to it. I think something like that is really needed.
You’ve twice said that you think you successfully manipulated the press. How much of this interview was manipulated?
You can’t ever get around the fact that what you say could possibly turn up in print sometime, so you have that in the back of your mind. I’ve tried to forget it.
Is there some other area you’d like to get into?
How about . . . feel like discussing alcohol? Just a short dialogue. No long rap. Alcohol as opposed to drugs?
Okay. Part of the mythology has you playing the role of a heavy juicer.
On a very basic level, I love drinking. But I can’t see drinking just milk or water or Coca-Cola. It just ruins it for me. You have to have wine or beer to complete a meal. [Long pause]
That’s all you want to say? [Laughter]
Getting drunk . . . you’re in complete control up to a point. It’s your choice, every time you take a sip. You have a lot of small choices. It’s like . . . I guess it’s the difference between suicide and slow capitulation.
What’s that mean?
I don’t know, man. Let’s go next door and get a drink.
PHIL SPECTOR
by Jann S. Wenner
November 1, 1969
You worked at Atlantic, a white-owned company, dealing primarily with black music. Was there any resentment from the artists?
Oh yeah, man, “We bought your home, goddamn, and don’t you forget it, boy. You livin’ in the house we paid for, you drivin’ a Cadillac we got, man. It’s ours. You stole it from us.”
You heard that from the beginning of time. All the Drifters were gettin’ was $150 a week and they never got any royalties. It wasn’t that Atlantic didn’t pay them; it was that everybody screwed everybody in those days. I mean I was in the Teddy Bears and what did we get—one penny a record royalties!
What has disappeared completely is the black groups, other than what you have comin’ out of Motown and your other few—and I don’t mean Stax-Volt because I don’t consider that what I’m talking about. The group on the corner has disappeared. It’s turned into a white psychedelic or a guitar group, there are thousands of them. There used to be hundreds and hundreds of black groups singin’ harmony with a great lead singer and you’d go in and record them.
You used to go down to Jefferson High or 49th and Broadway and could get sixteen groups. Today you can’t find them; they’re either involved in the militant thing or they just passed, like it’s not their bag anymore, or like it’s just disappeared. It’s not the big thing to get together after school and harmonize. And it used to be a real big thing. It was very important. I guess they just got tired of knocking on record doors, and they saw that a whole new regime had taken over.
This is why you have the music business dominated in the black area by just two companies. Because there is just really no place for them to go. They’ve just sort of disbanded. Other than Motown you don’t see any groups, colored groups. The Dells happened for a while on that Cadet label from Chicago or whatever. That’s where black something has affected it. I don’t know if it’s black militancy or whatever, but something has definitely effected the complete destruction of the black groups that used to be dominating the record industry.
How has that changed the music?
It’s changed the music drastically. It’s given birth to English groups to come along and do it like Eric Burdon. It’s also given birth for the Stones and the Beatles to come along and do it—not that they wouldn’t have done it otherwise—but the first place the Beatles wanted to see when they came to America, ’cause I came over on the plane with them, was the Apollo Theater.
As bad as a record as “Book of Love” by the Monotones is, you can hear a lot of “Book of Love” in the Beatles’ “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?” I think you hear a lot of that dumb, great-yet-nonsensical stuff that makes it—even though it’s silly. It’s got the same nonsense.
I believe that the English kids have soul. Really soul. When I watch Walter Cronkite or Victory at Sea, or You Are There—any of those programs, I see bombs flying all over England and little kids running. Now that’s probably Paul McCartney running. You know, ’cause that’s where the bombs fell. They say soul comes through suffering. Slavery for the blacks. And gettin’ your ass bombed off is another way of gettin’ some soul, so I would say that these English cats have a lot of soul legitimately. You’re gonna have Dave Clark in there who don’t know too much about it, and just like you’re gonna have a Rosy and the Originals in America who don’t know too much about it.
What artist do you really feel has not been recorded right that you’d like to record?
Bob Dylan.
How would you record him?
I’d do a Dylan opera with him. I’d produce him. You see, he’s never been produced. He’s always gone into the studio on the strength of his lyrics, and they have sold enough records to cover up everything—all the honesty of his records. But he’s never really made a production. He doesn’t really have to.
His favorite song is “Like a Rolling Stone,” and it stands to reason because that’s his grooviest song, as far as songs go. It may not be his grooviest message. It may not be the greatest thing he ever wrote, but I can see why he gets the most satisfaction out of it, because rewriting “La Bamba” chord changes is always a lot of fun and any time you can make a Number One record and rewrite those kind of changes, it is very satisfying.
I would like him to just say something that could live recording-wise forever. I would have enjoyed recording John Wesley Harding in its own way. He doesn’t really have the time nor do any of his producers necessarily have the ambition or talent to really overrule him and debate with him. I would imagine with Albert Grossman there is a situation of business control just like it would be with Elvis Presley and Colonel Parker. Assume that there is no control, then somebody should be much more forceful. Maybe nobody has the guts, balls or the ambition to get in there, but there is no reason unless Dylan didn’t want it. But there is a way he could have been made to want it.
There is no reason why Dylan can’t be recorded in a very certain way and a very beautiful way where you can just sit back and say “wow” about everything—not just him and the song—just everything.
How would you have done ‘John Wesley Harding’?
There is a way to do it. He’s so great on it and he is so honest that it’s just like going into the studio with twelve of Stephen Foster’s songs. There’s so much you can do. There is so much you can do with Dylan; he gives you so much to work with. That’s probably why he sells so many records without trying so very hard in the studio.
It’s also probably why the Beatles . . . well it’s obvious that Paul McCartney and John Lennon may be the greatest rock & roll singers that we’ve ever had. They may be the greatest singers of the last ten years—they really may be! I mean there is a reason for the Beatles other than the fact that they’re like Rogers and Hart and Hammerstein, Gershwin and all of ’em. They are great, great singers. They can do anything with their voices.
Many of the artists today just sing, they don’t really interpret anything. I mean the Doors don’t interpret. They’re not interpreters of music. They always sing ideas. The Beach Boys have always sung ideas—they’ve never been interpreters. The Beatles interpret; “Yesterday” meant something. Whereas “Good Vibrations” was a nice idea on which everybody sort of grooved.
What did you think of ‘Beggar’s Banquet’?
Well, they’re just makin’ hit records now. There was a time when the Stones were really writing contributions. See that’s a big word to me—“contributions.”
What were the songs at the time?
“Satisfaction” was a contri
bution. They’ve had a few contributions. See, there’s a difference: other than one or two numbers, Johnny Rivers is not a contribution to music, he never will be, he never can be. I don’t care if all the Johnny Rivers fans say “boo.” Just like Murray Roman will never be a comedian. There’s just certain people that just don’t have it. Moby Grape will never be a contribution. There are a lot of groups that will never be a contribution. ’Cause if you listen to just one Muddy Waters record you’ve heard everything Moby Grape’s ever gonna do. Or if you listen to one Jimmy Reed record you’ve heard everything they may want to do.
The big word is “contribution,” and the Stones lately have not been—although they have been writing groovy hit things—contributing anymore. You have a time when they were contributing all of it. Everything was contribution. They’ll go down as a contribution. They’ll be listed as a contributing force in music. An important influence. It’s not a put-down on them, because nobody can keep up that pace.
What about John Lennon?
I haven’t spoken to Lennon in some time so I don’t know where he’s at now. But I have a feeling that Yoko may not be the greatest influence on him. I mean, I don’t know, but I have a feeling that he’s a far greater talent than she is.
You know, a multimillionaire in his position just doesn’t get caught in an English apartment house by the cops on a dope charge unless you’re just blowing your mind or somebody is just really giving you a fucking. I mean you have dogs, you have bodyguards, you got something to protect you. Everybody knows the Beatles were immune. Everybody knows that George Harrison was at the Stones’ party the night they got busted, and they let Harrison leave and then they went in and made the bust. I mean it was like the Queen said, “Leave them alone.”
So Lennon must really have been causing a disturbance or somebody must have been setting him up to get busted, ’cause it ain’t no medal of honor. Like it’s no medal of honor to get the clap. Being busted for marijuana don’t mean nothin’—it’s just a waste of time, if anything. It wasted his time. It may have even caused . . . miscarriages.
It’s almost like a weird thing to see just how bizarre he can get before he really blows it or he just teaches everybody something.
You came over with the Beatles when they first came over to the States. What was that like?
It was a lot of fun. It was probably the only time I flew that I wasn’t afraid, because I knew they weren’t goin’ to get killed in a plane. That plane was really an awful trip. I mean there were twenty-eight or thirty minutes where that plane dropped thousands of feet over the ocean. It scared the shit out of me, but there were 149 people on board who were all press and Beatles’ right-hand men, and left-hand men, and we just sat up there and talked about the Apollo and all that jive. Lennon was with his first wife, and he was very quiet. Paul asked a lot of questions, George was wonderful. It was a nice trip.
I’d just been in England for a couple of weeks and I went by their apartment, and they were leaving and said why don’t you come back with us. It’s really funny, but they were terribly frightened to get off the plane.
They were terribly frightened of America. They even said, “You go first.” ’Cause the whole thing about Kennedy scared them very, very much. They really thought it would be possible for somebody to be there and want to kill them, because they were just very shocked. The assassination really dented them tremendously—their image of America. Just like it dented everybody’s image of the Secret Service.
What are you gonna do with the stuff you’re workin’ on now? How does that differ from the last work you did with Ike and Tina Turner?
Don’t know. I will go in many directions—some experimental—some not. Today “River Deep—Mountain High” could be a Number One record. I think when it came out, it was just like my farewell. I was just sayin’ goodbye, and I just wanted to go crazy, you know, for a few minutes—four minutes on wax, that’s all it was. I loved it, and I enjoyed making it, but I didn’t really think there was anything for the public . . . nobody had really gotten into it enough yet; it really hadn’t exploded the way it’s exploding today with all the sounds and they’re really freaking out with the electronical stuff. Today “River Deep—Mountain High” would probably be a very important sales record. When I made it, it couldn’t be—so, I don’t know. I got what I wanted out of it.
You see, I don’t have a sound, a Phil Spector sound—I have a style, and my style is just a particular way of making records—as opposed to Lou Adler or any of the other record producers who follow the artist’s style. I create a style and call it a sound or a style; I call it a style because it’s a way of doing it.
My style is that I know things about recording that other people just don’t know. It’s simple and clear, and it’s easy for me to make hits. I think the River Deep LP would be a nice way to start off because it’s a record that Tina deserves to be heard on—she was sensational on that record. A record that was Number One in England deserves to be Number One in America. If so many people are doing the song today, it means it’s ready.
How did your association with Ike and Tina first come about?
They were introduced to me. Somebody told me to see them, and their in-person act just killed me. I mean, they were just sensational.
Have you seen it lately?
Yeah, I saw them at the Factory, of all places. They were . . . well, I always loved Tina. I never knew how great she was. She real-ly is as great as Aretha is. I mean, in her own bag she is sensational, and Joplin and all that, but I couldn’t figure out how to get her on record.
What do you think the difference is going to be between the audience today and the audience’s reaction to music today, as compared to five years ago?
I don’t know. Everybody’s a helluva lot hipper today. I’ll tell you that. There’s thirteen-year-old whores walkin’ the streets now. It wouldn’t have happened as much five years ago. Not thirteen-year-old drug addicts. It’s a lot different today. I tell you, the whole world is a dropout. I mean, everybody’s a fuck-off. Everybody’s mini-skirted, everybody’s hip, everybody reads all the books. How in the hell you gonna overcome all that? Sophistication, hipness, everything. They’re really very hip today.
The music business is so different than any other business. You know, Frank Sinatra has a hit. Sister Dominique or whatever her name is, has a hit. I can show you six groups out there today who are opposite. I mean the Archies have a hit at the same time the Beatles do, hit really doesn’t mean anything.
Now who’s buyin’ the Archies’ records? That’s what I can’t understand, and who bought all the Monkees’ records—same cats who bought all the Stones records? If they’re not, then that makes the buyin’ public so big . . . ’Cause the four million that bought the Monkees and the six million that bought the Beatles are different, then there’s 10 million kids buying records. That’s a helluva lot of a better throw at the dice. I’d rather have a chance out of 10 million times instead of 6 million times, so it probably will be easier.
How are you cutting with the Check Mates?
I don’t know yet. All different ways. Very commercial records. Good records. Easy records. Soulful records. Some have depth, some don’t have . . .
Does it worry you at all, that there’s been a change?
Well, anything that deteriorates music bothers me a little bit. I mean, if when Beethoven lost his hearing, if I was alive, it would have bothered me. I have to be affected by it. It bothers me that some music is very boring. I hear a lot of disc jockeys saying, “Let’s throw this shit out.” I hear them saying there are so many fucking groups—so boring. I hear this so much, that I believe it. If it’s true then yeah, it bothers me. It bothers me enough to get back in.
JOHN LENNON
by Jann S. Wenner
January 21, 1971
What do you think of your album ‘Plastic Ono Band’?
I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I think it’s realistic, and it’s true t
o the me that has been developing over the years from my life. “I’m a Loser,” “Help,” “Strawberry Fields,” they are all personal records. I always wrote about me when I could. I didn’t really enjoy writing third-person songs about people who lived in concrete flats and things like that. I like first-person music. But because of my hang-ups and many other things, I would only now and then specifically write about me. Now I wrote all about me, and that’s why I like it. It’s me! And nobody else. That’s why I like it. It’s real, that’s all.
I don’t know about anything else, really, and the few true songs I ever wrote were like “Help” and “Strawberry Fields.” I can’t think of them all offhand. They were the ones I always considered my best songs. They were the ones I really wrote from experience and not projecting myself into a situation and writing a nice story about it. I always found that phony, but I’d find occasion to do it because I’d have to produce so much work, or because I’d be so hung up, I couldn’t even think about myself.
The Rolling Stone interviews Page 4