I Wrote That One, Too . . .

by Steve Dorff

  He quickly deflated me.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We have to give up 25 percent of the publishing to Warners and 25 percent to Eastwood to make it work . . . and I’m not gonna do it.”

  In one second, my heart broke.

  This was my big break. This was Milton’s big break. We were going to be denied a hit song because of corporate greed?

  Snuff sensed my worry and rode in on his primed white horse.

  “Here’s what we can do. You and Milton can give me a percentage of the writing that I’m going to be giving up on the publishing end.” It was kind of a masterful shell game.

  “Of course,” I said, without a second of hesitation, “Whatever you need.”

  “Great. So, you give me 25 percent of the writer’s share and we can make this work.”

  I had a six-month-old baby; this was my first rodeo. Milton agreed, too, and we gave Snuff 25 percent of the writer’s share. We didn’t have any of the publishing.

  Snuff saw the opportunity. He’d been around the block and probably had it done to him. In hindsight, we were lucky we didn’t give up half or a third.

  “Every Which Way but Loose” became the highest-debuting record in the history of the Billboard country singles chart, coming in at #18 with a bullet the first week. It also set a dangerous precedent to where Snuff could come up with a line or change a word and ask for 25 or 30 percent of a song that Milton and I wrote. He would do that a lot in the years to come.

  True, he was the catalyst for getting the projects made, and he relied on Milton and me to deliver hits for him, but he wasn’t doing the actual writing. Still, it opened doors for me, including to Clint, who then asked me if I’d ever scored a movie. I told him it’s all I’d ever wanted to do. It was the reason I came to Hollywood.

  “Okay,” he said. And that was it. He hired me not only to write the song but also to score the film.

  Clint was serious but likable. He was about as big as they came and everyone around him had the greatest respect for him. He was a regular guy. He played a lot of ping-pong and lifted weights at the dubbing stage, but he kept his private life private. The one subject he loved to talk about was music. He knew every aspect of the making of his films. He and I spoke on a musical level that had to irk Snuff, because Snuff was a businessman, not a musical guy. Clint and I had a shorthand that Snuff didn’t understand, which became a problem, because Snuff liked to be the center of the action, the “music guy.”

  In 1980, Clint Eastwood released Any Which Way You Can, the sequel to the huge hit Every Which Way but Loose. Milton and I were once again asked to write the title song. It wasn’t an easy song to write. We were conscious of trying not to write anything that remotely sounded like “Loose,” yet the five-word titles of both films were similar, and it was a challenge for us to stay away from similar chord changes, tempo, and lyric content. After all, these were the same characters as in the first movie, and basically the same storyline.

  After a few bad starts of song ideas, we were finally happy with the one we came up with. Snuff, of course, had to approve it, and threw in his two cents and took a third of the song. The great Glen Campbell agreed to sing it, though, and the session was fabulous. I remember Snuff wanting a classical-sounding piano to be featured, so I asked David Foster to play on it, which he did. It was perfect.

  Ironically, Clint decided that he wanted the song to be played over the closing credits, instead of at the beginning of the picture. I hinted at and threaded the melody of the song within the underscore, so when the Glen Campbell version played over the end credits, it sounded somewhat familiar to the ear.

  Snuff thought the opening song should be another fun duet like the one we had written for Clint and Merle Haggard in Bronco Billy, “Barroom Buddies.” He had a perfectly corny title idea, “Beers to You,” and asked me to write with two of his other writers, John Durrill and Sandy Pinkard. I hated the idea, but we did manage to come up with a song. And Snuff was able to get Ray Charles to sing the duet with Clint.

  Now, I absolutely worshipped the genius of Ray Charles, but this particular session was anything but fun. In the first place, I felt like the song was mediocre at best. The track was kind of a train wreck. Ray and his manager, Joe Adams, were, in a word, kind of difficult. Okay, three words.

  Ray was fidgety, most likely coming down from something, and he was having a rough time getting his parts down. I think he probably hated the song almost as much as I did, but he was being paid a nice fee to sing it. He did the best he could under the circumstances.

  Joe Adams was arguing about something with Snuff, so the atmosphere in the control room was anything but copacetic. Eventually, the song did play over the opening sequence, but it was not a successful record by any means. It’s a shame that when I got to work with the great Ray Charles, it had to be on a song I never truly believed in.

  The movie turned out to be another huge success at the box office, and while Glen’s single of the title song went Top 10, the big surprise hit from the soundtrack turned out to be the breakout single for David Frizzell and Shelly West, “You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma,” which Snuff and I coproduced. David and Shelley went on to have an amazing recording career with many hits, all produced by Snuff and me.

  I went on to do several more films with Clint. We’d spot the movies together, watching them and deciding where to score the music. Snuff was always around but didn’t contribute creatively. I could always tell that Snuff felt a bit uncomfortable with me communicating directly with Clint, or, later, with Burt Reynolds, because, after all, he was the boss. Clint knew that I was the one to talk to creatively, but he also understood the protocol. We both did. And with Snuff Garrett, I always followed protocol and made sure not to overstep my boundaries.

  Bronco Billy was probably my favorite of the films I worked on with Clint. I liked the story. It was a fun film, and we had a big #1 hit with Ronnie Milsap’s “Cowboys and Clowns.” It also enabled me to work with Merle Haggard.

  Now, other than “Okie from Muskogee,” which Milton Brown had once blasted over an intercom in order to wake me up at 6 a.m., I was not familiar with the beautiful tone of Merle Haggard’s unmistakable voice.

  Merle had agreed to do a song in Bronco Billy: a great song written by John Durrill (with Snuff Garrett) called “Misery and Gin.” I was asked to do the arrangement, and I must say, as we were recording the track live with some sixty pieces, it was one of those times when it was quite apparent to me that it was not only going to be a big hit but a country standard. Everything about the track and Merle’s vocal performance was in total sync. Just a great record that kind of produced itself.

  When Merle first came into the studio, saw the live orchestra sitting there, and realized we were going to record this in one big take, he said, “Geez, them’s a lotta fiddles out there for sure.”

  He sang live with the orchestra at RCA Studio A—the old Wally Heider’s on Sunset—and said afterward how much he loved doing it that way.

  That same day, we went on to also record a song that Milton and I wrote called “Barroom Buddies,” which ended up being a Merle Haggard/Clint Eastwood duet.

  It went to #1.

  “Misery and Gin,” astonishingly, stopped at #2.

  Go figure.

  In filmmaking, music can sometimes be the long-lost stepchild. It is often the last creative element that happens in postproduction. I’ve been involved in some projects where the caterer gets more forethought than the music, and, frankly, indie films sometimes spend more time and money on craft services than they do on the music.

  Clint was different; he understood the power of music and its intrinsic value both in the score and in the songs.

  Eddie Rabbitt and I hadn’t seen each other for many years, other than maybe the occasional quick hello
at the BMI Awards dinner in Nashville every year. I was on a flight from Dallas to Nashville one day, and Eddie and his longtime road manager Bill were sitting behind me.

  Eddie didn’t look very well. He was thin and seemed tired, but he was genuinely happy to see me. He got up and gave me a hug before we took off. He had enjoyed an incredible career of hit songs that he had written with the talented Even Stevens, and he certainly didn’t have to say this to me . . . but he told me how much “Every Which Way but Loose” had come to mean to him, and that he was so glad that he was the one who got to sing it and make it a hit.

  I told him that it was his voice that made it magical, and how much I appreciated him saying that. Eddie passed away from cancer about ten months later.

  After doing two movies with Clint, I finally felt comfortable enough to ask him if he remembered playing tennis with Merv and me in Pebble Beach. He took a long pause, looked at me, and said, “That was YOU?”

  10

  Burt and Burt

  Snuff had two camps: the Clint Eastwood camp and the Burt Reynolds camp. Both were huge stars, and he liked there to be a clear delineation between the two galaxies. I was part of the Clint army, so I never got to interact with Burt. The problem was that all of the hits were coming out of the Eastwood camp. Clint was having hit song after hit song from his films, and Burt, despite the fact that he seemed to already be up to filming Cannonball Run 47, was getting bupkus in the hit song department.

  So, when Burt Reynolds wanted to have Anne Murray sing the end-title song for his new film, Stick, Snuff had to break his own rule and bring me over to Burt’s side. He knew he couldn’t get Anne Murray without me. I’d written six songs for her, including “I Just Fall in Love Again,” which won a Juno Award (the Canadian equivalent of a Grammy) for Song of the Year.

  So, I got the call to go to Burt Reynolds’s home in Malibu.

  Loni Anderson answered the door in a green, skintight terrycloth jumpsuit. She was smiley and sweet, and told me, “Oh, Burt’s upstairs, go on up.”

  I would have preferred to stay downstairs with Loni. She looked spectacular. Instead, I went upstairs to Burt’s bedroom, where he was lying in bed, watching TV without his toupee on.

  “I love your song with Anne Murray,” he said. “Can you get her to do a song for our film?” He was engrossed in a college football game and didn’t really look at me, which was fine because I was having a bit of a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that Burt even wore a wig in the first place.

  “Sure, but we’ve gotta write a great song. Anne and her producer, Jim Ed, are both incredibly tough when it comes to choosing material for her to sing.”

  I waited for his response, but he continued to watch the game.

  “Any ideas?”

  He still wasn’t looking at me.

  I had read the script. It was based on an Elmore Leonard novel—good, not great—but I did have a pretty good idea.

  “In the film, there is a line which Candice Bergen says at the beginning and you say at the end of the movie.”

  “What’s that?”

  He still wasn’t looking at me.

  “‘I don’t think I’m ready for you.’ I think it would make a great song idea.”

  Burt finally looked over.

  “Yeah, great idea. Great. Send it to me when you have it.”

  I sent the script to Milton, and Milton wrote a brilliant lyric. After finishing the song I then went to Nashville and played a demo for Anne’s producer, Jim Ed Norman. He loved it, and so did Anne. Milton flew up to Nashville, and the next day we were all on a plane to Toronto to record the song.

  The plane ride to Canada was not one of my favorites. We had to connect to another flight in Detroit, and as we approached the landing, the horizontal blizzard conditions were frightening. Detroit shut down the airport right after we landed, and we spent about eight hours playing poker until the next morning, when we were finally able to get a short flight over the border. Exhausted, we managed to get to our hotel long enough to rest a bit before the session.

  Recording Anne Murray is about as effortless as it gets. The chemistry between her and Jim Ed in the studio was so much fun to watch and be a part of. I remember thinking what a blast it was to be doing a song for one of Burt’s movies without Snuff actually being in the driver’s seat for a change. The record Jim Ed made was beautiful. It worked perfectly at the end of the film over the closing credits.

  Burt loved the song, and it was a Top 5 hit, but it wasn’t only written by me and Milton . . . as we would later find out. Both Snuff Garrett and Burt Reynolds were listed as cowriters on the song as well. No doubt this was Snuff skimming a little extra for finally letting Milt and me get into the Burt Reynolds camp. It’s what I call bending over and grabbing your ankles . . . or paying your dues.

  I had worked for Burt once before, although I was kept at an arm’s distance. Snuff came into my office one afternoon and said, “I need you and Milton to write a song for Cannonball Run.”

  I was excited to write a love song for Burt, but Snuff informed me he needed an up-tempo, Jackson 5 kinda song, for a young Puerto Rican boy band called Menudo.

  “Yep, right up our wheelhouse,” I thought sarcastically.

  It turned out that Menudo was one of the biggest acts in the world, and unquestionably the most successful Latin boy band in history.

  I would have to say that Milton Brown and I have worked on some crazy assignments throughout our careers, and that’s putting it lightly, but getting asked to write a song for Menudo is right up there with the best of them. With all of the really classic and great opportunities Snuff would offer to Milton and me over the years, he would also occasionally come to us with some cheesy idea and ask us to write it. I still shake my head and have to laugh to keep from crying over such beauties as “Who Dat,” “Cajun Invitation,” “Beers to You,” “Bad Wind,” and “Como Cannonball.”

  “Bad Wind” . . . really?

  Milton wrote a nice lyric called “Like a Cannonball” with the message, “Your love hits me like a cannonball” (we had to get love in there somehow). Three days later, we were in the studio tracking the song with John Hobbs, Joe Chemay, Paul Leim, and Billy Joe Walker.

  After years of making me use musicians from a past era, Snuff was finally listening to me and letting me choose the appropriate players for sessions we were doing together. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that the those players were not fantastic for their time, but the sound of radio was changing, and we had to sound relevant to what was happening now. Snuff was having a tough time making that transition.

  The track was fun, and the vocal session the next day was a circus. The boys from Menudo had to be twelve to fourteen years old. Ricky Martin (yes, that Ricky Martin) was one of the kids in the band. They were great kids, but along with them came an entourage of some twenty people, including Jose Menendez, (yes, that Jose Menendez, who was heading up RCA International Division at the time and was personally taking charge of this project), and his two young sons. Years later, Eric and Lyle Menendez would murder their parents in cold blood in their Beverly Hills home. I vividly remember shaking all of their hands. Freaky.

  The boys in the band did a nice job vocally on the song, and they would later also record it in Portuguese for their huge Brazilian fan base. Milton and I were told we were going to have a huge, worldwide hit with this one. It’s a miracle that Snuff didn’t move in and claim part of the writing on the song, but in all fairness, it was Milton’s title.

  The movie came out, and it was a typical Burt Reynolds hit, but the record was not. They tell me it was a hit in South America, but if I remember correctly, I think Milton and I made about sixteen dollars apiece on that one. Like I said, it’s not always about the big paydays. It’s always a crapshoot.

  I ran into Ricky Martin some fifteen years later at an awards show, after he had his mo
nster hit with “Livin’ La Vida Loca,” and reintroduced myself to him. He vaguely remembered me, but we had a nice brief laugh when I mentioned the song.

  Years later, after leaving Garrett Music, I was glad to get the opportunity to work solo with Burt again on several projects he was directing at Universal. Fortunately, he remembered me. He was always very appreciative and a great guy to be around.

  Burt Reynolds was one of the biggest celebrities in the world, but it was the other Burt who was one of my true heroes.

  One day, I was on one of my many trips back and forth between Nashville and Los Angeles. I had just been bumped up to first class and the seat next to me was empty. Perfect, I thought. I wouldn’t have to make inane small talk with anyone. This was pre-9/11, so airport security was minimal, and you could get to your plane only five minutes before takeoff.

  Shortly before the plane door closed, there was some brief commotion and a gentleman who was a bit out of breath got onboard and slipped into the unoccupied seat next to me. I looked up from the magazine I was flipping through and my eyes widened. I took a deep breath of panic with the realization that I was sitting next to the man I had idolized for years before I even had a career of my own . . . Burt Bacharach.

  I owned every Burt Bacharach record ever released, and even the unreleased demo recordings from his musical, Promises, Promises. I could play any of his songs on the piano, and I learned more about arranging from studying his records than I ever could have by reading books about orchestration.

  I may have known his discography as well as he did.

  I was busy giving myself a pep talk of what to say to my idol when he interrupted my internal dialogue.

  “Have we met?”

  Now, we had in fact met. Briefly, several years earlier, when I first came to Los Angeles. I had about a year’s worth of sessions under my belt at the time, and I had been working with Jimmy Getzoff on a string date I was arranging for Snuff. Jimmy was a wonderful man and my longtime concertmaster for just about every string date I had ever done in L.A. before he retired at the age of eighty-something.