I Wrote That One, Too . . .

by Steve Dorff

  Eventually, Peter told me all about the project, was happy to have me onboard, and thanked me for coming in. As I was leaving, just as I was almost out the door, I heard that voice say, in typical Columbo fashion, “Oh, Steve, one more thing.”

  I turned around and he motioned me to come back. “I think it would be good for us to have a song over the main titles, sung by the female rock star who gets murdered.”

  “Great idea. Anything in particular you want the song to say?”

  “No. Just something . . . peppy.” He winked.

  I smiled all the way back home. John Bettis and I wrote a song called “Closer, Closer.” Peter loved the demo I did with Susie Benson singing and said it was just what he was hoping for. I didn’t see him for the next two weeks as they were still in production and editing, but eventually I was asked to come over and musically spot the film with him and his staff.

  The movie was great fun, and, as usual, Peter was amazing in the role of Columbo, methodically figuring out who the killer was. My music editor and I took all the spotting notes, and Peter said he’d hopefully see me at the recording session in ten days. By now I seriously couldn’t tell the difference between Peter and Columbo. They just seemed to be the same person to me.

  I felt to some degree like I was in a Columbo movie myself.

  The recording session at Universal’s scoring stage was really going well. I had a fantastic rhythm section complemented by a thirty-five-piece orchestra. Peter was not able to be at the session after all, due to a conflicting meeting, but he was hoping to come down toward the end and catch a little bit of it.

  We were pretty much cruising through the score without any hitches, recording a slow, dramatic piece, when I heard through the talkback in my headphones a familiar voice.

  “Steve, can I have a word with you?”

  It was Peter. He had made it over to the session with about an hour to go. I called for a quick ten-minute break and went to the control room to see what was up. Peter told me he had been there for a few minutes and absolutely loved what he was hearing, but he had a question about the last cue we were rehearsing.

  “I’m not sure I like that French horn line in the middle of the piece. Can we do something about that?”

  I was a bit surprised, but I told him I would happily look at it. When the band came back from their break, we began to rehearse the cue again. I couldn’t find the French horn line Peter was referring to. I asked the control room if Peter wouldn’t mind coming into the studio and identify the part he had issue with, so I could fix it.

  As Peter walked into the studio, the entire orchestra started to applaud. He waved to everybody, offered a brief hello, and said how honored he was to have such a great group of musicians playing on the project.

  We rehearsed the cue again, and I asked him to point out where it was exactly that he was having the issue. Standing next to me on the conducting podium, he tapped me and said, “Right here.”

  I stopped the band and looked at the score. There was no French horn playing. At this point you had to either be there, or be a dedicated Columbo expert. Peter cocked his head slightly to the side, squinted a bit, and took the cigar stub out of his mouth.

  “Are you sure there’s not a French horn playing right there?”

  Was this a trick question? All that was missing at this point was the tattered raincoat.

  I took a deep breath.

  “No, Peter. The horn is not playing that line. There are a couple of cellos playing there though. Let me isolate them for you.”

  I had the cellos play solo and, sure enough, that was what Columbo was hearing. He asked me to play the cue without that cello line. We did, and with a smile and a wink, he said, “Ahh, that’s much, much better.”

  In spite of the fact that he didn’t know the audible difference between a French horn and a cello, for that moment, Peter Falk was the Maestro!

  As he stepped down from the podium, he waved a salute goodbye to the band.

  I went on to score another Columbo movie later that year for Peter. He was just great to be around, and to this day, as far as I’m concerned, Peter Falk and Columbo were one and the same person.

  Around that time, Milton Brown came out for a visit and a writing trip. We’d try to organize several of those each year so we could work together in person. Milton was good friends with a British gentleman named Bob Mercer, who happened to be an A&R executive with EMI. Bob was also married to Margie Buffett, who had been divorced for some time from Jimmy Buffett. Milton and Jimmy were lifelong friends from their hometown of Mobile, Alabama, and Milton had always stayed friendly with Margie after their breakup. So, when she married Bob, Milton became friends with him as well.

  While Milton was out on this trip he got a fairly urgent call from Bob, asking if they could meet while they were both coincidentally in L.A. Milton asked Bob if I could come along as well, and Bob said, “Please—in fact, I’d love to speak with you both about a project I have that you might be interested in writing a song for.”

  We met at the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel the next day. Bob was putting the music together for a new film by the Academy Award–winning director John Schlesinger. It was called Honky Tonk Freeway. It was kind of a zany comedic road picture, a forerunner to the successful Cannonball Run movies that Burt Reynolds would star in years later. Bob wanted us to write the title song for the movie. He needed the song very quickly, and he didn’t have a big budget for us to write it.

  What else was new?

  Not having an agent at the table, I skirted around, trying to feel out what he wanted to pay us.

  “Well, what do you guys need, money-wise, to make this work?” Bob asked.

  Thinking I had him where I wanted him, I blurted out, “How about twelve thousand dollars as a creative fee?”

  “Really?” He seemed kind of taken aback, and I was sure I had just priced us out of the gig.

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he shot back, “Okay. Twelve thousand it is.” He grinned. “Honestly, I was prepared to offer you fifteen thousand, but yes, twelve thousand is better,” he added, in his most polished British accent.

  As I was silently cursing myself out, Bob continued. “Oh, and George Martin will be producing the soundtrack, with the Little River Band singing your song. Are you in?”

  “Is the pope catholic?” Milton replied.

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?” I added.

  We were thrilled. Now, as far as I am concerned, there are record producers, great record producers, elite record producers, and there is George Martin. And it was going to be impossible for me to not ask him four billion questions about the Beatles recordings that he had probably already been asked five billion times.

  Milton and I finished the song in the next few days, did a quick work-tape demo with me singing, and played it for Bob, who was still in L.A. Bob loved it and played it for Mr. Schlesinger, who also “liked it very much.” We were a go.

  George was also writing the score for the movie and was coming to Los Angeles to do the recording, in addition to producing our track for the Little River Band to sing in Australia. Upon arriving in L.A., he asked to have a meeting to discuss possible studios and musicians. He liked the song so much that he invited me to coproduce the track with him, as he was handling so many other recording chores at the same time.

  I suggested a studio I really liked in the Valley owned by Gordon Mills and Tom Jones, Britannia Studios. I had been working there quite a bit, and I was familiar with it. George seemed to like it as well. I also suggested a great rhythm section of Ed Green on drums, Joe Chemay on bass, John Hobbs on keys, and Billy Joe Walker on guitars.

  It was an incredible session.

  George was a master. He was filled with fluid creative ideas that made a fairly simple song sound somewhat complicated. He and I spent a lot
of time talking about film music, and I actually ended up doing a few rescore cues for the film after George returned to England. A couple of film sequences were re-edited after George’s scoring sessions, and since I knew the music well, I was asked to write a few new cues.

  The end result for Milton’s and my song was a little surprising, as the Little River Band ended up not finishing the record. Russell Smith, the talented lead vocalist for the Amazing Rhythm Aces, came in at the last minute to sing the title song. Neither the film nor the song did much box-office business, but in the end the experience of getting to know Sir George was all that really mattered. We kept in touch over the years, and on two different occasions while I was in London, I stopped by Air Studios to have tea with him.

  He was a lovely man, and an unparalleled giant in the world of recorded music.

  And, yes, over tea one rare quiet afternoon in his office, he showed me the quartet sketch of “Eleanor Rigby,” and I asked him just a few of those four billion questions.

  19

  Céline Dion’s Miracle

  Next to Sir George Martin, I’d have to say that, in my opinion, David Foster is the greatest record producer of our time. His versatility, musicianship, and arranging skills, as well as his remarkable piano playing, puts him in a class of his own.

  David and I got to Los Angeles at roughly the same time. We met on many recording sessions, our kids went to school together for a time, and over the years we have remained friendly and even got to work together on a very special Céline Dion project.

  We both did a BMI-sponsored concert event in the early eighties, and after the show, at a cocktail reception, David introduced me to his wife, Linda Thompson, and suggested that the two of us get together and write. I remember it taking a while before we could get our schedules to jibe with each other, but finally we set a day to meet and possibly collaborate.

  Linda had several lyrical ideas that she read to me from a notebook, but there was one in particular that I just loved. It was called “A Little Thing Called Life.” Linda’s lyric was like this beautifully laid-out poem, its form perfectly symmetrical to write a melody to. On our first writing session together, we wrote a really amazing song.

  Linda played a little work tape for David, and he suggested we use a singer named Warren Wiebe to do the demo. David discovered Warren, and I often tell people he was the most brilliant singer I have ever worked with, bar none.

  I did a piano track the day before our vocal session. We were to meet at David’s studio in Malibu at 7 p.m., and I arrived early. As I got out of my car, I saw a rather large person pacing and muttering to himself. I was immediately on guard. He was a pretty large dude with a handlebar mustache and a ponytail, and he didn’t seem like he had it all together. I thought maybe he was an assistant, an engineer, or maybe the janitor.

  He finally stopped muttering, acknowledged me, and asked if I was Steve Dorff. I said yes, and he introduced himself as Warren Wiebe. Admittedly, I was a bit taken aback, as I wasn’t quite expecting him to look or act like he did.

  As we waited, I was sure that there had been some kind of mistake, or that David was pulling a prank on me. This guy definitely did not look or act like a professional singer. Warren was kind of hyper; he repeated himself often and spoke in a childlike, high-pitched tone. It was terribly disconcerting, and I was just a tad worried.

  Linda got there shortly after, and we went out to the studio piano, where I played the song for Warren and was prepared to go over it until he was ready to try and sing it. After listening to it twice, he told us that he was ready. Now I was really concerned. Who learns a brand new song after only hearing it twice?

  Warren Wiebe, that’s who.

  What happened next is something I will remember for the rest of my life. In one take, Warren sang the song as if he had sung it his entire life. His singing voice magically transformed into the richest, most beautiful angelic tone I had ever heard. With tears streaming down my face as a result of his performance, I just shrugged and said, “We’re done.”

  For the next six years, until his tragic and untimely death, I wouldn’t do a demo of a new song without Warren Wiebe. We had lots of laughs in the studio. It took a while, but once you got to really know him, he was a funny, charming musical genius. He could sing the phone book and make it sound romantic. At Warren’s beautiful funeral service, David honored Linda and me as they played Warren’s version of “A Little Thing Called Life” to close the service and put him to rest.

  Aaron Neville recorded a beautiful version of the song, as did several other artists, but it is Warren’s recording that made the song what it is.

  Linda and I went on to have quite a bit of success together with the theme to Kevin Costner’s movie Tin Cup, “This Could Take All Night,” and “Miracle (Who Could Ever Love You More),” the title song of Céline Dion’s Miracle project.

  I really enjoy working with Linda because she’s always got a great idea coming in the door as a jumping-off place. We don’t have to spend a whole lot of time wondering what we’re going to write about, because there’s usually a really good verse or chorus lyric already started.

  One afternoon, Linda came over to the house to work on a song. As was usual, we spent the first thirty minutes catching up, talking about the kids, our relationships, gossip, and dirt until we finally got around to business. Linda told me that Céline Dion was looking to do a lullaby album to celebrate the birth of her first child, René-Charles. David Foster was the masterful producer of most of Céline’s giant hits, and he and Linda were close, lifelong friends of Céline and her husband, René. Céline had gone through a much-publicized struggle to get pregnant, and having this beautiful child was the most important moment of their lives.

  “Let’s write a lullaby for Céline’s baby,” she said. “I have a nice title idea, ‘Who Could Ever Love You More.’”

  I can always tell when I love a great title, because instantly I start to hear a melody, or the feeling of what the shape of the music should be. In this case, that is exactly what happened. Linda threw out a few opening lines:

  You know, you’re the reason I was born,

  There is nothing you could ever do to make me stop loving you.

  Linda then said to me, “All we have to do is think about what our children mean to us.” Those words immediately struck home. It was universal. With four kids of my own, including baby Kaitlyn, who was less than a year old, I totally related.

  Linda excused herself to go to the bathroom and left me sitting at the piano by myself. By the time she got back a few minutes later, I had something to play her. The melody for this one simply fell out of the sky. Thankfully it was my hands that were hitting the keys.

  Linda just loved the melody, and the lyric came just as fast. We had the song written in less than an hour.

  We both had chills.

  We wanted get this demoed ASAP for Céline to hear. Linda had a great idea: we would put a CD of the demo in a baby basket filled with baby clothes, bibs, teething rings, and a few crib toys, and send it to her in Florida, where she was living. I did a nice, simple piano/vocal demo, with Kellie Coffey singing. Linda put together a beautiful basket with a touching note and sent it to Céline and René.

  Within a few days of receiving it, Céline got in touch with Linda and told her she was completely in love with the song. She had only one request: she wanted to call our song “Miracle (Who Could Ever Love You More),” because she considered little René-Charles their miracle, and she wanted to name the album after our song.

  We were absolutely thrilled. What made it even better was that David then called me to tell me how much he loved the song.

  He then asked me who was playing the piano on the demo.

  “Me,” I said. “Why?”

  “Do you have the MIDI files?”

  “I think so, but surely you’re going to recut the piano yourse
lf?”

  He really liked the magic of the demo, and the key was perfect for Céline, so he offered to have me coproduce the track with him. I was beyond honored. I went out to his studio a few days later, and David laid down a bass part, a Rhodes overdub, and a pad. Dean Parks came in and, as always, put a beautiful gut-string guitar part on the track.

  Céline was now in Montreal, and we did the vocal by synching up Pro Tools over the phone lines. We monitored Céline on a TV screen. Every vocal take was impeccable. Céline’s voice is simply a magnificent instrument.

  After about eight or nine takes, David said, “That’s a keeper.”

  In reality, each one was a keeper: he had plenty of amazing lines to comp from.

  It would be a few weeks until we put an orchestra on the track, as David wanted to have a few more songs finished before the orchestra session. The fabulous Bill Ross would be doing the orchestral arrangement, and I was so happy about that. I thought the possibilities for this project were limitless.

  The session was set for September 12, 2001.

  And then we all woke up to the horrific event of September 11.

  I, like most Americans, was numb and glued to the television most of that day. It was late in the afternoon when I got a call saying that the session on the 12th would go ahead as scheduled. The financial penalty for canceling would have been prohibitive, and we figured if the world was going to end, we might as well go out with beautiful music and finish the project.

  The session the next day was eerie. The players were all assembled, and it was hard for anyone to concentrate or talk about anything other than what the past twenty-four hours had been like for our country. And we were all justifiably scared of what might happen next.