No Beethoven: An Autobiography & Chronicle of Weather Report

by Peter Erskine

  Jaco had already made his departure from Weather Report, so I guess the writing was on the wall for me, but I hadn’t made any plans one way or the other at that point. Still, the freedom experienced by leaving Weather Report felt really excellent. The other guys in Steps reacted more appreciably.

  One of the things I most liked about being around Mainieri, Brecker, Grolnick, and Gomez was that they didn't scoff at the notion of my writing something for the band — contrasted with Zawinul who, upon officially welcoming me into the band at the end of our Japan/Australia/Hawaii tour on a Honolulu hotel room balcony, looked towards the ocean horizon with me as we planned for the future. Anything was possible! Anything, that is, with the exception of my trying to write something for the band. After I had suggested that as a possibility, Joe’s voice got sour and he cautioned me with a side-to-side shaking of the head (i.e., “no”): “You’re going to have to be one hell of a writer to write for THIS band,” and so that idea was put to rest for a while. But the Steps guys were cool with the idea and were already playing a tune of mine in concert. Okay, so it was a 12-bar blues in the key of C. But it was a start!

  I’ve gotten ahead of myself. We’re in New York and I’m writing music when I’m not traveling someplace. My in-town recording/playing career has not yet begun to take off aside from those Seventh Avenue South gigs — and I’ve got the chance to make my first solo album for Contemporary Records.

  33. Peter Erskine: On the Record

  The music I’m hearing and writing and playing has “Steps” all over it, and these are the guys I want to play on my album. Problem is, the band is getting ready to make its first record in the USA, and manager Christine Martin is shopping the band to the labels. I can’t remember if a deal was already made by the time I’m getting ready to go into the studio for my own album or not, but a recording that’s essentially “Steps” but not “Steps” is problematic, business-wise. I can’t see any of this, as we’ve all been working together leading up to this moment, and I can only think of this in music terms. Debbie is working in Christine’s office at this point, and she sides with Christine on the issue; I think this is where some sort of divide occurs in our relationship. Honest criticism of one another can be crucial in any relationship, but when it’s time to stand by your woman or your man, well, that’s the stuff of a real partnership — the kind of partnership I’ve enjoyed for all of the wonderful years of marriage to Mutsy, a state of wedded bliss that does not come overnight but does stand the repeated tests of circumstance and time.

  Anyway, I’m going into the studio for two days of recording my first album, my girlfriend is treating me like I’m a jerk, and so is the manager for Steps. We try to come up with some band personnel workarounds, and so there are song limits imposed on who can do what. This is really complicating my first album experience, but guess what: this is what first albums are all about. The band includes Don Grolnick on synthesizer, Kenny Kirkland on piano, Mike Mainieri on vibes, Eddie Gomez on bass, Michael Brecker on tenor along with Bob Mintzer on saxophone, Randy Brecker on trumpet, and Don Alias on congas. The music does not sound like Steps, and I always knew that, but on paper I guess it didn’t look so good. Regardless, we go into Europa Studios and record direct-to-2-track with multi-track backup. The only fault I can find with the album would lie in the weakness of my writing and playing in some spots, but the recording has stood the test of time pretty well. Famed photographer William Coupon, who has taken the photos of presidents and other world leaders, agrees to shoot the album cover.

  The tracking is fairly painless — but being in charge of an album all of a sudden is like being a soloist in front of an orchestra for the first time or directing a film, all of them comparable to standing on railroad tracks with a train coming right at you while there’s a tornado coming from the other direction, the telephone is ringing, and your pants are falling down. You hate what you just played, but you’re not sure if what you played sucked or not, and why is the bass so loud, and who doesn't want to take a solo on the next tune? I want to end the first day early just as we’re about to play “My Ship” with Randy Brecker, Mike Mainieri, Eddie Gomez, and Don Alias. It’s all a bit too much for me to process, and I’ve had it (I think it was a phone call that did it this time around). So all of a sudden I say, “You know what, everyone? Let’s call it a day and we’ll see what we can get done tomorrow. Let’s just CALL IT, okay?” Mike Mainieri calmly walks over to me with mallets in hand and says, “Don’t be an asshole. Sit down and let’s record this thing.” We nail it in one take. Jaco would have been proud. It’s still one of my all-time favorite tracks.

  DownBeat magazine gives it a disappointingly lukewarm review. I dedicated the album to Deborah, but by the time it’s released we’re not together. I also dedicated the album to Joe and Wayne and Jaco but, as far as I know, none of them ever bothered to listen to it. As of this writing Kenny Kirkland, Don Grolnick, Don Alias, and Michael Brecker are no longer with us, but I’m grateful that their music lives on in a variety of places, my first solo album included. And here’s something wild: photographer William Coupon has recently taken photos of my now-grown daughter Maya for her acting career. It’s good when circles complete or overlap themselves. Sometimes it feels like my whole life is one big generously overlapping circle.

  34. More Sounds in the Big Apple

  I got my first “commercial” recording gig in New York when I answered a call to play orchestra bells and drumset on a jingle for a television commercial about pantyhose. Mike Mainieri did me the favor of strongly recommending me to the contractor who was hiring the musicians for that session; this guy was not familiar with me. So even though I agreed to do the date, I realized that I had no orchestra bell mallets in my possession, having not played the instrument since college!

  The session was scheduled to begin at 10 a.m. the following morning at Automated Sound. At 9:45 a.m. I was two blocks down the street at Manny’s Music store, pounding on the window for them to open up early so I could buy a pair of mallets (the bells were being provided by the studio)! I played drums with the small orchestra assembled for the date, and then I was asked to stick around for the orchestra bell overdub (cheaper for them to pay one guy doing both gigs rather than paying for a separate drummer and percussionist). The violin and flute players all left, and I positioned the bells in the center of the room while the assistant engineers placed the microphone in front of me and gave me a set of headphones. I noticed that the contractor came into the recording studio room and crossed his arms as he leaned back against the wall and stared at me as I was about to play this overdub. It was in the key of B (five sharps), on orchestra bells, which I had not played in 10 years’ time. The tape began to roll and I started to play, thanking my lucky stars that I had practiced enough back in college to still be able to do this sort of thing. I got it in one pass, and the contractor came over immediately and gave me a hug, saying things like, “You can read! This is wonderful! I love a drummer who can read! Hey! You’re a real musician! I love a drummer who’s a real musician!” and so on. Three jingle dates later I stopped getting calls for marimba or bells and began working for this man exclusively as a drummer.

  I learned a lot from doing jingles: professionalism, and being able to find the tempo and groove quickly in a piece of music (there’s not a lot of time to spare in a 15- or 30-second spot for the groove to settle).

  Another session that proved to be quite memorable was an album with Makoto Ozone, the prodigal pianist from Japan who played in Gary Burton’s band. Gary was producing the recording, which was taking place in a very large mid-Manhattan studio (Clinton Studios), and guitarist John Abercrombie and bassist Marc Johnson were playing as well. One of the songs was a bit of an epic affair: very complicated melody and chords as well as structure, with challenging ensemble parts sprinkled throughout the piece. We rehearsed a few times in the studio and commenced to do a take. All seemed to be going quite well, and we had successfully navigated our way throug
h the melody, guitar solo, interlude, and were deep into the piano solo when all of a sudden we heard “Oh shit!” and some out-of-time/out-of-key guitar strums; the universal indicator to STOP THE TAKE, right? Everyone groaned a bit, shaken out of our concentration and confidence in how well that take was going, and Makoto asked, “What happened? Why did we stop?” John Abercrombie, his face flushed with embarrassment, said, “Hey, I’m sorry Makoto, I got lost.” Makoto demanded, “WHERE did you get lost?” Suddenly a voice appeared as if from the heavens; it was Gary speaking to us on the talkback mic that was being pumped through some very large speakers near the ceiling of this very large studio. And Gary said, “Makoto, if he KNEW where he had gotten lost, then he wouldn’t have GOTTEN lost!”

  photo: Peter Erskine

  35. Common Denominator

  Referring to when your playing is brought down to the lowest level of the circumstance, whether that be the poor playing of one of the other musicians or the tune being counted off at the wrong tempo, or something else just not being “right.” We are usually our own worst enemy…

  I was always highly dependent on the playing environment I was in. You know, good bass player, life is good; bad bass player, life’s a drag. One late evening in New York, as I’m getting to know Mike Brecker, we wind up at Kenny Kirkland’s loft and a jam session evolves out of the hang, just Michael on tenor, Kenny on a real beat-up upright piano with missing keys and notes, and me on a less-than-stellar drumset. No bass player. I obsess on that as soon as we start playing. No bass player. This would all sound a whole lot better if there were a bass player. I’m not in the moment or playing anywhere near my best; I’m playing so-so because there’s no bass player, and I’m allowing that to prevent this from going anywhere. For too long I’ve been the kind of drummer who only sounds great when the band sounds great. We stop after a while and Michael looks over at me and says, “That’s interesting.” I ask, “What’s interesting?” and he continues, “What’s interesting is that I’ve never played with someone who, on one hand, can sound so incredible and yet, at another time, sound so bad.” Of course, I reacted with surprise and hurt at his candor; I thought we were friends! He saw this right away and jumped in with, “I didn’t say that to hurt your feelings; I just find it interesting, that’s all.” A sober Michael would handle this sort of thing with more sensitivity, but this Mike was telling it like it was and like he heard it. Food for thought.

  And then I got it. Traveling down to Florida a year or two later to visit Disney World, I’m taken to the jazz club there where Zoot Sims is appearing with the local rhythm section, and the local band does not sound very good on this occasion. They sound bad, in fact. How will Zoot react to this? ZOOT SOUNDS GREAT. ZOOT SOUNDS LIKE ZOOT. And that’s when it hit me that it is essential for any real musician to be able to play at a particular level of competence no matter the circumstance. That’s the ticket: to have enough of a voice and enough faith in music and in your own sense of musical self and abilities that it doesn’t matter.

  It takes time for these lessons to take root and grow, to take hold and become a solid part of our fiber and being. Too often we’re borrowing good advice and not yet living it. That’s what growing older is all about, I suppose. And it’s going to take a minute getting used to not being on the bandstand surrounded by Weather Report.

  Meanwhile, when I think of people I admire, Mike Brecker’s name is always at the top of the list.

  photo: Peter Erskine

  36. Steps Ahead & New York City

  Early in the band’s career, a name change is necessitated due to the fact that some bar band in North Carolina already has the name “Steps” registered, and their buyout price is equal to the entire budget that Elektra/Musician has allotted for our debut album. Hence: Steps Ahead. By this time Don Grolnick has tired of the band meetings and demands for commitment; he begged: “Please, let’s just keep booking gigs like we always have in the past, and I’ll be there for them. Don’t ask me to commit to leaving these other things I enjoy doing” (like Linda Ronstadt and, later/again, James Taylor). Things happen for a reason, I suppose, and so Don leaves and we need a piano player.

  Eddie Gomez and I both volunteer the name of a young Brazilian pianist, Eliane Elias. We do a demo recording for Eliane along with Mike Brecker, which Mainieri agrees to produce. It’s pretty much a done deal by the time we listen back to the first song. She’s a great player, and she will go on to enjoy a fabulous solo career as pianist, composer, and singer.

  Michael Brecker is studying composition from a classical composer and is dealing with a neck hernia as well as with his new-found sobriety, meaning that he’s burning his candle at all ends by going to meetings while the band is on tour, etc., and already I’m marveling at what this guy has taken on.

  Randy Brecker and Eliane fall in love and decide to get married.

  We’ve made the album and are touring it when we can. These tours go better than the very first Steps tours, where no one connected the name of the band to the identity of any of the players in the band. And even though the new moniker for the group is still taking some getting used to, the music is catching on. The most popular tune by far is our opener, “Pools,” composed by Don. And since this is a musician’s musicians band, we are getting a lot of fans that play musical instruments — in other words. a lot of young guys with notepads. Young professionals are taking notice of the group, too, of course. One of Woody Herman’s sidemen arranges “Pools” for Woody’s big band, only he cannot remember the name of the song or group when he announces it on-stage, so he supplants the proper titling with, “Here’s a tune by Pete Erskine and his Hot Five, and it’s called ‘Soup.’”

  Eliane leaves the band to have a baby. Warren Bernhardt, Mainieri’s keyboard partner for many years (and in many a band including White Elephant, L’Image, etc.) joins the band and we make what will be my favorite Steps Ahead album: Modern Times. Pre-MIDI but post-Weather Report, the band hits its creative stride and peak with this album. Blessed with a decent budget that grants us enough time in the studio but still forces us to be clever and non-indulgent, we spend long hours and all-nighters to craft this album, and we really feel like we’re on the verge of making it as a group.

  Coinciding with this is our producing of music tracks for a Jane Fonda exercise record. Her first two releases are huge hits, and this third album might just help us get our big break to a much wider audience. We recycle some music (or vice-versa: my composition “Now You Know” starts off as “Stomach, Legs and Butt,” so-named for a series of ab, thigh, and buttocks exercises). The album and video are titled Prime Time, aimed for an older audience. Jane Fonda meets the band at the press conference/release party, unaware that Eliane is no longer in the band. She looks the band over and her only remark to us is, “Where’s the woman?”

  We go out on tour. Warren has been a studio musician for so long now that he’s not sure he enjoys the rigors of the road, while Eddie Gomez has been a touring musician for so long that he is sick to death of the whole thing. This new music is requiring more and more equipment to be carried around in order to play it live. This is back in the days of being able to wave a $100 bill in front of a skycap and all excess baggage worries would disappear, but we still experience difficulties traveling with so much gear. Carnets and mismatching serial numbers on amps, vibes that get flown to Indiana while the band arrives in Utah, and so on.

  Christine Martin, who meanwhile has discovered a then-unknown Stanley Jordan playing guitar on the streets of New York and made him a star, has gotten fed up with our prima donna ways and complaints and threatens to quit. Remember that big-band rule about ultimatums? Well, they don't work too well with small groups, either, and the band votes to accept her resignation, and now we’re really on our own. Which is too bad because Christine did so many good things for us, and it was really fun to have someone to complain to or about!

  The band makes a change from acoustic bass to electric when Eddie’s finally had
enough and the young, talented Tom Kennedy does a touring stint with us, but when we decide to change the line-up from keyboard to guitar (this band is becoming good at hurting peoples’ feelings), Warren and Tom are let go and we schedule a series of auditions. Guitarist Chuck Loeb, fresh from working with Stan Getz’s band and hot on the New York studio scene, grabs the guitar chair, while Weather Report bassist Victor Bailey kills it during the audition process — he’s really great! Victor brings some much-needed young blood as well as soul into the group, as well as a fresh bit of Zawinul-inspired attitude. (When Mike Mainieri gives Victor some music direction that amounts to his telling Victor to listen to some folk albums in order to get the right vibe for a tune, Victor tells him, “You’ll have to loan me some of your folk albums then, ’cause ain’t none of that stuff in my listening library.”)

  We begin to cut the album that will become Magnetic. Grolnick is brought in to play, and we insult him by the fee we offer. Warren is brought back to play and I enthuse, as producer of my composition’s overdub, how great he sounds, only to hear him mutter to the microphone during the taped count-off, “Yeah, well, if you like it so much then why did you kick me out of the band?” Chuck Loeb plays a terrific solo on one of Brecker’s tunes, but it’s a bit too “jazzy” all of a sudden and so we bring in Hiram Bullock, which hurts Chuck’s feelings, of course. But we are all treated to Hiram’s wonderful sense of philosophy when, as the last guitar note of his one and only take is ringing out, he asks everyone in the control room “So, was that everything you ever dreamed of?”