Joni’s really done her homework; she is singing great. Larry Kline is proving to be an insightful and extremely effective producer, and Chuck Berghofer is holding the whole thing together beautifully.
A film crew was there to document one day of the recording, and so a makeup artist was flown in from California; he was effeminate and his name was something like Juan or Miguel. Anyways, he’s there waiting for something to do because Joni is in work mode, and we all crowd into the control room for another playback, only this time there’s someone sitting in Joni’s usual chair. So she stands and meets this guy, lights up her American Spirit cigarette, and begins to listen to the playback without the benefit or comfort of being seated. I see this and I’m about to go up and ask or tell the guy to move, but the producer isn’t saying anything and Joni isn’t saying anything, so maybe he’s a friend of Larry’s or he’s somebody important from the record label. But I’m still bothered by this, and so I go hunting for a chair for Joni. I find a metal folding chair, pick it up, and gingerly work my way through the crowded control room towards Joni. All of sudden Juan, or Miguel, or whatever the fuck his name is, grabs the chair right out of my unsuspecting hands and grandly proclaims “a - Joni? a - CHAIR?” She seems so grateful for his thoughtfulness, and meanwhile I want to wring this fucker’s neck.
Joni and I share a very pleasant talk in the studio canteen during an orchestral break, chatting away like two lost friends, until I make mention of the fact that my father is a psychiatrist. Note to self: You might want to omit that information if you ever get the chance to have a first talk with Joni again. Not sure what’s up with that, but I do hear later from a drummer who accosted Joni in Brentwood at a coffee shop she frequents, getting her autograph, that she made the following comment when my name was introduced into the conversation: “Oh, Peter Erskine; he’s a nice man despite the fact that his father’s a psychiatrist.” Despite her misgivings, we enjoyed a terrific tour together playing this music with orchestras from one end of the country to another. Vince’s writing has spoiled me. Just like Jaco on Hejira: if Jaco wasn’t on a tune, it was no fault of the other bass players, but they were the enemy as far as I was concerned. Same thing when I hear another writer for the most part. If it’s not Vince, I’m usually not too interested.
40. Seven Pieces (Lennart Åberg, 2001) — One writer and musician I will tolerate and look forward to working with every time is Sweden’s Lennart Åberg. He’s the only guy I’ve heard who can sound like Wayne, in great part because he doesn’t try to sound like Wayne (that might be the secret, at least when it comes to Wayne). Another first-take wonder (the first tune, “Spiraltrappan” or “The Spiral Staircase”), the album sparkles with European sensibility and dazzling sound; it won the Swedish Grammy equivalent. The studio was the same place where ABBA recorded their hit song “Dancing Queen.” The drum booth was small and sweaty, and Lennart likes to talk a lot between takes. Right before one of the takes, and just after he had been speaking in Swedish for about 15 or 20 minutes, he turned to me and said through the glass walls, “Oh, Peter, I am sorry, would you like me to translate what I have been saying?” I cried, “Please, NO, let’s just play the goddamn piece already.” From where and whence did I get my profane-laced language, anyway?
41. The London Concert (Don Grolnick Band, 2001) — Recorded by the BBC during Don’s jazz tour of the U.K. in 1994, this concert in the Queen Elizabeth Hall at London’s Southbank Centre was memorable for several reasons: (1) the band played great, (2) the BBC recorded it, and (3) for me, great fun because Steve Gadd was there. It’s funny — when you hear the music you forget about the travel logistics of getting from wherever we were that morning to London, the problems we had getting checked into our hotel rooms, the interviews we were asked to do for some British TV jazz program, the setting up, soundchecking, and looking for a suitable dinner before the concert, and so on. But you hear the music and you forget everything and remember only how great all the musicians were and how much we all loved playing Don’s music, being on tour with him, and getting to know each other. The combination of players was brilliant. I’m so glad that I got a DAT tape from the BBC producer and eventually received the blessings of everyone involved to release the recording of the first set. The proceeds from the sales of the album go towards the research for finding a cure for lymphoma.
42. Christmas Memories (Barbra Streisand, 2001) — Memorable because Barbra Streisand shows up and begins to sing, and she absolutely nails it the first two times around, both takes equally fresh and vibrant and great. I now know what all of the fuss was about when she was young and new to the recording scene. This woman has chops! But then, of course, one person after another in the cavernous yet crowded control room in SONY (formerly known as the MGM Soundstage, now bearing Ms. Streisand’s name) chime in with their five cents’ worth, to the point of engineer Al Schmidt coming into the drum booth, which is about a football field’s distance from the mixing board, on the pretense of adjusting a microphone, but when I ask him if everything is okay drum mic-wise he says, “Oh yeah, this is all fine. It’s like a fucking Marx Brothers movie in the control room, though. Everybody’s got a fucking opinion.” And so a three-hour session with orchestra becomes an eight-hour session. The orchestra brass players are getting worn out, and this thing is going to drag on forever for me until Dave Carpenter and I both have to leave for a trio gig in Hollywood. It turns out that Barbra goes with the first or second take anyway. And like most Christmas albums, this is recorded in July.
I know she’s not at all interested in my opinion, but here it is: She has the chops, so she should just learn to trust herself and the music a bit more. That will be five cents, please, thank you very much.
43. Badlands (Peter Erskine, Alan Pasqua, Dave Carpenter, 2001) — We recorded this album in my backyard studio. We played the room, the dynamics and vibe, and all. Something magical could always happen when the three of us got together; this album seemed really special. During post-production, 9/11 hits. For all of the other fears and concerns and questions that everyone is wrestling with, we’re wondering, “Does it matter that we even put this out? And if we do, what’s appropriate?” I had originally planned an Americana theme before 9/11, but once that catastrophe occurred, I felt that any “Americana” hint visually or otherwise would be exploitative at best, so we killed a really nice album cover design that had fit the music perfectly. My mistake. Other albums came along and, somewhat shamelessly, I thought, used “Americana” imagery as a rallying cry of sorts. I was still in mourning not only for our country but also for the world. At any rate, we came across a bit of text that seemed to justify or fit the music and why we wanted to release the album, and so with Brandt Reiter’s kind permission I included it on the back cover of the CD. Big mistake to include something written by an astute listener that appears to suggest how this music should be listened to or appreciated; critics do not like that, and I think the album’s reviews suffered as a result. DownBeat gave us a really shitty review (as in lukewarm), so much so that DB’s publisher expressed shock to us. I also expressed shock because (1) I know a good album when I make one, and (2) we had just spent a lot of money (for us) advertising the album in the magazine. Thanks but no thanks. I still regard this as one of our finer titles, and the lady doth not protest too much.
44. Fractured Lines (BBC Symphony Orch., Leonard Slatkin, Evelyn Glennie) — Speaking of ladies, I am joined by the delightful Evelyn Glennie on this double concerto for percussion composed by Mark-Anthony Turnage, based on a theme of mine (the song “Bass Desires”). Mark and I formulated much of the structure of the piece on a large piece of paper in a fish-and-chips restaurant during the week I was in London doing Joni’s album. We tried recording the concerto with the battery of percussion set up in front of the orchestra, but this made some of the rhythmic coordination with the band difficult, so we moved everything to the back of the orchestra and this seemed to work. Hard to hear them, but they could hear us, and so th
at was good; also, the string players were relieved to have the percussion soloists so far away. Evelyn and I each play on a Yamaha Club Jordan cocktail kit, and then she concentrates on marimba and metallic percussion while I play the drumset as well as hands-and-sticks-on-skins things (bongos, djembe, congas, timbales, etc.). Leonard Slatkin conducts the excellent BBC Symphony Orchestra. People often assume classical records are recorded in beautiful-looking concert halls. This was done in what looked like a beat-up school auditorium or community center in a pretty dumpy part of London. Go figure.
45. North and Il Sogno (Elvis Costello, 2003, w/London Symphony Orch., 2004) — Two albums by one man, Elvis Costello. Elvis discovered me on a BBC documentary about my work with Mark-Anthony Turnage. He told me he liked how the orchestra responded to the live (and jazz) drums, and so he was inspired to have me play on his orchestral piece “Il Sogno” (Midsummer Night’s Dream) that was going to be recorded by the London Symphony Orchestra. We met in my Santa Monica studio (on the morning of the day he would meet his future wife, Diana Krall; small world) and I prepared a demo for him of what the drums might sound like on this piece, overdubbing onto a live recording he had of the ballet orchestra in Bologna doing the piece. When it came time to do the recording in London, I begged Elvis to reconsider his plans and allow me to track the drums as an overdub in L.A. so we could really control the sound and get the exact drum performance he might be looking for. But he was proving to be more adventurous than me on this one, and so he insisted on flying me to London IN FIRST CLASS for a one-day session at Abbey Road with the LSO. Michael Tilson-Thomas is conducting, and there’s a lot of music to get recorded during this afternoon session. We have just enough time to run everything once and then record it — one take, maybe two at most — and Elvis wants me to take chances with this stuff. I do my best. I had also done my homework, and that paid off — so much so that a very pleased Elvis said to me in front of the entire orchestra on his way out to a gig (pointing to me): “Fearless!” I liked that. I also enjoyed getting to work with Neil Percy, principal percussionist of the LSO as well as the head of percussion studies at the Royal Academy of Music.
North was a last-minute session, as Elvis decided he wanted to record a love-song album of ballads, inspired by his wife-to-be, and his excellent band is not a jazz ballad-playing band. So I got the call, and I recommended Mike Formanek to play bass, and this proved to be a terrific combination. I really like the way Elvis writes and sings, and the man has a tremendous work ethic. I contributed by suggesting that his pianist (the excellent Steve Nieve) not worry about trying to play like a jazz musician, but rather play the way he was most comfortable playing, in this case going back to his childhood classical music roots. It seemed to work to good effect. It kind of brings it all back to that Cannonball Adderley intro when Joe Zawinul was in the band and they’re recording at the Village Vanguard in New York: “You get a lot of people that are supposed to be hip, and they act like they're supposed to be hip, which makes a big difference.” He continued: “Hipness is not a state of mind, it's a fact of life. You don't decide to be hip, it just happens that way.” And there you go.
46. Aerial (Kate Bush, 2005) — Kate Bush saw the same BBC documentary that Elvis Costello did — the power of television, even with hip people! — and she personally dialed our home phone and spoke with my wife for a while, who then handed the phone to me. I realized halfway through the call that this was the woman who sang on the Peter Gabriel tune “Don’t Give Up.” I’m not yet aware of the cult following that has dogged Kate for years, but I find out soon enough when I’m given specific directions of what to say to whom and what not to say as regards where I’ll be working, and this complicates getting a drumset to her home studio, but we eventually get everything worked out and I truly enjoyed the experience of being around this person. Kate Bush is a highly creative artist and a lovely woman. She and her production and musicians are all taken aback somewhat by my apparent need for speed during the recording process. I want to get as much done as possible for her in the limited amount of time we have, but everyone else seems content to let the tunes and the days unfold as they will. Maybe I know that I don’t want to spend endless hours at night doing something that could be gotten in the afternoon if everyone simply concentrates a bit and acts, like, professional. I’m not saying anyone acted unprofessionally, it’s just a different pace. For example, bassist John Giblin — a really excellent British rock bassist — runs through a tune, and I enter the control room as he starts. It’s all sounding REALLY great, and he’s inspired and responding to the music like a skier having a great run down a steep but beautiful slope. When he’s finished the engineer says, “Okay, you want to record that now?” which is like the oldest dumb-engineer joke in the book, only HE’S NOT JOKING and John is not in the least bit upset. Yes, he IS now ready to record, thank you very much. Meanwhile, I’m flabbergasted and saying to the engineer, “You mean you didn't record any of that? What the fuck were you doing? All you have to do is press one little fucking red button; it doesn't cost a thing to do that.” Del Palmer just kind of smiled and wished that I would go away, and so I did. The live band tracking was the most fun with Kate playing piano and singing. We tried a lot of tunes in a lot of ways.
Kate would often fetch tea for the boys, who would always say, “Aarghh, Kate, yor a fine woman!” like a pirate or something. The Brits really like that kind of stuff. As for Kate, she really liked the Yamaha David Garibaldi signature snare drum I had brought to the studio as part of the arsenal of drums to choose from. “Peter? Could you please get that lovely little BLUE drum out again?”
Aarghh, Kate, yor a fine woman!
47. Some Skunk Funk (R. Brecker, M. Brecker, Will Lee, WDR Big Band, et al, 2005) — The sweetest prize, the bitterest pill to swallow. Michael passed away before the Grammy award for this album was announced. I felt privileged to say a few words on his behalf and in honor of him, essentially reminding everyone at the Grammy event that every solo Mike ever played was worthy of a Grammy award (his solo on “Skunk Funk” had just been announced before the album’s prize). Thanks to the record company and especially Randy Brecker for agreeing to include our names on the front cover, we could all share in a Grammy, including the WDR Big Band, Vince Mendoza, Will Lee, Jim Beard, percussionist Marcio Doctor, myself, and Mike and Randy.
Meanwhile, Grammys aside, the DVD of the concert and the audio recording of the music are mighty impressive. I would like to hear some of the studio takes we tracked leading up to the concert.
I was playing the final tune of the concert and album, Mike Brecker’s “Song for Barry,” for a student of mine at USC, and the emotional power of the performance really struck him. He asked in innocence and with sincerity, “How do you get so much emotion into a performance?” It was and remains palpable. I replied, also with sincerity but not so much innocence, “The only answer I can give you is that you really have to give a shit.” Poor choice of words, but the sentiment remains: you really need to care.
I submit that’s why a Mike Brecker performance is so searing even after all of these years: the man really cared, and it shows.
48. Standards (Alan Pasqua, Dave Carpenter, Peter Erskine, 2008) — This album was rightfully nominated for a Grammy, and sour grapes aside it should have won. The audio quality is stunningly “you are there,” recorded with a pair of stereo microphones in an acoustically rich hall where we set up the piano, bass, and drums very close to one another and used our ears to guide how loud and how much we played. WHAT A NOVEL CONCEPT! No headphones, no mixing, no editing, no overdubbing. And no rehearsing!
Alan Pasqua came up with all of the arrangements. The music played itself, and we all had a good time listening to it as it all unfolded. You can’t beat great tunes. Standards 2, Movie Music is just being released as I write this book. It’s our collective homage to film music, and the stars of this recording are Bob Mintzer, Darek Oles, Alan, and myself. I used to think of myself as being the Clau
de Rains of drumming, but my friend director Jack Fletcher thinks I’m more the Spencer Tracy type.
49. The Avatar Sessions (Tim Hagans, Norrbotten Big Band w/guests, 2010) — On the fourth and final day of recording in Manhattan’s Avatar Studio C, I returned to the apartment my wife and I were renting for the week and she commented, “I’ve never seen you so excited about anything you’ve recorded before. I am so happy for you; this must be something really special.” Indeed. After the success of the live recording of the Norrbotten Big Band in concert with Hagans and me at the helm (Worth the Wait), we decide to get really ambitious and record the band in the best studio in the world — that would be Avatar (formerly Power Station, where the Steps Ahead, Burton/Metheny, first Bass Desires, Diana Krall Look of Love, and so many other albums have been recorded) — with the band’s “A” list of soloists. Joe Lovano can’t make it, but he is ably replaced by George Garzone, and Randy Brecker, Vic Juris, Dave Liebman, and Rufus Reid all join in for the fun. Hagans’ writing is better than ever, and so is his playing. I’m feeling invincible and at the top of my game.
Can musicians keep getting older and do their best work as their hair turns grey? Or do we only believe that that’s what we’re doing, but in reality our best years are behind us?
To be honest, I have to believe that it is possible to keep getting “better,” and for one’s work to improve in quality as well as relevance. To think otherwise, perhaps, is to admit defeat. For whatever reason — and as much as I enjoy a lot of these older recordings (more for the memories than the music a lot of the time), I truly think my latest work is my best.
No Beethoven: An Autobiography & Chronicle of Weather Report Page 28