Remain in Love

by Chris Frantz

  The engineer was excellent and a very sensitive and intelligent guy named Ed Stasium. Ed had recorded and mixed the new Ramones album and knew a little bit about our short history. He had been an art student, too, studying at New York’s School of Visual Arts. We were new at recording and Ed did his best to put us at ease. For this single we were about to record, we had asked Tommy Erdelyi—aka Tommy Ramone—to coproduce. He offered to help and we were pleased to accept his offer.

  Working on our first album.

  Ed showed us around the tiny studio. The control room was so small we couldn’t all be in there at once. The tape recorder was a Studer 16 Track and there was a Roger Mayer Console. There was a little kitchen behind the control room that doubled as a lounge. It was cozy.

  Ed set to work close micing the drums. After much tweaking and tuning, we’d gotten a pretty good drum sound. Then Ed miced up Tina and David’s amps and surrounded them with blocks of foam. Working quickly now, we donned our headphones and got the mix we wanted to hear as we ran through “Love Building on Fire” for Ed to get his sounds. Within an hour or so we had a couple of good takes with guide vocals to listen back to. Then we recorded the B side. The song was called “New Feeling.” After listening back carefully, everyone agreed on which two basic tracks to use. David overdubbed some nice big guitar chords and funky, choppy rhythm parts. Tina’s playing was melodic, minimalist, bottom-end perfection. As I listened back to my own playing, I felt really good. I actually sounded better than I thought I would. Whew! We added some handclaps to the choruses and Ed flew in some little bird tweets to the introduction.

  David went back out into the studio to record his vocals. David was not anybody’s idea of a good singer, but he was our idea of a great vocalist. He sang with real feeling and in his weird vocal style you could hear the pain of creation. His style was personal and was not riding on the coattails of any other singer. He sounded heartfelt and could also be very amusing. Tony was a little concerned about the vocal style because he was used to working with very professional R&B singers, but Tommy and Ed told him to relax. We were a brand-new thing.

  David had the idea to overdub a horn section. We laughed because we knew horns would really surprise the kids at CBGB. So we said yes to horns. Overnight, a cat named Brad Baker wrote a horn arrangement that was performed by saxophonists Lew Del Gatto and “Blue Lou” Marini. Lou Marini also played trumpet. I was hoping this would make us sound more like a Stax band, but no. We still sounded like Talking Heads.

  25

  THE BLIZZARD OF ’77

  After we made a record deal with Sire, Jerry Harrison was eager to come on board. We went up to his rented gray cedar shake summer cottage he shared with Ernie Brooks in Ipswich, Massachusetts, to teach him our songs. Little did we know the heating system would not be working. It was January and there was a foot of snow on the ground. Somehow, after loading our gear in, we managed to rehearse for two days with no heat. Thankfully, Jerry was a fast learner. On some songs he played guitar and on others he played keyboards. He seemed to understand our musical eccentricities very well and we got along well, too. Tina and I slept in the same sleeping bag on a mattress on the floor to keep warm that night. We were used to cold nights from loft living with no heat at night. We bundled up with watchcaps on our heads. The next morning we had fried clams for breakfast.

  Soon after, we played our first gigs with Jerry sitting in at the Rat in Boston. We were booked for two nights. There was a great reaction of approval from the fans, some of whom knew Jerry from the Modern Lovers. This was also the first time we met Ken Kushnick, who came up from New York. Ken had been hired to run Sire while Seymour was off traveling around the world signing new bands. He had been hired the same day we signed with Sire. Coincidence? I think not. Ken was a cool head and enjoyed being involved with the new bands at Sire. He was well-informed about the music business and he also had a wickedly good sense of humor. We liked that.

  After the Rat, we played the student union at Clark University, and the RISD Tap Room, our old stomping ground, where we had played with the Artistics. It was a good feeling to be back there. The Jabberwocky at Syracuse University was next. There is a bootleg recording of this floating around.

  Next stop was A Space Gallery in Toronto, where we had been booked by A. A. Bronson, who published a great art magazine called File with his friend Jorge Zontal. A Space was a tiny gallery but we attracted the wild intelligentsia of Toronto and enjoyed a warm Canadian welcome. We managed to book a second night in Toronto at the Ontario College of Art, which was also legendary and loads of fun. The support band was The Diodes, who were lovely guys and already Toronto’s preeminent New Wave band. Both gigs were cool and we loved Toronto. It’s interesting to note that we were invited to play in Canada before we could get a gig in most of America.

  While we slept, there was a blizzard with over three feet of snow and high winds, so the next day all the entrances to the USA from Toronto were closed to automobiles. We would have to wait. Tina and I hung out at the File magazine/General Idea offices with A. A. and Jorge. Somewhere I copped a big chunk of red Lebanese hash the size of a walnut, which I smoked to my heart’s content, sharing with anyone who wanted. It was a very stoned snow day and all good fun until we began to wonder where David was. We walked back to our little hotel and called his room. No answer. I went to knock on his door but still no response. I went down to the front desk to see if he had changed rooms and the lady said, “Oh, Mr. Byrne checked out this afternoon.” Had he left a message? “No, he did not.” I wondered where he had gone. All the bridges to the USA were closed. After making a few calls, I found out that David had taken a flight back to New York without even telling the rest of us. Where had he gotten the money for an airplane ticket? When I told Jerry he said, “Oh, well in that case, I’m taking a plane home, too.” This left Tina and me alone to drive the band’s gear 350 miles home from Toronto following the biggest snowstorm of the decade.

  Closing time at CBGB.

  It was another three days before the Peace Bridge to Buffalo opened, by which time several more feet of snow had fallen. At this point we were driving my parents’ hand-me-down silver Ford Country Squire station wagon with the faux-wood paneling on the sides. It was roomy enough for the band and all of our gear. It was a smooth ride, like a boat. Before we arrived at the Peace Bridge, I had a premonition that our car would be searched, so I decided to eat what was left of my hash. Sure enough, the U.S. Customs officers made us pull over to the side and unload the car so that they could inspect the contents. We got out of the car and stood there. Tina was freezing in her little jacket. They were not sympathetic to traveling musicians. They opened every case and even removed the hubcaps from the wheels. Finding nothing illegal, they told us to pack everything up. We were free to go.

  It was sunny now, and after putting everything back in the cases and reloading the car, we split. There was no one else on the road until we caught up with the snowplows that were running two abreast down Interstate 90. I swear the banks of snow on either side of the road were over twenty feet high. The wind was still howling and the snow was still drifting, but Tina and I followed the snowplows cautiously all the way to Syracuse. Meanwhile, the hash I had eaten was coming on very strong. I was tripping, but not so badly that I couldn’t drive. We traveled on intrepidly. On the radio they were still advising people not to drive unless it was an emergency, which was not comforting. We stopped in the Village of Horseheads to fill up the tank and buy a sandwich. It was like the set of The Shining, and we hopped back into the car and drove like hell back to New York City.

  26

  TALKING HEADS ’77

  In early April we returned to Sundragon Studio in New York City to record our first album. We set up in the little recording room, this time with Jerry on keyboards and guitar. Tony Bongiovi was our coproducer with Lance Quinn. Lance was a great guitarist and a sweet, self-effacing guy. Tony brought him along, I think, to soften Tony’s own strictly
business style and personality. Also, Tony was not a musician and needed Lance to figure out any musical issues for him. There was not much of the artist in Tony and I really don’t think he understood where we were coming from. We were happy that Lance was there. He was from Maryland and he and David could joke around in Baltimore accents. It was our really good fortune to have Ed Stasium behind the console as engineer. Ed did most of the work while Tony sat there on the phone or read Pilot magazine and talked about his new airplane to anyone who would listen. Tony had produced the current number-one record in the country with Meco’s disco cover of the Star Wars theme. The irony of working with him was not lost on us who were determined to create a record that was both artful and unexpected. In this quest, Ed was our secret weapon.

  I felt that we were in good shape playing-wise from all the live shows we’d been doing. David was a bit nervous. He was awkward when meeting new people. Tina was calm, cheerful, and on point. The addition of Jerry was a great step forward for our overall sound and for the beauty of the songs. Making this first album was something I had been dreaming about since I first heard the Beatles. I knew how important it was to all of us that it be really good. I don’t mean just sounding good; of course, it must sound good. We felt the music must convey a modern message about the importance of taking charge of your own life and to hell with the idea that rock stars are somehow more important than everyone else. We were celebrating our own everyday lives and philosophically reaching for a higher level of expression, something that was far greater than the sum of its parts. We also wanted our records to be fun to listen to. We were never about showing off. We were about playing from our hearts.

  Tony asked us to do six or eight takes of each song, far beyond the point when a great take had already been recorded. That’s when we realized he was listening for something other than Talking Heads music. We felt Tony was condescending to the band, reading magazines about airplanes while we worked. He was repeatedly rude to Tina. Let’s just say he appeared clueless and was not a gentleman.

  On the other hand, Ed and Lance were full of encouragement and positive reinforcement, which is what a young band needs when recording their first album. We were just learning the difference between a good live performance and a good studio performance. In a live performance, little inconsistencies and wild moments go by quickly and are soon forgotten. On a record, you hear them over and over, which can be so annoying you never want to hear the record again. When I had any questions about my timing, Lance reassured me that it was good. Under the microscope of the studio and headphones, you can sometimes get overly picky. There was a stopwatch mounted on the console, and he could check the time of each bar. He was impressed that my timing was completely consistent and that was a big relief to me.

  As we played and recorded the basic tracks, David sang what are called guide vocals, which would later be resung by him. After we were all satisfied with the basic tracks, it was time to do the vocals for real.

  The first song David sang was “Psycho Killer.” Again, Tony was bugged by David’s singing style. I don’t know what he was thinking, but he went into the little kitchen behind the control room and returned with a carving knife. With great seriousness, he told David to get into character and to hold the knife in his hand while singing the words. In the control room, jaws were dropping. David said, “No, that’s not going to work.” We decided to take a break. David told us he could not sing with Tony in the room and wanted Ed to kick him out of the studio. Ed had another idea. He said, “Why don’t we try moonlighting when Tony isn’t around? You know, before he gets here or after he leaves.” That was agreeable to all and Tony never even knew the difference. He was busy anyway, building a new studio uptown that would be called the Power Station. That was his main concern, not this little band called Talking Heads.

  Toward the end of the recording sessions we invited the downtown modern musician and cellist Arthur Russell to come play his cello on “Psycho Killer.” We had considered adding an entire string section, but then thought better of it. Cello was all that the song called for. In the end, we made a separate “acoustic” mix of the song with Arthur’s cello that can be found on some of our boxed sets.

  * * *

  We finished the basic tracks, guide vocals, and a few guitar and keyboard overdubs in less than two weeks. Back at our loft, we got a phone call from Ken Kushnick, who asked, “How would you like to tour Europe and the UK with the Ramones?” I smiled, sat down, and let that sink in.

  27

  ON TOUR WITH THE RAMONES

  It would be difficult to overstate how excited we were to be invited to join the Ramones on a tour of Europe in the spring of 1977. Our first album had not come out yet, but we had released a single called “Love Building on Fire,” so we got the gig on the strength of that single and our reputation as a good live band from the CBGB scene in New York City. Plus, we had successfully opened for the Ramones before. Seymour Stein and Ken Kushnick at Sire Records proposed the idea to us. Seymour knew that the young European audience would be crazy about this double bill and we only needed about two seconds before we said yes. I had never been to Europe and neither had Jerry. David was born in Scotland and so had a UK passport, but I don’t think he had actually been there since he was two years old. Tina had been to Europe many times with her family, but this would obviously be a completely different kind of trip.

  Ed Bicknell, an agent at NEMS in London, booked the tour. NEMS Agency (North End Music Stores) was founded by Brian Epstein to book the Beatles, so that sure sounded good to us. The tour would be something like thirty-four shows in thirty-eight days.

  We gathered at the Swissair check-in desk at JFK airport on the afternoon of April 23. We brought our own guitars, but we would hire the rest of our equipment, including my drums, in Europe. As we arrived at the airport, I saw Dee Dee Ramone very carefully getting out of a cab and then walking painfully, with the help of a cane, to the terminal. I asked him what had happened and Dee Dee said, “Oh, Connie Ramone stabbed me! She stabbed me in the ass!” Connie, as mentioned earlier, was Dee Dee’s girlfriend at the time and evidently they’d had a fight. Some say Connie was a junkie and a prostitute. I don’t know. She was always nice to me. Dee Dee was trying to make the best of it, knowing that sitting down on a plane for the next nine hours would be torture for him.

  We all got checked in. The touring party at that point consisted of the four Ramones, their tour manager and soundman Monte Melnick, lighting designer and T-shirt man Arturo Vega, and the four Talking Heads.

  While I was making a stop in the men’s room, Dee Dee came in, followed by Monte. They were having a bit of an argument. Monte said, “Give me that cane, Dee Dee!” and Dee Dee said, “No, Monte! No! Leave me alone!” As I washed my hands, they had a scuffle, and Monte eventually prevailed, grabbing the cane away from Dee Dee. He unscrewed the handle and proceeded to pour all kinds of painkiller pills and downers into the toilet, while Dee Dee looked on in horror. To be fair, he did let Dee Dee keep enough painkillers to last through the flight, and by throwing the rest away he probably saved Dee Dee from being arrested at customs in Switzerland, where they were no doubt wise to hollow canes. Swiss customs were notoriously vigilant and hard on rock stars.

  The flight was delayed for a few hours, which meant that when we arrived in Zurich we had to go straight to the sound check for the first show at a place called the Volkshaus, a lovely old concert hall in the center of town. We were met there by a veteran British tour manager, Mike “Mickey” Stewart, soundman Frank Gallagher, and stagehand Ian Ward. Mickey was a real pro—I never saw him lose his cool. He was considerate and a real gentleman. Ian Ward had an angel’s head of curly blond hair, a sweet disposition, and the body of Tarzan. Frank Gallagher—a bawdy Scotsman with the wildest eyebrows in the business and a former cook at the famous Hope & Anchor pub in London—was to become our soundman and close friend for many years.

  While the Ramones did their sound check, we got to work s
etting up our gear, showing Frank and Ian how we liked our various settings. The Volkshaus was the biggest theater we had ever played, and certainly the oldest and most beautiful. The real proscenium stage itself was the largest we had ever played on. It was about ten times the size of the stage at CBGB. The sound system was from an outfit in London called Concert Sound and it was big and powerful. Frank and Ian carried it in the truck along with all of our gear from gig to gig. I had a very good feeling despite not sleeping all night. I felt like we had arrived at a new level of success even though we had yet to play the show.

  When the Ramones finished their sound check, it was our turn. “Drummer!” I got up onto the riser and followed Frank’s instructions to hit each drum as he called out their names: “Kick! Snare! Rack Toms! Floor Toms! Hi-Hat! Crash Cymbals!” I had never had what they call full concert micing before, and the level of volume was awesome in the empty, cavernous Volkshaus. Then it was Tina’s turn. She played the intro to “Psycho Killer” for Frank. Then he called out “Bass and drums together, please!” and so on, adding David’s Fender Music Master and Jerry’s Telecaster and then Jerry’s keyboards into the mix. Then Frank said, “Singer! Sing into the mic!” David stepped up and sang something like, “Whoa, whoa, ummmmmm, sumahasumaha, whoa, grrriiip, ayyyyyyyy, yayyyyy, sumaaaaah!” Our crew had a good chuckle at that. Then Frank said, “Okay, we’re pressed for time, but play one song all together.” As the opening act, if you’re lucky enough to get a sound check, you are always pressed for time. We ran through “Psycho Killer” one time and then it was time to eat. We were all extremely excited, but we were hungry and not too excited to eat our dinner. Inside the Volkshaus was a very fine bistro, and the promoter provided dinner for us, so we sat down at a long table with the Ramones and the rest of our touring party. We in the Talking Heads—that’s right, I just said the Talking Heads—were a bit jet-lagged, but full of excitement and anticipation for the tour ahead. The Ramones were not so happy. Johnny’s mantra was, “This is grim. This is really gonna be grim.” Dee Dee was in agony from his recent stab wound in the ass, but trying not to show it. Joey said nothing and stared at the floor. Tommy was more with it than Joey, but not really conversant, either. Arturo and Monte were much happier and way more fun. We were offered a choice of steak frites or chicken with ratatouille. To drink, we could have whatever we wanted—wine or beer or something softer. It was a civilized meal until our very sweet waitress brought out green salads for everyone. Johnny Ramone stood up and shouted, “What the fuck is this?” I said, “Johnny, that’s a salad. It’s lettuce and tomato.” Johnny, getting pretty upset, screwed up his face and said, “This is not fucking lettuce! Oh, this is grim. This is so fucking grim.” We just looked at him like he had lost his mind. The other Ramones said nothing. I guess they knew better than to try and reason with Johnny, who had apparently never seen any green salad other than iceberg lettuce before. Johnny got up, stormed out of the restaurant, and went back to the dressing room. It’s probably just as well because the Sacher Torte for dessert and espresso in demitasse cups would have really freaked him out.