Nothing's Bad Luck

by C. M. Kushins

  Publicly, Warren had no compunction in citing his favorite secret agent’s influence over the concept album and its title song, playfully admitting to David Letterman, “[The Envoy] originated with a natural desire, I think on my part, to play James Bond at some point in my career. I’ve kind of built everything towards that.”

  It was apparent that Warren envisioned the next album to be more of a singular, cohesive piece than Bad Luck Streak had been. Using Ian Fleming’s 007 merely as a thematic reference, Warren was creatively returning to Graham Greene’s literary territory. While Bad Luck Streak had included plenty of action and gore, it had noticeably lacked the foreign intrigue of a “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” If critics were to accuse the album of being uneven or scattered, it could be chalked up to the frazzled circumstances in his personal life throughout its conception. Now, Warren planned to address that criticism directly, crafting a solid stand-alone that attained continuity in both quality and theme. In effect, a new novel.

  Warren later told Rolling Stone he saw the new album as a challenge to himself—a test as to “whether he can pull off art, as well as life, straight.” As an ever-evolving artist, Warren opted to draw from the strongest suits of Bad Luck Streak, while bringing back full-force the narrative lyricism and signature humor the critics vocally craved. For the writing, Warren had already begun shaping the wealth of material his international excursion had afforded; for the proper balance of sonic quality that his new, refined work would require, he turned to an old friend.

  “They started planning The Envoy without me, then Warren called me and asked if I wanted to play on some things,” Waddy Wachtel recalled. “I went, ‘Yeah, okay,’ and I went down, and things still needed arranging—it was a fucking mess. [Bad Luck Streak] had been a bit of a commercial failure and, to me, a sonic mistake. And at the end of the night, Warren and Rick came over to me and said, ‘Would you want to just come in and co-produce this record?’ I told them, ‘Now you’re talking.’ But, like I said, Jackson had warned me about this.”

  Recording for The Envoy began soon after Warren returned from Europe. Aside from the few songs he’d completed before the trip, he had been able to pump out the ones inspired by the journey—the first time such a frenzied burst of creative energy had struck in nearly a decade. With a number of strong songs ready to go, the booth occupied by Wachtel and David Landau, and a varied assortment of incredible session players forming the core ensemble, The Envoy sessions began with an enthusiasm lacking from the frantic beginnings of Warren’s last studio endeavor.

  Although he didn’t name his inspiration directly within the lyrics, Warren was very forthcoming in identifying the real-life “envoy” of his mysterious and theatrical title track: the legendary career shuttle diplomat Philip Habib, only recently promoted by President Reagan on special assignment to the Middle East to act as intermediary throughout the escalating US incursion in Lebanon. Prior to his unofficial appointment, Habib had gained worldwide recognition deescalating conflicts between Israel and Syria, then averting an Israel–PLO war in 1981. Warren had followed the ongoing political dramas in the newspapers, fascinated with the vague discretion that Habib’s unclassified title entailed. He explained to Rolling Stone’s Mikal Gilmore how the mystique around the top secret position had sparked his imagination, morphing into a “kind of workmanlike, self-disciplined version of a James Bond–style agent. I like him because he has a will, because he’s a problem-solving kind of guy, and because I need his kind of control.”

  As a contribution to the album itself, “The Envoy” not only provided the title, but the type of action-and-suspense tale that Warren’s fans had come to expect. But unlike the ghostly mercenary Roland or the hell-bent Learjet SWAT team of “Jungle Work,” Warren was quick to point out his latest heroic protagonist was “a peacemaker.” And while he admired Habib’s diplomatic diligence, he admitted to Judith Miller of The New York Times, “I wasn’t really disappointed that he didn’t win the Nobel Peace Prize because, despite his efforts, nothing’s really solved out there.”

  Of the noticeable thematic shift away from cannibal sociopaths digging up dead prom dates and monsters mutilating little old ladies, Warren later said, “I think I’m beginning to defuse that central undeniable violent theme I pursued for so long.”

  Following the album’s release the next year, every interview included the inevitable question of the song’s origin. Warren always made it a point of mentioning that he hadn’t a clue if Habib himself was pleased with the rock-and-roll homage—he hadn’t heard from the famed diplomat at all. “Mr. Zevon says that he has never met his hero, and doubts he would have much time to write letters,” The New York Times reported. “‘But,’” [Warren] added wistfully, “‘I’ll keep checking my mailbox, hoping for that note on State Department stationery.’” When that didn’t work, he offered a nightly update to every audience throughout the tour, sadly reporting that Habib had yet to say anything. But it didn’t bother him. He told David Letterman and his millions of viewers, as he had also written a song about Elvis and hadn’t heard from him either.

  Soon after, Warren’s note on State Department stationery arrived in the mail.

  The Envoy’s recording sessions began toward the end of 1981 at Record One in Los Angeles. As co-producer, Wachtel had become very familiar with the studio space over the last few years, only recently completing some work there on Linda Ronstadt’s Mad Love for producer Peter Asher. He now brought along some familiar faces from those studio dates, many of whom had previously appeared on Warren’s albums. With the exception of Jackson Browne, The Envoy soon became an enthusiastic reunion of key players responsible for Warren’s highest-quality recordings. As had been the practice for both Excitable Boy and Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School, a semi-regular lineup of core players was assembled, give or take rotations with guest musicians as the sessions went on.

  Having Wachtel back in the producer’s chair also meant having his invaluable lead guitar throughout the album, as well as a few turns on backup vocals. David Landau came hot off the Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School tour to contribute a rhythm guitar style that was creatively utilized mostly as a secondary lead; on tracks where Warren came in for more guitar work, The Envoy held incredible moments of all three guitars within the same song—a virtuosic feat that could have been poorly executed in the hands of a less skilled production and engineering team. The full crew—consisting of Wachtel and David Landau, along with engineers Jamie Ledner and Wayne Tadouye—also integrated more creative overdubbing than had been present in Warren’s other work, providing areas for the artist to perform up to three instruments in a single track. It would prove particularly useful considering the ample amount of synthesizer portions the album contained.

  Warren’s generous use of the synthesizer—four songs out of a nine-song album—was not without recent precedent within the world of rock and roll. At the same time he was in the studio with The Envoy, English prog rockers Queen were in Munich recording Hot Space, their first album to rely almost entirely on synthesizers. Opting for a commercially minded, dance-pop sound that deliberately excluded lead guitarist Brian May’s signature licks proved controversial among Queen fans, to say the least. It bombed. Worse yet, the synth-heavy flop was eventually released only two months before The Envoy’s own US street date.

  But there the comparisons could end. With the reteaming of Warren and Wachtel, the use of synth was appropriately counterbalanced with the even more generous use of heavy lead guitars and, of course, piano. And with his composer’s hat firmly upon his head, Warren’s integration of the synths smartly played upon the instrument’s atmospheric qualities, enhancing the cinematic themes of the intrigue throughout the album.

  But synthesizers or not, The Envoy was rock and roll.

  The title track, Warren’s gung-homage to Philip Habib, opened the album with a grand epic movie quality, reminiscent of the James Bond films he aimed to evoke. Had Warren ever been asked to compose
a 007 theme, it could be safely assumed “The Envoy” would pose a fair and suitable template.

  For the session date, the crew aimed for big sound, with Wachtel and David Landau jointly accompanying Warren on his own guitar, piano, and yes, synthesizer, and Leland Sklar returned to provide bass with the team. But if there was any member of the lineup uniquely catered to play along the balanced sound of traditional instrumentation and studio tech wizardry, it was drummer Jeff Porcaro. More than a widely renowned session man, Porcaro had by this point successfully launched his own band, Toto; within the next year, Toto would not only have its longest string of mainstream hits, but Porcaro would be scouted to make crucial contributions on the Quincy Jones–produced Michael Jackson blockbuster Thriller. To round out the lush rock sound of “The Envoy,” Don Henley visited for additional backup vocals.

  Warren’s collaboration with Thomas McGuane, “The Overdraft,” had been the first song written for the album, dating back to their infamous three-day drinking and brainstorming session the previous year. Despite the fact that Warren later claimed honky-tonk rocker Jerry Lee Lewis “didn’t interest” him, here, a classic rockabilly thump rolls through—providing the album with its first true taste of fast-paced rock and roll. “The Overdraft” was appropriately arranged with a bare-bones quintet, sans synth, and benefited from a visit from Lindsey Buckingham, giving additional vocals.

  A humorous tale of a self-deprecating cuckold on vacation, “The Hula Hula Boys” had been one of the last songs Warren penned for the album. In an effort to reconnect with his now thirteen-year-old son, he had planned a trip for them, along with George Gruel, upon their return from Europe. The three headed to Hawaii, but as Gruel remembered, it didn’t turn out to be “much of a father-son bonding experience.” Warren’s painkiller usage had reached its peak. During interviews, journalists began to take note that the Nichols Canyon house was “conspicuously” dry of alcohol—but few outside of Gruel and Lankford knew of Warren’s growing dependencies on drugs and prescription pills. As an adult, Jordan Zevon recalled that he had spent most of the Hawaiian trip off playing alone, only retrospectively aware how thin his father had been at that time, or how his physical appearance was just as akin to heavy cocaine use as it was the painkillers.

  Although the vacation had been intended as a way for the two to spend quality time together, Lankford’s absence also stemmed from her work commitments—and a growing intolerance for Warren’s behavior. With this in mind, he had begun writing a bittersweet song of a lover jilted for various strangers throughout his own honeymoon—parking lot attendants and an obese native by the hotel swimming pool among them. And while the emotions behind the song were autobiographical, Warren veiled his own instability with Lankford by emphasizing the song’s humor, the narrative’s suggestive scenarios playing like a Blake Edward’s sex romp fused with South Pacific. Warren was particularly proud of the song’s most memorable middle section, the lines directly cribbed from a Polynesian phrase book Jordan had bought for him as a gift.

  “The chorus,” he later explained, “‘Ha’ina i’ a mai ana ka puana,’ is an idiom which means ‘Sing the chorus,’ or, ‘Get to the point.’ No one could pronounce the Hawaiian but my son, Jordan… So Waddy and I had him sing all the background parts.”

  The recording of “The Hula Hula Boys” marked the studio debut of Jordan Zevon, who was joined by some of his dad’s most esteemed cohorts during his session initiation. Aside from the album’s strong core lineup, Jeff Porcaro worked double duty on percussion, adding Tahitian log drums and puili sticks to his arsenal for more Polynesian authenticity; Jim Horn provided the wistful recorder lines between verses, adding a soft air of melancholy to the swaying ballad. Warren himself played the only appearance of an electric piano on the album.

  “Jesus Mentioned” was one of the two most haunting tracks on the album, both of which offered ruminations on the subject of death. Unlike Warren’s well-known comedic morbidity, neither “Jesus Mentioned” or “Charlie’s Medicine” offered much to laugh about. While the former song offered Warren’s own unique eulogy for Elvis Presley, the latter was based on the violent murder of Warren’s drug dealer, the eponymous “Charlie.” As George Gruel later recalled, he had been a young fan in his midtwenties who happened to work at the Hollywood Boulevard pharmacy where Warren would get his legitimate pills. “So it ended up that we’d go over to Charlie’s house on Fairfax [Avenue],” Gruel said. “He lived with his mom in this apartment, and he would sell Warren bags of these pink downers.”

  On the final trip to Charlie’s house, Gruel was stopped at the door by the young man’s mother, informing them he had been killed. “He was blown away out in the street in front of their apartment,” Gruel remembered. “Warren went to Charlie’s funeral. He went by himself. He said, ‘I’m going alone. I just want to do this.’ That’s where the line in the song, ‘I came to finish paying my bill,’ came from.”

  The song would also hold a later resonance when, only a few months prior to the album’s release, Warren’s old friend John Belushi died tragically at the age of thirty-three. Belushi had acted as emcee for Warren’s New York City debut at the Bottom Line in 1976, formally introducing him to the world. On that occasion, Belushi had dropped so much acid before taking the stage, he was incoherent during Warren’s introduction. Remaining both a fan and friend, Belushi had been spotted wrestling with Tom Waits in the Roxy’s men’s room by Jimmy Wachtel during Warren’s triumphant shows for Stand in the Fire. Worse yet, it was reported that the comedian had fatally overdosed on a particularly potent combination of cocaine and heroin known as a speedball—at the Chateau Marmont.

  “Charlie’s Medicine” was the final song written for the album. Initially, Warren hadn’t intended to use his dealer’s murder as the subject for a song—especially one that held such revealing references to his own substance use. But when the original cut of the album clocked in way under the half-hour mark, producer Wachtel, for the second time, had to demand another track. Wachtel recalled, “We got to a point where we were a song short. I couldn’t believe it happened again, and I said, ‘I need another song for this. We need another tune.’ I hated doing it again, but remember, this was a time when we would only get paid if a certain amount of music was on either side of an LP… So, I went away again, maybe a week, and he wrote ‘Charlie’s Medicine’—and it was just so astounding.”

  Although Warren did not directly address the celebrity death in interviews, his newfound lease on life became consistent topics when promoting the album. Adamant that he was a changed man, Warren’s explanations regarding The Envoy’s origins fluctuated between his own “secret agent” fantasy and a deep, introspective accountability for the mistakes of his past. Seemingly unrelated, Warren emphasized the apparent associations between being a “man of action,” like Philip Habib or James Bond, and the realization that the “action” in question is merely a sense of personal responsibility and focus. He told Rolling Stone, “If there’s a pervading idea that comes from The Envoy, it’s the idea of problem-solving, or sorting out your choices and applying a bit more control to how you make them.” He later elaborated to The New York Times, “What I didn’t realize is that my audience never took all the chaos and conflict all that seriously. They never wanted me to be that self-detonating shaman figure, living on the edge. They knew a writer isn’t obliged to live out all his dark fantasies, but I didn’t know that.”

  Warren had written “Jesus Mentioned” in Memphis on the last tour. Seeing the near-sacred pilgrimage destination that Graceland had become to Elvis Presley fans in the wake of his death had inspired him to contemplate the larger aspects and sacrifices of fame. Through his mournful lyrics, Warren presented Presley as a symbolic vessel for the broader scope of aging, mortality, and—in Presley’s case—legacy.

  Like his later song for Presley nearly two decades later, “Porcelain Monkey,” Warren here revealed his own reflections on fame as both a blessing and a curse. In an example
of some of his most metaphysical and spiritual imagery, he gently blurs the poetic narrative into a Presley-as- Messiah/martyr archetype—walking on the water “with his pills.”

  As Mikal Gilmore had observed in Rolling Stone, it appeared as though the excitable boy had grown up.

  For the session recording, an intimate, simplified arrangement made the track a gorgeous centerpiece to the album. Warren performed vocals only as a gentle duet with Wachtel on acoustic guitar. For “Charlie’s Medicine,” however, Warren amped it up full throttle, beginning with a particularly haunting guitar twang he personally performed on his twelve-string, leading straight into the rock-and-roll doom of Wachtel’s thunderous lead over the synth fusion. For the session date, the team shook things up, bringing in, straight from Jackson Browne’s band, Bob Glaub on bass. Wachtel and old friend Rick Marotta had worked on numerous projects in between their previous collaborations with Warren—including a band of their own, Ronin, in 1980. Now, Marotta returned on drums, completing the heaviness needed for one of Warren’s darkest rock tracks.

  Following the solemnness of his homily for Presley, Warren ended the first side with one of the two most optimistic songs on the album. As with much of the more romantic shadings on The Envoy, “Let Nothing Come Between You” was wholly inspired by Kim Lankford—or at least inspired by an old friend’s first impressions upon meeting her. At the time, Warren and Lankford had been seriously discussing marriage and, as he later remembered, “I was engaged to a wonderful woman, about whom Jackson Browne had once observed, ‘She’s good around the eyes.’” Later, The New York Times critic Robert Palmer would state that the tune was “the sweetest thing” on the album, largely benefiting from the “bittersweet edge” it displayed, more akin to a soul ballad. It was also the only song selected by Elektra/Asylum to be released as a single.