by Glyn Johns
ANDREW OLDHAM PRODUCING THE STONES AT OLYMPIC.
He had lit up a joint, so there was a haze of blue smoke hanging above him. We were in the middle of a take when much to our surprise the main door into the studio opened and two uniformed policemen gingerly entered. The studio was one floor above street level. The policemen had been on their rounds of the area on foot, had tried the front door of the building, and finding it unlocked, came in to check it out. There being no one on the ground floor, they came up the large stone stairs to check the rest of the building, opened the meat locker door handle and pushed open the large soundproof door, walking straight into studio 1 and our session. The door was positioned well behind the booth I had built so they could not see Mick, had no idea who they were intruding on, and could only hear him singing. Mick in turn could not see them and was oblivious to their presence.
Andrew Oldham and I could see the boys in blue, and his reaction to the situation was remarkable, not only by the speed with which he reacted but by the extraordinary distraction he created to preserve Mick and himself from a certain bust. He asked me to stop the tape, with Mick in full voice. He told his ever-faithful driver Eddie to make a quick exit out of the back of the control room with his doctor’s bag full of illegal substances various, then immediately put the talk-back key down to the studio, politely asking if he could help the two bewildered coppers standing at the back of the room. This informed Mick that we had company, and it was not until he peered round the screens to see what the hell was going on that they realized who it was they had interrupted, and in turn he realized the significance of who was standing there and that this could be quite a serious problem.
WAITING FOR KEITH. OLYMPIC, 1970.
Andrew was up and out into the studio before you could say “jackrabbit.” The policemen apologized for interrupting and explained how they happened to be there, thinking that the building might be being burgled. When Andrew saw how starstruck they had become he decided to have a little fun. After a brief polite conversation, he asked if they had their nightsticks with them, and when they were produced from down their trouser legs he asked if we could borrow them for a minute. Fascinated and somewhat overawed by Mick Jagger’s presence, they readily agreed. Andrew passed them to Mick, saying that we needed some percussion on the bridge of the song. The two nightsticks sounded similar to claves when banged together. The policemen stood to one side, I ran the tape, and Mick overdubbed their truncheons on the bridge. They seemed thrilled by the experience, and having a great story to tell their kids, they left the building happy. When they had gone, the front door was locked, Eddie was summoned, and we continued, finishing the song that evening. For some extraordinary reason, Andrew and Mick decided to keep the totally unnecessary sound of the truncheons being hit together in the mix. If you listen carefully you can just hear them.
• • •
A typical session with the Stones would start at eight in the evening. I would get to the studio at around 7:15 and invariably find Charlie waiting patiently in the control room. A few minutes later we would be joined by Bill, both as regular as clockwork, always ready to play at the appointed time. Mick and Brian would arrive at around eight and then it was just a matter of waiting for Keith. This delay could be anything from half an hour to six in the morning. No one ever said anything, knowing it was pointless and accepting this as the status quo. We would get on as best we could until he arrived, reviewing what we had been doing or overdubbing Mick or Brian on tracks that required more work.
In the early days, Brian’s ability to get a tune out of almost any instrument that was lying around the studio contributed enormously to the variety of the sound of the band, playing the recorder on “Ruby Tuesday” or finding a set of marimbas left by a session percussionist and coming up with the part for “Under My Thumb” that relentlessly drove the song. Brian was the king of the riff, “The Last Time” being a classic example, although it was Keith that came up with the instantly recognizable line for “Satisfaction.” Neither would be considered a lead guitarist, so there was rarely any improvisation, with everything worked out to the last note, and Brian complementing Keith’s exceptional rhythm with a variety of sounds.
Mick and Keith very often used the studio to write. One or the other would turn up with the bare bones of an idea. Typically, Keith might have a few bars of a chord sequence that he would sit and play over and over again for hours on end, with Bill and Charlie playing along, providing invaluable support with an extraordinary degree of patience. Brian and either Stu or Nicky Hopkins would join in, trying different ideas and instrumentation. As the song took shape, Mick would leave the control room, where he had been paying attention to the sound with me, and join in, singing along, developing a melody while muttering the odd word of nonsensical lyric. Eventually I would start recording and playing back their efforts in order for all involved to refine what they were doing under strict direction from Mick and Keith and either Andrew Oldham or, later, Jimmy Miller. This process would have been fascinating to be part of if it hadn’t taken so long. Very often the adrenaline rush and excitement of what they were creating had long since evaporated by the time we arrived at a take that was acceptable to Keith. As absurd as this sounds, there were many occasions where earlier takes were far better than the master that was chosen. However, this did not seem to adversely affect the popularity of the song in question. The point I make is, they were even better than some of their records would suggest.
All Keith wanted to do was play. The only communication with me was in the form of a negative comment if he did not like some aspect of the sound. I knew everything was okay if he said nothing. In all the years I worked for them, he never said hello or good-bye or showed any interest in my well-being, as he had absolutely no interest in small talk. His living in a chemically induced state was the norm, so I never took it personally.
Although Andrew Oldham and then Jimmy Miller did a sterling job creating the environment for the band to work in and certainly contributed to the production, Mick and Keith really produced the records they made. Jimmy would sit in his chair smoking huge spliffs all night, rocking backward and forward in time to the music. He had excellent judgment of feel and sound and was a pleasure to work with but on occasion was too stoned to be of constructive use.
Andrew quit as the band’s producer during the making of Their Satanic Majesties Request, jumping from what had already become a rudderless ship.
The bottom of the pit came one evening when I arrived to find two huge flight cases of percussion instruments being delivered to the studio. As each member of the band arrived, they were instructed by Mick to choose something from the large selection. Having randomly decided on a tempo, they proceeded to hit, shake, or scrape percussion with no shape or sequence or any other form of musical accompaniment. Each take, lasting anything up to fifteen minutes, would then be played back and scrutinized, and yet another would be done, identical in its chaos to all the others until they got bored and accepted one as a master. This became the unadulterated drivel that was “Sing This All Together.” Not their finest hour.
When the pain of Satanic Majesties Request had finally subsided, Mick told me that they had decided to go back to using a producer and that they wanted an American. I shuddered at the thought of some unknown-quantity Yank coming in with ego and guns blazing, telling me how to do my job. A few weeks earlier I had met Jimmy Miller, who was working with Traffic in the next studio to me at Olympic. He seemed like a really nice guy and was doing a great job, so I told Mick that he did not have to import anyone as there was already an extremely accomplished guy in London. Mick and Keith checked him out and he got the job. Never knowing that it was me who recommended him, the first thing he did was replace me with Eddie Kramer to engineer. Fortunately this only lasted a few days before the band insisted on bringing me back.
While Keith, Charlie, and Bill drove the band rhythmically, Mick’s energy and
intellect drove everything else. I was constantly amazed by his skill as a songwriter and by the extraordinary energy he managed to summon for his vocal performances in the studio.
Both Mick and Keith would take an active part in the mixing process and drove me nuts making me mix a track for hours when I felt I had got it in the first couple of passes. We certainly did not always agree. I guess it would have been even more boring if we had. There were a couple of occasions when finally putting the album together I would play back earlier mixes that I had done on my own, to compare with the one they had chosen after hours of farting around, and in the cold light of day they would agree that mine were better. Equally, there were many occasions when they insisted on me changing a mix quite drastically from the way I heard it, with great effect.
Working with the Stones for all those years certainly had some amazing moments and I am proud to have been associated with them during a period of time when their music was so influential. However, Charlie summed it up perfectly when asked in a recent interview his experience of being in the band for fifty years. He replied, “Ten years of working and forty years of hanging around.”
Stones European Tour, Spring 1967
So, this was the first tour the Stones had done since Keith had stolen Brian’s girlfriend, Anita Pallenberg, along with his chauffeur, Tom Keylock. In fact, I doubt if they had seen each other or even spoken to each other since that event.
We were all told to meet up at the check-in desk at Heathrow to collect our tickets prior to boarding the flight to Stockholm for the first gig. As I walked up to the assembled melee in front of the desk, Mick approached me, took me to one side, and asked if I would carry his stash for him. After getting a brusque refusal from me, he looked around for an alternative. Brian was the next to arrive, so Mick made a beeline for him and asked him the same question. Brian agreed, took the small silver package, and shoved it down his trousers into his underpants. I can only think this was in order to ingratiate himself to Mick.
We arrived at Stockholm airport and made our way through immigration to the customs hall. There, we were greeted by what appeared to be the entire Swedish media. The customs officers were waiting behind a long, low metal table and behind them stood a wall of film, still and TV cameras. The Swedish government had decided to use the Stones’ arrival to send a message about its intolerance to drugs. It looked like they had gone to a great deal of trouble, setting up the customs hall so as to allow the best possible view for the cameras and reporters. Not at all the reception the band had envisaged.
One by one we were stood in front of a customs officer with our bags placed in front of us on the shiny metal–covered bench. The tour was to last several weeks, so as you can imagine, there was an immense amount of luggage to go through. Stu and I and Tom Keylock were dealt with very quickly. They were not very interested in us and anyway we had very little luggage in comparison to the band, who had stage finery by the trunkload to go through. Once they were finished with us, we sat on our bags about fifteen yards away, watching the band being searched in front of us. Brian hung back. The others all left the customs area immediately after they were finished with. So after a while he was the only one left. He stood there, a rather pathetic figure, with much of the color drained from his face, nervously shifting from one foot to the other while a team of customs men went through his stuff. I told Stu and Tom what he had down his underpants, so the three of us sat and nervously waited with bated breath. Suddenly Tom nudged me and whispered, “Look, down by his feet,” and there, on the floor where Brian stood, was the little silver package, in full view to us on our side of the bench. It had slipped, accidentally or not, out of his underpants, down the inside of his trousers, and was now in full view. Tom got up and casually strolled over to Brian, put his hand on his shoulder as if to comfort him, engaged him in conversation, and calmly bent down and picked up the offending package, put it in his pocket, and returned to where we were sitting. Whereupon we decided to make our exit, knowing Brian was now going to be okay. The route from the customs hall out to the main concourse was a long corridor with potted palms on either side. It seemed to take an eternity as we attempted to walk casually along it, trying to look like we had not a care in the world, Tom having deposited the package in one of the pots.
Tom now had the job of head of security. Brian spent the rest of the tour separated from the band. He was not in good shape anyway, his problems with drugs and alcohol having taken their toll to such an extent that he could hardly hold a chord down on a guitar. The innovative input he originally contributed to the band had all but disappeared. The worse he got the less anyone wanted to have anything to do with him. He became isolated and quite lonely. I must say I felt sorry for him in the end, although I suppose he only had himself to blame.
• • •
A few days later, Stu and I were traveling from Denmark to northern Germany with all the Stones’ gear in the back of an ordinary VW van. The day we left England the starter motor broke. So every time we had to start the van, I had to push it, while Stu sat in the driver’s seat and steered. By the time we got to the ferry to cross from Sweden to Germany, I had this down to a fine art and we could start the van in a very few yards. Which was essential on a packed ferry.
As we drove south toward the coast, Stu’s mood visibly darkened for no apparent reason. On arrival at the ferry, we boarded and went straight to the first-class restaurant for lunch, during which Stu’s mood continued to plummet. I couldn’t understand it. When we finished eating, he asked the young German waiter for the bill in an extremely surly manner, and it was duly brought. Stu took out his enormously thick leather wallet from its lifelong resting place in the permanently stretched hip pocket of his jeans, grabbed the bill, and while counting out the precise amount written on it, announced to the waiter, “You’re not getting any more than this. Because of you lot, I didn’t get any bananas until I was seven.” I collapsed under the table in hysterics. The poor, unfortunate youth got the brunt of Stu’s hangover from his childhood in the war. He had been boiling over all morning at the thought of having to go to Germany. The waiter had no idea what Stu was talking about and simply stood there in amazement until summarily dismissed.
The ferry docked and we drove off, having completed our well-rehearsed “push start” routine, much to the amusement of the deckhands. Now, as we were taking equipment into and then out of Germany, we had a carnet. This is an official commercial document for customs purposes with an extremely accurate and detailed description of every item on the van, which is checked as you leave the country to make sure you leave with exactly what you arrived with. This, in our view, made us the equivalent of a commercial vehicle. As we came off the ferry there were two lines of vehicles to the customs and immigration area—one for cars and one for trucks or commercial vehicles. The line for cars was extremely long and the line for trucks was empty. So we proceeded down past the long line of cars to an immigration official standing outside his little hut. I should say at this point that this was a man of extremely stunted growth, and like so many of his counterparts he was a textbook example of a small man with a power complex. He stepped out of his little shed, waving his stubby little arms. “Go back. Go back!” he screamed in German. Stu pulled up alongside him, already amused by the sight of an extremely upset German. There ensued a conversation about the rights and wrongs of us being in the line that we were in, with Stu speaking in English and the overexcited German in his native tongue. The long and the short of it was, we were made to return to the end of the private-car queue until we eventually reached the same official some ten or fifteen minutes later. He walked round to Stu’s window and demanded our passports and disappeared with them. Meanwhile, Stu and I went into the customs office with the carnet. Behind a waist-high counter were standing two jackbooted customs guys. They took the carnet from Stu and were in the process of inspecting it when through the door burst our stunted friend with his superior off
icer who stood in the middle of the room, scrambled egg up his arm and on his cap, and proceeded to berate Stu in German while waving our passports in the air. I have no idea what the literal translation is but the gist of it was that he had received a complaint from his sawn-off compatriot about our attitude. He gave Stu back our passports and told us to go back the way we came. Stu opened his passport and noticed a stamp in it that he did not recognize. He asked in English what it meant, only to be told that he would find out when he got back to Denmark and that he should not come to Germany unless he could speak the language. So Stu demanded to know what was in his passport and said that he wasn’t going anywhere until he had been told. He wasn’t rude, he was firm, and much to my surprise he began speaking in fluent German. At this point the vertically challenged one leapt across the room, nightstick in hand, and tried to beat Stu over the head. However, Stu was too quick for him. He grabbed the guy’s wrist to prevent him from striking, and continued to address the senior officer as if nothing was amiss, with the diminutive German flailing around on the end of Stu’s arm like a rag doll. Pandemonium broke out. The two jackbooted gentlemen came from behind the counter with the speed of light. They stood on either side of me and in one seamless movement shoved a pistol up my nose, picked me up, took me outside, and placed me in the van, with me all the time calling in an ever higher pitch, “Stu, Stu, Stu.” Meanwhile, Stu hadn’t moved an inch. He was immensely strong and throughout this episode seemed to remain completely calm. The commander of the post was screaming at him, as was the guy on the end of his arm, while Stu continued to quietly demand in German to know what the stamp in his passport meant.
I don’t mind admitting I was very frightened. I called out to Stu to “let it go”—both his demand to know what the stamp meant and the immigration officer—and to get into the van so we could leave before the situation got any worse. So he quietly let go of the German official and walked slowly to the van without saying a word, got in, and—with me pushing from behind—started the engine, turned the van around, and drove back to the ferry.
