by Glyn Johns
I was twenty-six years old and had spent the previous eight years working with some great, and one or two not so great, producers, in an era that never even considered the idea of an engineer producing. Knowing that I was contributing to the production in varying degrees on some of the sessions, without the credit or remuneration, did not trouble me one bit. Perhaps I felt that I would get my chance sooner or later. I got to work with some amazing people. It was a great apprenticeship and I have never regretted a second of it.
We made the record in the remaining two weeks. Steve and the band were fantastic and responded very positively to the new regime. They were the perfect artist for my first production, being willing to try absolutely anything with great enthusiasm. I think Steve was quite relieved to lose the responsibility of producing and immediately benefitted from just being the artist and bandleader. As for me, I had a blast. Trying out ideas I had stored away over the years that had seemed too outrageous or ridiculous for the artists and producers I had been working for. I used sound effects for the first time, digging out stuff I had recorded as a junior at IBC. I would be sent out with a portable Nagra tape recorder on dead days at the studio and told to record sound effects for the library. I found a recording I had done on the Bakerloo line of a journey on the Tube I’d recorded as an excuse to get home early one day. If you listen, you can hear the platform attendant shouting “Mind the doors!” as they rumble shut and the train pulls out of the Oxford Circus station. I have no idea now why I used this effect as it seems to have no relevance to the track, but then neither does the title, “The Beauty of Time Is That It’s Snowing (Psychedelic B.B.).” I suspect I was just trying to “outweird” Steve.
This record was the first and only time I used a stereo cross-fade. The incoming track starting on the right and pushing the outgoing track off to the left as it faded in. I’ve tried it a couple of times since but have never been able to get it to work as effectively.
Much to my relief, Steve, the band, the wives and girlfriends, Capitol Records, and even Harvey Kornspan were all very pleased with the end result, as was I and a few hundred thousand others.
Brian Jones and the Gnawa, 1968
1968 started out with a flurry of an extraordinary mixture of artists. Working six-day weeks very often with two artists a day, starting with Peter, Paul and Mary one day, the Small Faces the next. The odd jingle for Mike Sammes, a few days with the French star Johnny Hallyday, more all-nighters with the Small Faces, then sessions with Joe Cocker, Procol Harum, Georgie Fame, and the Steve Miller Band, and a live album at the Marquee Club with The Move.
In March, with the completion of Children of the Future behind me, Brian Jones asked me to go to Morocco with him to record a tribe from the Atlas Mountains, the Gnawa, who were to be found playing in the market square in Marrakech at that time of the year.
He was friends with Paul Getty, Jr., who had the most wonderful palace right in the middle of the city, where we were invited to stay. Although I had reservations about my relationship with Brian, I decided to throw caution to the wind and, having never been outside Europe, decided to take the opportunity to go on what could be an intriguing adventure.
The Gnawa were a group of about fifteen male musicians ranging from a young teenager right up to an elderly man who was their leader and led the call-and-answer chants that they all sang while creating the most complex percussive rhythms. Two of the older men played large drums hung from straps over their shoulders, beating them with long, curved sticks, while the rest played large metal castanets. They all dressed in identical white kaftans, creating music, and I am sure a message, with just harmony singing and percussion. Brian’s idea was to record the rhythms and chants of this tribe and then go to New York and overdub black American blues and soul musicians on top. Thereby combining the old and the new influences of African music.
We flew to Rabat and were met there by a toothless man with an ancient Cadillac limousine that had definitely seen better days, having most recently been used to keep chickens in, and were driven to Marrakech, where we were met with the spectacle of a national festival of some sort. Tribes had assembled from the desert and were camped in carpeted tents just outside the walls of the city where they proceeded to stage camel races and mock battles on horseback. Charging at each other at full gallop. Quite a sight to perceive.
Paul and his beautiful wife Talitha greeted us, soon making me feel at ease in what could have been a rather awkward situation. I had never met either of them before and therefore was an unknown quantity as a houseguest.
I shall always remember waking up on my first morning to the sun streaming in through a beautiful stained-glass window set high in the wall, just under the ceiling some twenty feet above me. The bed was set into an alcove and was covered with fur throws and silk cushions of every hue. This was the height of luxury. I got up, showered, and went outside to be ushered by a member of staff to a stunning walled courtyard with a sunken garden in the center. There, a table had been laid and I was served breakfast with fresh orange juice from the trees in front of me. It is funny how you remember such small details, but memories so often relate to taste and smell. This was the first time I had ever eaten fresh oranges, having lived in England all my life. I had no idea that there was even a difference.
Brian had somehow managed to score as soon as we arrived and spent the entire time that we were there stoned out of his box. So I took my tape recorder into the square and got on with the job of recording the Gnawa and the amazing assortment of musicians performing there, all with the most extraordinary homemade instruments. One man sat cross-legged on the ground, singing and playing a three-stringed instrument made from a wooden cigar box that had a short pole attached to it with a small metal feather stuck on the top that vibrated every time he struck a string, creating his own percussion. Another guy played a brake drum with a rusty wrench. There were snake charmers, magicians, jugglers, and acrobats all performing in the square, interspersed with musicians in small groups or solo. Not one played any instrument that I recognized. This made for the most extraordinary cacophony of sight and sound.
Brian did not accompany me on any of my sojourns into the town. He was just stoned the whole time, so I had a blast, exploring the place on my own. Talitha very kindly took me to the market one morning to help me pick out a kaftan for my wife. She and Paul could not have been more hospitable.
Paul decided that we should invite the Gnawa to dinner and get them to perform for us in the banqueting hall of the palace. This was a vast room with archways around the perimeter framing rectangular seating areas littered with furs and multicolored cushions and a table in the middle. The walls and ceiling were covered with the most exquisite wooden marquetry. The whole experience was like something out of a movie. The Gnawa said they would be more comfortable eating outside in the courtyard, and having done so joined us inside and gave us an inspired performance that I was able to record without the superfluous noise that had been present in the market square. It was an evening I shall never forget.
The following morning I was due to return to London for a session, leaving Brian to his own devices in Marrakech. As I was preparing to leave, Paul came to my room and politely asked if I could get Brian off the premises and back to London with me. I could see that he was trying to contain his fury as he explained that Brian had somehow managed to break the telephone in his room. It had taken some months to get it installed and was almost certainly going to take the same amount of time to get it repaired. I explained that I was not Brian’s keeper but would do what I could, going straight to Brian’s room, waking him, and informing him in no uncertain terms that he was no longer welcome and we should leave immediately. Fortunately he was compliant and we left for London that morning. Brian with his tail between his legs, full of apologies, and me somewhat embarrassed by association. The trip did nothing for my already strained relationship with him, but was a wonderful experience on every oth
er level.
I don’t think Brian ever used what I had recorded. I know that he did return to the Atlas Mountains to record, but I don’t think he ever attempted his idea of mixing the results with African American musicians.
I arrived back in London and went straight to Olympic for a Procol Harum session till three a.m. No peace for the wicked. The following weeks were taken up with the Small Faces’ Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake, the only album that I know of that was released in a circular cover. Then the wonderful Pentangle album with Terry Cox, Bert Jansch, Jacqui McShee, John Renbourn and Danny Thompson, produced by Shel Talmy; Shine on Brightly with Procol Harum and The Move’s first album for Denny Cordell; the Stones; and a Family album, produced by John Gilbert, the son of Lewis Gilbert, who was the director of most of the early Bond movies.
Then, at the end of April, came my first trip to California.
California, 1968
In the spring of 1968, Shel Talmy needed to make a trip to America. As he was almost legally blind, he found it difficult to travel alone, so he asked me to accompany him. This turned out to be another turning point in my career, as he quietly introduced me to the music business in the U.S. I was really naive, and although I had been to New York for a few days working with the Stones, I had no real experience in America at all.
We flew to New York, where Shel’s lawyer, Marty Machat, offered to represent me in the States. Marty and his partner Eric Kronfeld proved to be very helpful when I started doing business there shortly thereafter, as I didn’t have a clue and had previously never needed legal representation. Once again I was indebted to Shel for the introduction. My impression of New York as we left for Los Angeles a few days later was that, although architecturally breathtaking, it was full of the rudest people I had ever come across. And I was quite glad to get out of there.
Shel had booked us into the Beverly Hills Hotel and rented a black convertible Cadillac with a white interior. Sounds revolting now but back then it was the epitome of the luxurious Californian lifestyle I’d seen in movies. I could not believe my luck. What a grand way to arrive on your first trip to L.A. The first thing I noticed getting out of the car at the hotel was that wonderful sweet smell in the air that has become synonymous for me with Los Angeles. Strange, really, because in those days Los Angeles had the most massive problem with pollution, which you’d think would supersede any pleasant scent in the air.
Having checked in, Shel said he was going to get an early night, so I jumped in the car, put the roof down, asked the doorman which way was west, and drove along Sunset for my first view of the Pacific Ocean, taking in the somewhat obscene display of wealth represented in the houses on either side of the road.
On the way back, I called to see the screenwriter Robert Towne. I had met him in Madrid in 1967. He had just finished shooting Bonnie and Clyde and had taken himself off to Europe for a vacation. He was unlike any American I had met. Immaculately dressed, softly spoken, and quite the sophisticated gentleman. You would never imagine that he had anything to do with Hollywood and its excesses.
A few weeks after we had met, he came to London and rented a small house in a mews in Mayfair. I enjoyed his company and found him most interesting, as he was involved in a business I knew very little about. He in turn seemed fascinated by what I was doing and who I was doing it with. So, having become firm friends, I was under strict instructions to contact him on my arrival in L.A.
He was living in a California ranch–style house up in the hills behind the hotel on the top of Benedict Canyon with spectacular views of the city to the south and the valley to the north. The house was comfortable and uncomplicated, having a typical relaxed bachelor feel to it. I imagined it being a fabulous secluded environment for him to write in.
The next few days were spent accompanying Shel to meetings with various record companies around town where I got to meet most of the guys who were running the music business on the West Coast. The introductions he made gave me a whole new insight to the music business and opened the door to my future in America, where I was welcomed with open arms.
• • •
Whenever I returned to Los Angeles over the next couple of years, Robert would take me to the cool restaurants and clubs in Beverly Hills, introducing me to his friends and associates from the movie business as we went. All very heady stuff for a twenty-six-year-old from Epsom. He took me to dinner with the genius director Arthur Penn and his lovely wife, Peggy. What an unassuming, charming man he turned out to be, and one Sunday morning Robert invited me to go with him to the regular weekly drinks party at Roman Polanski’s house. He and his stunningly beautiful and extremely pregnant wife, Sharon Tate, could not have been more hospitable, making me feel most welcome. It was with some horror that six weeks later I read she had been brutally murdered along with four friends by Charles Manson at that same house in Benedict Canyon.
Sailor, 1968
The night before I returned to L.A. in June, Steve Miller rang to say that he had decided to change the name of the band to Sailor and that he wanted the record to be a concept album reflecting the new name. I don’t know if Sgt. Pepper had any influence on this decision or not but I somehow think it might have done. This was a little disconcerting, as we were to start recording in a few days and this was the first I had heard of the idea.
It was not for me to take issue with an artist that wanted to change the name of his band or make a concept album, for that matter. My job was to help him achieve whatever he wanted, within reason. I was sure that when we got together the following day in L.A. all would make sense. We met in my hotel room and Steve arrived with a large roll of paper that he ceremoniously spread across the bed. He took a pencil and began drawing wavy lines along the length of the paper, explaining that this was his visual interpretation of what he wanted the album to be. I realized I was in trouble. I had become fond of Steve, and we had developed a really good working relationship. Thinking that I was at fault for not understanding, I changed the subject and told him of an idea that I’d had on the plane on the way over, which was to start the album with an instrumental with sound effects that could, with some considerable stretch of the imagination, suggest the returning to home port of a sailor. The songs that followed could reflect the changes, both political and romantic, that he discovers as he arrives home after being away at sea for some years.
Steve and the band liked the idea, and we started recording the next day. We went down to the San Francisco docks in the middle of a foggy night to record the eerie sound of the foghorn in the harbor that begins the album. Then I set about creating a soundscape to introduce the first track. I recorded all the guys in the band singing one note mixed with an organ, took that and sped it up and slowed it down to alter the pitch and create the notes that made up the first chord of the opening track, introducing them one by one until the chord was complete. Out of that came the instrumental, “Song for Our Ancestors,” which was written by Steve but played by Boz Scaggs. Sadly, this was to be the last album Boz would make with the Steve Miller Band, but fortunately he and I had become pals and I got to work with him on a couple of his solo albums for CBS, Moments and Boz Scaggs & Band.
Back in L.A., we moved into Wally Heider’s studio in Hollywood and cut “Living in the U.S.A.,” adding the sound of a dragster taking off from the line at the beginning and end of the song. The ballad “Dear Mary” shows Steve’s voice off to perfection. He loved to stack his voice in harmony with himself. I suspect the influence of Les Paul in there somewhere, as Les had been something of a mentor in Steve’s formative years. Steve was the first singer I had worked with to do this. He managed to achieve the most extraordinary blend with himself and I have never found anyone else to use this method so effectively.
When we had finished the record, it certainly did not retain the original concept. There was no story—that had been forgotten halfway through the sessions—and the band did not change its name. That idea
was never mentioned again. No matter. It worked anyway. The record is still considered to be one of his best. Many people over the years have asked me what drug I was on when constructing the opening sequence. This only goes to show what an extraordinary misguided idea so many people have with regard to the effects of drugs on popular music, as most find it incomprehensible to believe that I was completely straight and in fact have never taken drugs of any sort. Other than the odd aspirin.
Led Zeppelin, October 1968
Jimmy Page and I had lost touch with each other since he had joined The Yardbirds, so you can imagine my surprise when I got a call from him out of the blue to tell me that he had put a band together with our mutual friend John Paul Jones, and a drummer and singer I had never heard of. He explained that they had assembled enough material and it was their intention to make an album, hopefully with me.
I was up for it, as Jimmy and I grew up in the same town and had been pals since the early sixties, and John had been the number-one session bass player in London for years. When I was an engineer I would see him almost every day, and a nicer guy you could not wish to meet.
Knowing that anything these two had put together was bound to be pretty good, I turned up at Olympic a couple of weeks later, not having any real idea of what I was walking into. I was blown off my feet. The album that we made in the next nine days was a landmark in rock and roll history, taking it to another level altogether.
The sound they created, the arrangements they came up with, and the standard of musicianship were equally astonishing. Each session seemed to be more exciting than the last, as what they had prepared unraveled in front of me. All I had to do was press record, sit back, and try to contain the excitement of being in the same room with what was going on.
