by Glyn Johns
The fire department arrived and dealt with the problem by bravely sending firemen up into the roof space from inside the building, while we all stood in the street, watching the flames leap into the night sky.
Incredibly, the studio was operational by the following afternoon when Keith Grant had an orchestral session. We followed him in at 7:30 in the evening, and other than the smell of fire and the blackened hole in the ceiling, the previous night’s drama was soon forgotten. It still gives me the creeps whenever I hear that song.
The rest of the year was taken up with finishing the Humble Pie album, recording the first McGuinness Flint album, and making the first of two albums with Boz Scaggs in San Francisco. He was signed to CBS, and in those days they had the ridiculous union policy of only allowing their engineers to record the product for their label, having only just agreed to let their artists record in a studio of their choice rather than one that belonged to the company. As I always engineered what I produced, this was a bit of a problem that was only overcome by the generosity of the guy they sent to San Francisco to do the sessions, who happily agreed to sit at the back of the room for the duration. This restrictive practice, plus the fact that they paid considerably less in royalties than anyone else in the business, kept me well away from them after I had finished with Boz.
This eventually resulted in me being invited to New York by Clive Davis in order for him to convince me that I was making a huge mistake by refusing to work for CBS. He was running the company and was well on the way to his “guru” status in the industry and more especially in his own eyes. I have never met anyone with quite such a high opinion of himself. He told me that even though CBS paid a third less than anyone else in the industry at that time I would make more money with them, as they sold more records than anyone else. Summoning teams of sycophantic administrators to unravel piles of royalty statements from Janis Joplin’s latest release on the desk in front of me in his palatial office to prove the point. I could not wait to leave, returning to my hotel feeling like I needed a long hot shower. All he managed to do was confirm that my original decision was correct.
By now, many studios were beginning to modernize. Most of the great rooms had been built in the fifties and early sixties, and as methods of recording changed with the advent of more and more tracks becoming available to record on, the consoles were becoming outdated and the transistor was taking over from valves, changing the sound. The transistor was much smaller, so the new equipment could be made more compact, and as a result much more could be crammed in, and it was far more reliable, not generating the heat that tubes do. As with most modernization, there was a price to pay. The musicality and warmth of recorded sound suffered, and the equipment became more and more complex. Unnecessarily so, in my view.
I was asked by Jerry Wexler at Atlantic Records to have a meeting with him in New York regarding the redesign of their studio. Jerry was a legend in the music business and had played a major role in the success of Atlantic Records as a staff producer, working closely with the founders of the label, Ahmet and Nesuhi Ertegun. He is credited with inventing the phrase “rhythm and blues” when working as a journalist at Billboard magazine before starting with Atlantic in 1953 at the age of forty-six.
I had never used the studio but it had a fantastic reputation. Countless wonderful records had been made there with artists like Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles, John Coltrane, and Charlie Mingus, to name just a few. Great jazz and R&B records, representing an entire era of popular American music, had been absorbed by the walls of those rooms.
The genius engineer and producer Tom Dowd had been on the staff for years. As a result, they were always ahead of everyone else technically, being the first studio to record in stereo and the first to use multitrack recording. So I arrived for the meeting with some trepidation, having never met Jerry and feeling like I was stepping on hallowed ground as I entered the building. Jerry Wexler proved to be charming and soon put me at ease, showing me round the studio while explaining that they had come to the decision that it should be updated to keep up with the latest trends in recording. I respectfully made a few suggestions about equipment and control room layout but told him that in my opinion it would be sacrilege to touch the rooms, as I was already finding it more and more difficult to find facilities that were suited to the kind of live recording that I did. I was incredibly flattered to have been sought out by Jerry and Tom Dowd for my input, as minimal as it turned out to be.
I can only assume that the reason they had contacted me was because of my work with the Stones and the fact that I had just made the first Led Zeppelin album, which Atlantic had recently acquired for release. If that was the case, what they seemed not to grasp was that this supposedly new rock and roll sound came from the musicians, not from any new innovative recording process.
Studios that were built in the next twenty years invariably incorporated design that led to the complete isolation of musicians and their instruments, one from another. This, along with the ability to overdub on an ever-increasing number of tracks, was the seed that eventually became the common practice of layering—recording one instrument at a time. In the old days, existing buildings were converted, and acoustics of the rooms were adjusted by trial and error by the engineers that were using them. The new breed of designers used engineers to supposedly create the perfect acoustic environment, resulting invariably with rooms with no character or individuality and that had very little to do with musicality. Having started when everything had to be recorded at once, I have never lost the value of musicians interacting with one another as they play. This can be so subtle, and invariably is nothing more than a subconscious emotive reaction to what others are playing around you, with what you are contributing having the same effect on them. When a musician overdubs his or her part onto an existing track, this ceases to be a two-way reaction. With only the musician who is added being affected by what he or she is playing to. Recording equipment was originally designed to capture the performance of a piece of music. Now it influences the way music is written and performed.
No process should stand still, and I take my hat off to those who have contributed to the modern methods of recording. Undoubtedly, the creative process has benefited enormously in many ways. My only plea is that the methods I was taught are not ignored and forgotten, as this would be a great loss to the recorded performance of contemporary music of any era.
The Who and Neil Young, 1971
No one should ever underestimate the influence that Pete Townshend has had on popular music. There is no question in my mind that both he and The Who were every bit as influential as The Beatles and the Stones as the UK invasion took America and the rest of the world by storm. He was equally as innovative as a musician and lyricist, finding a way to state the feelings of the mod generation he and the band represented. The combination of these four unlikely cohorts interpreting Pete’s writing was something to behold, each of them contributing in his own original way. The seemingly uncontrolled explosion of energy they produced, glued together by exceptional musicianship.
In January ’71, I returned from L.A. to find that Pete Townshend had written to me, asking if I would be interested in helping him with his next project, a film and a soundtrack album he had written called Lifehouse. He enclosed a script and the demos of the songs he had written.
I had waited years for this invitation. I had known the band from the beginning when they were called The High Numbers. They were on the same circuit as The Presidents, and on odd occasion we were on the same bill. This resulted in us forming a mutual appreciation society and me forming a friendly connection with Pete. So you can imagine my surprise and pleasure when a couple of years later they turned up along with Shel Talmy at IBC as The Who with a revolutionary new sound and me as the engineer. I was lucky enough to record a few of the early singles they did with Shel, including “My Generation.”
When Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp took over
their management, they took issue with Shel’s contract to produce them, with it eventually ending up in court, where I appeared as a witness for Shel. This was a difficult decision to make, as I was asked to appear for both sides of the dispute. In those days it was quite normal for a producer to have a contract that lasted several years, the principle being that he would have helped establish the act with his expertise and therefore was entitled to a royalty for the term of the contract, whether he continued working with them or not. I took Shel’s side based on the fact that they were breaking an agreement without any fault on Shel’s part, as far as I could see. As a result, The Who and I went our separate ways, until a few years later when I ran into them at an NME Awards show at Wembley Arena in London. Roger Daltrey came over to say hi and explained that as a result of me taking Shel’s side in the lawsuit they had lost, since a major part of their case for breaking the contract was based on the fact that I was producing the sessions and therefore Shel was not. I had no idea that was the case, but I still feel I made the right decision, although it did return to bite me in the arse, as when it came time for me to negotiate my deal as their producer a few years later, I was given a much reduced royalty, because as Shel had won the case, he still had a piece of the action. At least that was the reason I was given by an extremely pissed-off Kit Lambert, who I was replacing in the job. It transpired that there had already been an aborted attempt at recording the album in New York, with Kit producing.
So having finally been approached by Pete to produce the band, I willingly agreed to his suggestion to meet up at his house with him, Roger Daltrey, Keith Moon, John Entwistle, and Bill Curbishley, who was representing the management, to discuss how to proceed with the project. We started to talk about the film, and feeling totally inadequate, I owned up to the fact that I did not understand the story in the script. Embarrassingly, one by one, everyone else in the room said the same. This was pointed out with much respect to Pete, and I certainly saw it as my failure and not a criticism of what he had written. There seemed to be little appetite for the film from the band and it was agreed that the movie should be dropped and that we go ahead with the album, as the material would stand up on its own with or without the movie.
The demos that Pete had sent us were amazing. Unlike so many demos, these left very little to the imagination. Great songs. Beautifully recorded with complex arrangements, and instrumentation featuring the innovative use of synthesizers. The very fact that he figured out how to get one to work in those early days, never mind use it as effectively as he did, has always amazed me. He had a studio at home and had become an extremely accomplished engineer. Throughout my involvement with the band I was permanently intimidated by Pete’s demos, as I was constantly challenged to make what we did sound as good or better than the original. Very often I would steal elements from his original recording and use them as a track for the band to play to.
The day after the meeting at Pete’s house I went to L.A. to master the Humble Pie album I had just finished, wrap up my work on the Joe Cocker Mad Dogs & Englishmen movie, and mix something for the Stones at Sunset Sound before returning home to start mixing Songs for Beginners for Graham Nash. Having released their number-one album Déjà Vu the previous year, featuring that extraordinary blend of four completely different voices, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young all went their separate ways and made equally successful solo albums, writing and performing their own songs. Their contribution to the evolution of popular music being all the more extraordinary with each of them having been in groundbreaking bands before they got together. Stephen and Neil coming from Buffalo Springfield, Graham Nash from The Hollies, and David Crosby from The Byrds.
I enjoyed working with Graham, being really impressed by his solo efforts and getting to know him much better over the three days it took to mix his album, and it was by complete coincidence that I went to Barking Town Hall in London the next day to record “A Man Needs a Maid” and “There’s a World” with Neil Young and the London Symphony Orchestra for what became the Harvest album. We used the Stones’ mobile recording unit, or the Stones Truck as it became known. This is one of the few occasions I got to record a symphony orchestra, having witnessed it on many occasions when I was training. I am not quite sure what the orchestra made of the disheveled, somewhat unkempt character that sat down at the piano at ten a.m. that morning, although on a visit to the men’s room during the first union break, I did overhear some disparaging remarks from two members of the orchestra while standing at the urinal.
Jack Nitzsche, the American producer, arranger, musician, and songwriter, had done the arrangements, and during the first run-through of “A Man Needs a Maid,” it became apparent that conducting a symphony orchestra was not one of his many talents. It was a mess. Jack’s method was entirely out of sync with these classical guys, and as the last chord died away, the room was filled with an ominous, somewhat disgruntled murmuring from the orchestra. A male violinist in the second fiddles put his hand up and asked Jack politely if he could approach. I jumped out of the truck and ran into the hall, getting to the conductor’s podium just as the man arrived, thinking I could arbitrate should that become necessary. The man was charming and politely whispered to Jack that it was apparent that he did not have any experience conducting a symphony orchestra, and offered to take over, as he was a conductor. Jack readily agreed, and with much relief stepped down, giving his baton to the violinist. From then on, the session went like a dream, the results being there for all to hear. It was a fabulous experience, made all the better by it being with Neil and the two wonderful songs he wrote.
The Stones at the Marquee Club
The rest of March 1971 was taken up with starting and completing the second album with McGuinness Flint and recording the Stones live in concert at a couple of venues around the UK and for a TV show that never saw the light of day. The Stones played a gig at the famous Marquee Club on Wardour Street in London’s Soho for the sole purpose of producing a TV show of them playing live.
The choice of venue was perfect, as it was a small club, famous for promoting the start of the blues movement in England. Nearly everyone who was anyone had played there at the beginning of their career, including the Stones on several occasions. They had done a deal with a small production company that provided the crew and equipment, and I was required to record the sound, once again using the Stones’ mobile truck.
We arrived at midday to set up, ready for a three p.m. start. The place was packed with an audience brimming with anticipation at seeing their favorite band up close for the first time in years. At three p.m. everyone was there and ready to go except Keith Richards. No surprise there. He eventually arrived, having to barge his way through the audience to get to the stage, as the only way in was through the front of the building. So after a long wait we were ready to go. The band was a few minutes into the set when an irate Harold Pendleton, the owner of the club, came pushing through the crowd, screaming something about how his Marquee Club signs had been moved and were not in shot. This supposedly had been part of the agreement with him allowing the place to be used for the show. Not many people I ever met liked Harold very much, and Keith saw his opportunity to settle old scores and threatened to flatten him with his guitar if he did not leave. So Harold retreated back into the crowd, not to be seen again that day.
The next interruption came with a loud banging on the door of my truck, which when opened revealed a large policeman demanding to know whose car it was that had been left in the middle of the street with the engine running. It turned out to belong to Keith. Having arrived as late as he did and not finding a parking place, he just got out of the car, leaving it where it was in the middle of the street, and went into the club. By the time he had fought his way to the stage, he had completely forgotten to tell anyone to go and park it for him. It must have been there for at least twenty minutes and was causing chaos to the traffic in Soho.
From there on, things seemed to be
going okay until they got about forty minutes into the set, when they were to play “Wild Horses.” Keith took his twelve-string guitar and sat down with his legs dangling over the front of the stage and began to check its tuning. For the next few minutes we were treated to the sound of him struggling to get it in tune, while everyone stood patiently around, until suddenly it went quiet. I looked up at my monitor in the truck to see Keith sitting with the guitar in his hands and his head dropped down on his chest, asleep.
Mick immediately announced that it was all over. The performance was finished. The disappointed audience was ushered out. I went in with my crew and packed up our gear. After around an hour or so, with the TV crew in the final throes of striking their equipment, Mick, Charlie, and I were standing on the stage with our coats on, discussing what we would do the following day, when all of a sudden we heard the sound of a twelve-string guitar being tuned. Keith, who had not moved and had been completely ignored by everyone since falling asleep, had woken up and continued tuning as if nothing had happened, completely oblivious to the fact that the houselights were on and the place was empty, all but for the few remaining members of the TV crew packing up.
Who’s Next
The previous year, 1970, the Stones had started recording at Mick Jagger’s house out in the country, near Newbury. By this time, the Stones Truck was fully operational and we used the huge entrance hall of the Victorian pile that was Stargroves to record several tracks that were eventually used on Sticky Fingers. I had mentioned to Pete Townshend in conversation that these sessions had gone really well, so he suggested that we go there to start recording Who’s Next.
We began on the first day with “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” Not a bad way to start. With Pete’s permission, I edited the synthesizer track from his original demo, as it was a little too long, and played it in to the band in the studio. They performed live to it with remarkable skill, the synthesizer dictating a constant tempo for every bar of the song, with them staying locked relentlessly to it throughout. Roger Daltrey’s powerful vocal equaled the energy of the band, capping the whole thing off with that amazing scream just before the end of the song.
