Sound Man: A Life Recording Hits with The Rolling Stones, The Who, LedZeppelin, The Eagles, Eric Clapton, The Faces . . .

by Glyn Johns

  By the time the seventies arrived, you would expect any new act to have a large selection of songs they had written to choose from for their first album. The Eagles had a small pool of strong songs and not all written by them, producing three hit singles: “Witchy Woman,” lyrics written by Don Henley and music by Bernie Leadon; “Take It Easy,” written by Jackson Browne with assistance in one line of the lyric from Glenn Frey; and “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” written by Jack Tempchin. This was early days, and the songwriting partnership of Glenn and Don had not been established yet.

  I had a great time making the record, feeling that we were onto something pretty special, and for the most part I thought the band did, too. So they returned to the warmer temperatures of California with what I thought was going to be at the very least a Top 10 album.

  The day after I finished with the Eagles, I went straight in with Paul McCartney and Wings to cut the Red Rose Speedway album, which I quit in a puff of steam after a couple of weeks, and then went straight on to work with Ronnie Lane and Ronnie Wood on the soundtrack to the movie Mahoney’s Estate, with our friend, the actor and director Alexis Kanner.

  SETUP FOR THE EAGLES ALBUM AT OLYMPIC.

  Then out of the blue there came a hiccup. David Geffen, having lived with the Eagles’ record for a while, felt that we were one Henley vocal short. He was quite right. We had tried to cut the Jackson Browne song “Nightingale” two or three times without success, and I ran out of time and gave up on it. It never came close to working, and I felt we had given it a good shot, and ended up being quite satisfied with the record without it.

  One night at three a.m., when I’d just got home and collapsed into bed after a Ronnie Lane and Wood session, Geffen called me from L.A., asking me to go into the studio with the band again and make another attempt at cutting “Nightingale.” I explained the situation as politely as I knew how and told him, as disappointing as it was, I felt the record was finished and that although I agreed that another song from Henley would be great, it had not worked out, the performance of the song by the band never came close to being good enough after several attempts, so I had little faith in trying again and therefore could not justify the cost or the logistics involved.

  The following night he rang me again, waking me up at exactly the same time in the middle of the night, and we had the same conversation all over again as if the previous night had not happened. This was clearly an attempt to wear me down. He knew perfectly well what time it was in England. So I lost it and told him, as far as I was concerned, the matter was closed, you manage them and I’ll produce them and kindly stop ringing and waking me up in the middle of the night.

  I finished the soundtrack for the movie and the next day started nine days of sessions with The Who, recording material for what became Quadrophenia. The night we were due to finish, I took a surprise call in the control room at Olympic from Bernie Leadon. He and I had become good pals and I was really pleased to hear from him. I was soon to realize that this was not a social call, as he apologetically told me that David Geffen had insisted that they go into the studio in Los Angeles with Bill Halverson, a brilliant and popular local engineer, and make another attempt at recording “Nightingale.” This apparently had failed, and Bernie had been given the job of ringing me on behalf of the band, to own up and to ask me yet again if I would have another go at recording the song. To say I was furious is something of an understatement. I expressed my shock and disappointment for the lack of loyalty of the band and hung up the phone.

  I had six days before my next project started with the Faces in London, and I had planned to go to L.A. the following day to master a live recording for The Who.

  I arrived in Los Angeles the following afternoon and drove from the airport directly to Geffen’s office on Sunset Boulevard, still fuming from the previous night’s conversation with Bernie. I stormed into his office, rudely brushing past the objections of his assistant outside, to find that he was in the middle of a meeting with the Eagles. How convenient was this? I was able to vent my displeasure to all of them in one hit. Once I had calmed down, the band explained that they had been left no alternative by Geffen. I had refused to recut the song, and he had insisted that he would not release the album without it.

  Having poured my heart and soul into the production of this record and thinking that I had the confidence and friendship of the band in the process, I was really disappointed to find that they would go behind my back and record with someone else. This was a hard lesson to learn, but a good one. From that moment on I realized that to have too close a relationship with any artist that I was to work with was almost certainly going to lead to some sort of disappointment. Quite understandably, loyalty becomes far more difficult to maintain for an artist if they believe the future of their career is threatened in any way.

  Over the next couple of days I met with Geffen and the band, and having heard the band’s point of view along with profuse apologies, I relented and went into Wally Heider’s studio in Hollywood and recut the song. It really did not turn out any better, and my original decision to leave it off the record was correct in my opinion. Discretion being the better part of valor, not something I am noted for, I accepted the fact that the song had to go on. In order to appease Geffen.

  A distinct positive was, you did get to hear the extraordinary voice of Henley singing lead on two tracks, which was David’s whole objective.

  At the end of the day, it made little or no difference to the success of the album. I was still quite convinced that we had a massive hit on our hands, and as much as I hate to admit it, thanks to the skills of David Geffen, it was not long before we did. He went into action as soon as we started to make the record, and by the time it was released the word on the street was buzzing with anticipation about the Eagles and their album. The negative aspect of having to deal with David’s relentless attempts at getting his own way became a massive positive when he was promoting your product.

  The one benefit to come out of having to stay on in L.A. to recut the song was my being invited to go back to Topanga Corral with the band, where they were to play a charity gig. The small club was packed to capacity. We were jammed in like sardines in a tin and very uncomfortable, but it all became worth it when Joni Mitchell came to the stage. This was the first time I had seen her play live and the hairs on the back of my neck still rise when I think about it. I have never heard a voice or a delivery quite like it before or since. She was at her prime.

  The very few really great managers that I have come across in the business—Bill Curbishley, Deke Arlon, and John Silva being perfect examples—have left me and the artist alone to get on with the creative decisions regarding the making of an album, and that respect has always been reciprocated, as I would not dream of interfering with the business of the manager steering the artist’s career. Not that anyone would be in any way interested in my opinion on such matters.

  I had been treating David as a manager who was interfering in the creative process and had not taken into account the fact that he was also their record label, where he had every right to express his dissatisfaction with the finished record. This conflict of interest on his part came to a head with the band when they came to make their next record, Desperado. As their manager, he was responsible for getting the best deal possible with their record company. As he was their record company, he was negotiating with himself. Guess who won.

  The next time I was in L.A., David asked me to dinner at his house with Jac Holzman and Joni Mitchell. I am not sure to this day what the purpose of this was, but you can rest assured that there was one. It certainly was not because he enjoyed my company. It was already quite obvious that this man would do anything to get his own way. Which, as history will tell you, brought him incredible success in pretty much everything he set his mind on achieving. He has proven over and over again that his taste is remarkable in so many genres of the entertainment business. However,
his methods in achieving the end result he desired were not often pleasant.

  Jac was a hero of mine. He had started Elektra Records in the 1950s, having shown an insatiable interest in music and the recording process, and has been a major influence on both ever since. I had met him before in London with David Anderle and found him to be charming and a most interesting gentleman.

  Joni was at the top of my list of artists to produce. She was making wonderful records with Henry Lewey, another genius engineer/producer in L.A., but there was no harm in wishing.

  David knew full well my feelings about Joni, and when she left the room, intimated that if I played my cards right he might be able to facilitate my desire to work with her sometime in the future.

  To further wet my whistle, on her return he asked if she would play Jac and me a song that she had just written. I had finished an excellent dinner, seated in a large dimly lit room high up in the Hollywood Hills, with views of the city lights stretching away to the horizon, and Joni Mitchell went to the piano and gave us a private performance of her latest ballad. Whatever David had in mind, it was working. As the last chord of the song died, David suggested that Joni and I go and play pool in another room, as there was something that he wanted to discuss with Jac. I snapped back to reality, feeling a little like a child being sent off to play while the grown-ups talked. In any event, Joni and I had a good time playing pool, and after a while the four of us reconvened and the evening ended with the usual pleasantries.

  I never worked with Joni. David had no influence over who she made records with, as she has a very clear mind of her own and she had absolutely no desire to work with me. I suspect that the private conversation with Jac was a precursor to David taking over Elektra and combining it with Asylum the following year.

  Desperado and On the Border, 1973

  Henley and Frey had the idea of making a concept album about the Wild West outlaw gang the Doolin-Daltons. Bernie and I came up with a few musical links to try and tie what there was of a story together, but the concept itself soon dissipated and the strength of the songs they had written carried the record. We had a great time making it, with all the members of the band eagerly contributing to what we believed would be a popular album. I openly encouraged Bernie’s and Randy’s involvement in the process, as I could see signs of small cracks appearing while Don and Glenn forged ahead in their desire to control the destiny of the band, gently treading on the other two as they went. In any event, they were all so pleased after I had finally assembled and played it back as an entity for the first time that they carried me out of the control room on their shoulders in celebration. However, the euphoria didn’t last long as sales sadly did not reach expectations. It was the last Asylum album to be distributed by Atlantic Records. By this time, David Geffen had much bigger fish to fry. He was in the process of amalgamating his Asylum Records label with Elektra, positioning himself to get on the board of Warner Bros., and had just taken on the management of Bob Dylan. So I think he took his eye off the ball with the Eagles and they did not receive anything like the same attention from him or his label as the first record.

  Linda Ronstadt covered and had a huge hit with the title song, “Desperado,” but for some reason better known to the gods, the Eagles’ version remained an album track. It was not all doom and gloom, as we had two pretty good singles in “Tequila Sunrise” and “Outlaw Man,” and the album ended up selling a couple of million. Not to be sneezed at, in my opinion.

  The band became disillusioned. Having loved the record when we finished it, they partially blamed me for its lack of success and for it not projecting them into the stratosphere as they had expected. Another lesson learned. If a record is successful it is down to the artist. If not, it’s down to the producer. That is quite understandable, and I am sure in some cases it is quite true. Still, it’s a difficult pill to swallow when you are on the receiving end of it for the first time. Thereafter I have accepted it as a matter of course.

  So when we reconvened at Olympic in late September 1973 to start the third album, On the Border, there was already some discontent about me as the producer. Glenn Frey was increasingly frustrated by my not allowing drugs or alcohol in the studio, and Randy Meisner told me that he was unhappy with the sound I was getting. When I asked him to explain, he told me that when he heard an Eagles song on a radio station with poor reception and interference with the signal, it did not sound very good. I thought he was joking, but he was deadly serious. That is a difficult one to deal with.

  Glenn and Don wanted a harder rock sound, and as they were not what I considered to be a rock band, I tended to hang on to what I thought was their forte, the harmony vocal sound and the country rock approach to what they were doing. They arrived back at Olympic with very little material and as a pretty disparate bunch. The aforementioned cracks had become larger and there were strong signs of discontent with one another appearing in the band that I did my best to patch up by reminding Frey in particular that they were all as important as each other to the success of the group. It became clear that this is not what he wanted to hear.

  The one track we cut that was very much in the vein of what I thought they should be doing was “Best of My Love,” which gave them their first number-one hit in America, so I was not entirely wrong. After four weeks, we ground to a halt and decided to take a break, I thought to allow time for them to write more songs. In fact, they returned to America with a new manager and the intent of changing their producer.

  In retrospect, it was absolutely the right decision. I was standing in the way of what they wanted to achieve, and the most important role a producer has to play is to help and facilitate, not hinder, exactly that. Their choice of Bill Szymczyk to replace me was an excellent one. He is an engineer with a far more modern approach to recording than me and, I suspect, as a producer, has far more patience. There is no way I could have stayed involved with what followed: fairly heavy substance abuse with hundreds of hours in the studio with the band being at each other’s throats, disappearing up their own arses. So I was happy to hand over the baton, wishing Bill all the luck in the world. With Henley and Frey now completely in charge and having cemented their presence as a formidable songwriting team, they added Don Felder and eventually Joe Walsh to give the band a little more edge and the rock and roll feel they were looking for. Although I must admit their idea of rock and roll and mine differ substantially.

  I am really proud of the records we made together, and with no disrespect to the others and much admiration for what they have achieved, I still prefer the band as the original four-piece, but then I suppose I would. That harmony blend is as good as it gets.

  BACK COVER OF DESPERADO. WE ALL GOT TO PLAY COWBOYS FOR A DAY. FROM LEFT, BACK ROW: GARY BURDEN, LARRY PENNY, RICHARD FERNANDEZ, BOYD ELDER, TOMMY NIXON, JOHN HARTMANN AND ME. FRONT ROW: JACKSON BROWNE, BERNIE LEADON, GLENN FREY, RANDY MEISNER, DON HENLEY, AND J. D. SOUTHER.

  Small Faces/The Faces, 1965–73

  The Small Faces and I started working together in 1965 when we recorded their first hit single, “Whatcha Gonna Do About It,” at IBC. It was produced by Sammy Samwell, who had gained notoriety as the writer of “Move It,” the song that launched Cliff Richard’s career. It was not long before they were writing their own songs with the most prolific combination being Ronnie Lane and Steve Marriott. They had several hits, including “Tin Soldier,” “Lazy Sunday,” and “Itchycoo Park,” which became famous for the use of the sound of phasing on one section of the song. I have often been given credit for this, but in fact the method used to achieve it was discovered by my assistant at the time, George Chkiantz, who demonstrated it to me as I arrived for the session. I thought it was a fantastic effect and decided to use it on the track we cut that afternoon. This happened to be “Itchycoo Park,” a song about taking LSD, as coincidence would have it, and if you listen you will see why it was so effective.

  I engineered most of their records
with them producing. They always had a pretty clear idea of what they wanted, and I would like to think that I helped them achieve it. I think we were a really good team, and although Steve Marriott and I clashed on the odd occasion, we all worked really well together, as we seemed to share the same taste in rock and roll.

  This was one hell of a band. They had a massive amount of energy that was unleashed on their audiences from the minute they hit the stage until they left it. If they had ever made it to America, they would undoubtedly have been as successful as any of the British bands that took it by storm in the sixties. That was not to be, as they broke up in 1969 before ever going there.

  For the previous couple of years, I had been making the French star Johnny Hallyday’s records. His manager would call me and ask me who was hot that month in the UK, and the two English guys who ran his band—guitarist Mick Jones (later of Foreigner) and drummer Tommy Brown—would come to London, and we would put a band together and cut Johnny’s new album in a few days. On occasion they would want to work in Paris. I took Jimmy Page over for one album, where he was nothing short of brilliant, and on another I recommended the Small Faces for the sessions, with the addition of Peter Frampton on guitar. Johnny would always pay cash, and the Small Faces jumped at the opportunity to take advantage of a few quid in the pocket and a couple of days in the French capital.

  WITH THE SMALL FACES AT OLYMPIC STUDIOS. FROM LEFT: STEVE MARRIOTT, ME, RONNIE LANE, IAN (MAC) MCLAGAN. KENNEY JONES ISN’T PICTURED.

  Sadly, they had a huge disagreement on the session that was never repaired, and that was that. Steve went off and formed Humble Pie with Peter Frampton, who I had known for some years through Bill Wyman and Peter’s band The Herd; Greg Ridley, who I knew from working with Spooky Tooth in the sixties; and Jerry Shirley, who I had never met, but who at only seventeen years old proved to be a really good drummer and a very pleasant man.