Who Wrote the Book of Love?

by Richard Crouse

  “I have gone back to my brother with that story because it has circulated,” he told me in 1997. “He is a little [more vague] on it now than when the story was fresh out of school. Here’s what I can assure you: The form you hear on the record was never before seen in print. What Mark had was a song about ‘Summer in the City.’ You know, ‘It’s gonna get hot … the shadows of the buildings will be the only shady spot,’ something like that, and this cool chorus. I said, ‘Boy this just kills me. Let me try and write a different verse.’ When I asked him about it, Mark said, ‘You know I don’t remember now whether I just thought about doing it, or when it was a successful song, I submitted it just to make the [teacher] look like an idiot, letting him give me a low mark and then going back and saying, “Here’s what you know. This thing is a Top Forty record.’ So that is the way the song evolved.”

  The Spoonful collaborated on the tune, hammering it out over two nights in the studio. “It kind of evolved,” says Sebastian. “We had the verse and the chorus, and there was this fragment that Steve Boone had been playing. Steven’s fragment, which became the instrumental bridge [between the verse and the chorus], was something [he] had been playing on the piano for months. Then suddenly, once the verse and chorus came together, I don’t remember if it was Steven, me or Zally who said, ‘You know, this thing fits really well in the middle of the song.’ But once we put it in there, I remember saying, ‘You know, this kind of reminds me of Gershwin — the section of An American in Paris which is the traffic.’

  “Once that sentence was out, we began to talk about the idea of putting car horns over this [musical] bridge. We invited this wonderful old Jewish radio soundman who showed up with records of lots of different traffic jams and individual car horns. We knew we wanted car horns, and I think I came up with the idea of finishing it off with a big blast from a pneumatic hammer. He had three or four pneumatic hammers, all different [ranges]. I remember the traffic jam [we chose to include] was a 48th Street traffic jam. As soon as we heard it, we said, ‘This is the traffic jam’ because 48th Street was the music street. That was where we went to get our guitars. So we used that traffic jam, and then I heard this Volkswagen car horn, and I said, ‘Just to make it comical, let’s have this little Volkswagen start it off.’ So you hear beep, beep, beep then whoosh. You know, it sounded like a real New York traffic response to one poor lonely guy stuck in traffic who dares to touch his horn. Those were the components. They kind of fell together.”

  Steve Boone, John Sebastian and his brother Mark all share the songwriting credit. “[Mark] is a songwriter and continues to write songs, but somehow or another, we never actually collaborated on anything else.” “Summer in the City” was the Lovin’ Spoonful’s fifth single and first Number One, sitting atop the charts for three weeks.

  John Sebastian was a fine songwriter, but he should have hired a fact checker to go over the lyrics of “Nashville Cats,” the 1966 Lovin’ Spoonful hit. In the song, he sang about those “Yellow Sun Records from Nashville.” Sun Records was, of course, located in Memphis. Right state, wrong city.

  Hold On, I’m Comin’

  Sam & Dave

  A recording session, interrupted by a songwriter’s bathroom break, produced one of the best soul records of the sixties. Billboard magazine called Sam & Dave’s 1966 hit “Hold On, I’m Comin’ ” “a soulful wailin’-blues shouter with exceptional vocal performance.” The single peaked at Number Twenty-One in June 1966.

  The “Double Dynamite” duo of Sam & Dave met in Miami in 1958. The high-voiced Sam Moore abandoned a burgeoning career as a gospel singer for the lure of a grittier secular sound. The son of a Baptist minister, he paid his dues working in a series of gospel groups until he was hired by the Soul Stirrers, a front-running inspirational group that had been around since the 1930s. On the eve of his first tour with the church singers, Sam faced a dilemma. Jackie Wilson, his favorite profane (or so the Soul Stirrers would have thought) performer, was playing in town the night he was to depart to spread God’s word. The R & B seduced Moore, and instead of leaving with the Soul Stirrers, he witnessed Wilson’s exciting and ecstatic live show. Moore decided to fuse the gospel music with which he grew up with the dynamic R & B he loved. His life was changed.

  Working up a club act, he hit the road. One night at the King of Hearts Club in Miami, he was spontaneously joined on stage by Dave Prater, the club’s gritty-voiced cook. They hit it off, and an R & B legend was born.

  Popular in nightclubs, the duo earned the nickname “The Sultans of Sweat” for their hard-driving, energetic shows. They didn’t find acceptance on vinyl until they hooked up with the songwriting team of Isaac Hayes and David Porter. Hayes and Porter were the house hit makers at Stax Records in Memphis. Between them, they came up with a song called “You Don’t Know Like I Know,” a Top Ten hit on the R & B charts, but one that barely breached the Billboard Top One Hundred.

  Their next effort established Sam & Dave on both the R & B and pop charts — but it wouldn’t have happened if Dave Porter hadn’t had to relieve himself during a session.

  The four men were working on new material in Stax’s main studio, trying to come up with a song that could top the success of “You Don’t Know Like I Know.” Porter suddenly disappeared without a word. The session chugged along for another few minutes before Hayes became impatient. With no idea where his partner had gone, he checked every room in the studio, starting with the control room. He had no luck until he started down the corridor to the washrooms. Pounding on the men’s room door, Hayes yelled for Porter to hurry up.

  “Hold on. I’m comin’,” was Porter’s reply. A light went on in Hayes’s head. “Hold On, I’m Comin’ ” was a superb title for a song. It would be a life-affirming tune about a husband extending his support to his wife, offering to come to her when times were bad. The songwriters quickly wrote the tune and added Sam & Dave’s blistering vocal.

  However, radio misinterpreted the song’s message. DJs picked up on the double entendre, and many stations banned the song for its supposed libidinous content. In an effort to save the tune, Stax reissued it with the title, “Hold On, I’m A-Comin’.” But the damage was done. The soul classic stalled at Number Twenty-One on the pop charts. It would be one full year before Sam & Dave hit the Top Five with their next single, “Soul Man.”

  They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!

  Napoleon XIV

  Dr. Demento called the song “the most sensational novelty record in American history,” naming its creator the Rembrandt of the novelty art form. “We believed the record was either going to be a big dud,” said Jerry Samuels, aka Napoleon XIV, “or a gigantic monster.” Released in 1966, “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!” was the fastest-selling record in history to that date.

  Jerry Samuels was twenty-eight years old when “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!” was released. “It was my second hit,” he said. “I wrote a song in 1963 that was a hit in 1964 called ‘The Shelter of Your Arms.’ ” Recorded by Sammy Davis Jr., it ranked Number Seventeen. “I had written for other people, including Johnny Ray. [“To Ev’ry Girl — To Ev’ry Boy (The Meaning of Love)”] came out when I was sixteen. I couldn’t believe that my idol recorded my song.”

  In addition to his career as a recording engineer, Samuels played piano in nightclubs, cutting a record in 1956 (“Puppy Love”) in the style of Johnny Ray. He continued to write for others, but by 1966, he had a solo career in mind. The song that catapulted him to fame wasn’t like anything else he (or anybody else) had ever penned. It was a strange tune about a man who goes insane after his pet runs away.

  “I was thinking about an old Scottish song called ‘The Campbells Are Coming,’ ” he said. “I didn’t even know the name of it back then, but the tune was running through my head. I thought to myself, ‘What kind of lyric would go with that? “They’re coming to take me away, ha ha.’ ” See it? I decided to do it without any melody at all because it was a rhythmical r
ecitation. As soon as I wrote the first verse, I knew I was writing what some people would call a sick joke. It took me about three months to decide where to go with the second verse. I still realized I had a sick joke, and it took another six months for me to decide to go and refer to a dog in the third verse. You realize that the person is talking about a dog having left him, not a human.”

  A cartoon rendering of Napoleon XIV taken from the cover of Rhino Records’ compilation disc The Second Coming. “They’re Coming to Take Me Away Ha-Haaa!” singer Jerry Samuels has never been photographed in costume, preferring the public to conjure up their own idea of what the character of Napoleon XIV looks like.

  Using a great deal of ingenuity, “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!” was recorded on a tight budget at Associated Recording Studios in New York City. “The tape was $25 — that’s a four-track tape, half inch. It cost $5 for the rental of the hand-cranked siren.

  “We had trouble with the hand clappers. I invited a bunch of my friends. We couldn’t get the studio until two o’clock in the morning. I said, ‘Come on down,’ and only two people besides me showed up. I said, ‘Look, we’re here to do hand clapping on this record, but we [only] have three pairs of hands. That’s not enough, and I’d rather not overdub if I don’t have to.’ In an analogue format, overdubbing loses quality. I said, ‘Here’s what I want us to do. Instead of clapping our hands, I want us to sit around in a semicircle and slap our thighs. That will give us the sound of two claps, and that will mean six instead of three. However, you can’t slap your clothes because clothes muffle the sound. You have to slap skin. You’ve got to take off your pants.’ They wouldn’t do it. So we had to overdub several times just to get enough hand-clapping sounds.”

  Recording the song presented some other, more complicated technical problems. Samuels had very specific ideas about how it was to sound. Against a rhythmic backing track, he wanted his voice to gradually rise in pitch to highlight the comic anguish of the song. Now all he had to do was create the technology to bring the sound in his head to tape. Working with engineer and lifelong business partner Nat Schnapf, the two concocted a device to change the pitch of his voice while leaving the rhythm track in sync.

  Once done, “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!” had a sound unlike anything heard on the radio in 1966. “Many record companies didn’t know how we did it. They actually called us and asked us how so they could cover the record. We said, ‘We’re not going to tell you how, and you can’t cover the record because it’s not a song. It doesn’t fall under compulsory licensing as a song does. It’s a lecture. We’re not going to give you permission to cover it.’ Our attorney was brilliant.”

  Another bit of advice from his attorney resulted in the pseudonym Napoleon XIV. Samuels didn’t want to release the song under his own name lest he be labeled as a novelty artist. He asked drummer Howie Farmer if he had any suggestions for a stage name. Farmer jokingly proposed Napoleon. “Our attorney Alan Arrow, who was smart as a whip, said, ‘Napoleon Something,’ ” recalled Samuels. “Why? Because you can’t trademark Napoleon. But you can trademark Napoleon Something. I picked XIV because it looked good in Roman numerals. We were able to trademark it.”

  George Lee, an executive with Warner Brothers Records won a bidding war to release “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!” Schnapf and Samuels had learned from experience to take money on the back end — that is, accepting a lower advance for a bigger cut of the profits. The standard industry royalty rate in 1966 was 7 percent. The producers wanted more. “We were looking for a 10-percent deal,” said Samuels, “because we knew it was doable. Alan Stanton offered us $25,000 up front and 7 percent. Warner Brothers offered us $500 up front and 10 percent. We took the 10 percent because we believed the record was either going to be a big dud or a gigantic monster. As a monster, that $25,000 meant nothing. We took the shot.”

  Warners released the single in the summer of 1966. Even the record itself was unusual. The B-side was completely reversed, with “They’re Coming to Take Me Away Ha-Haaa!” played backward, and even the title was transposed. Sales of the wacky song skyrocketed, moving half a million copies in just one week before some radio stations refused to play the song because of its subject matter.

  “I knew it was touchy, but I was never afraid of it,” said Samuels. “I figured we’d probably get away with it for about a month, and then somebody would say, ‘Hey, wait a minute, this guy is making fun of the sickies.’ I never felt there was a problem with the thing. The reason I put [the dog] in is that I thought it might throw off the naysayers long enough to give us a little more time. Somebody would say, ‘Oh wait, it’s about a dog. That’s alright.’ If … you’re talking about something that pokes fun at insanity, it doesn’t make any difference who or what the object is — whether it is a human being or a dog or anything else. You either object to the premise, or you don’t. I felt it would cause some people to say, ‘Well, it’s alright.’ And it did. It worked.”

  A full-length Napoleon XIV LP, They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!, was quickly recorded and released. However, by then, the mania had passed, and the record stiffed. Subsequent single releases, “They’re Coming to Take Me Away Again, Ha-Haaa!,” “I Live in a Split-Level Head” and “I’m in Love With My Little Red Tricycle” didn’t chart either.

  These days, Samuels runs a talent agency in Philadelphia that specializes in providing entertainment to senior-citizen facilities. “I gotta tell you something,” he said on the phone from his office, “I love my job. It is a joy to do it.”

  Lou Reed was cagey when talking about his inspiration for the Velvet Underground’s “Femme Fatale.” “We wrote “Femme Fatale” about somebody who was one,” he said in the Victor Bockris, Gerard Malanga book Up-Tight. “She has since been committed to an institution for being one and will one day open up a school to train others.” The tune was commonly thought to be about Nico, ex-Andy Warhol superstar and sometimes Velvet singer, who died in 1988 of a cerebral hemorrhage.

  Fire

  Jimi Hendrix

  “Fire,” a cut from Jimi Hendrix’s debut album Are You Experienced?, may be the guitar hero’s definitive tune. Drenched with sexual braggadocio, Hendrix lasciviously advises a young woman to leave home so he can warm himself next to her fire. Hendrix wrote the song after a particularly cold, rainy English night.

  Jimi Hendrix touched down in England on September 21, 1966. The American-born guitarist had been spotted by Animals’ bassist Chas Chandler at a club gig at the Cafe Wha? in New York’s Greenwich Village. Chandler, impressed by the left-handed guitarist, coaxed him to come to swinging London to find a more open-minded audience. Jimi, who had never been outside the United States, readily agreed.

  Auditions were held to recruit a backup band. By October 12, drummer Noel Redding and bassist Mitch Mitchell were dubbed the Experience, playing showcase gigs in London’s hippest clubs. Jimi’s natural sense of showmanship quickly caught on with London’s underground in crowd, making fans out of Eric Clapton, the Rolling Stones and Pete Townsend.

  The press were a little slower to jump on the Hendrix bandwagon. His wild onstage antics — playing the guitar behind his back and with his teeth — inspired ridicule. “For one thing, Jimi is scarcely likely to qualify for a best-looking bloke competition,” wrote Donald Bruce in Pop Shop. Another paper labeled him a “Wild Man From Borneo,” making no mention of his virtuoso fretwork.

  Following up on the buzz created in the clubs, the trio quickly entered Olympic Studios, recording the blues standard “Hey Joe.” Released just before Christmas 1966, the band took the holidays off to work on new material for a proposed album. Itching to play for a crowd after several weeks of rehearsing, the band accepted an invitation from the Hillside Social Club in Noel Redding’s hometown of Folkestone to perform on New Year’s Eve.

  At the stroke of twelve, the Experience took the stage and did their standard set — a mix of blues covers and contemporary mate
rial — that brought in the New Year with the band’s patented aural onslaught. After the show, Redding suggested the band stay at his mother Margaret’s house rather than risk the late-night drive back to London. It was a rainy, wintry evening, compounded by the brisk cold wind blowing off the English Channel.

  “Hendrix was the only person I ever knew who could play on acid,” marveled David Crosby. “Whenever I tried it, the strings always melted.”

  Once at the small house, the band — particularly Hendrix who wasn’t yet used to the damp English winters — were chilled to the bone. Spotting a blazing fire, Jimi uttered a line that would form the basis of “Fire.” “Can I get you anything?” asked Mrs. Redding. “Let me stand next to your fire,” replied Hendrix, hoping to warm himself against the dancing flames.

  As Hendrix vied for position in front of the berth, he was stymied by a large sleeping German Shepherd. After a few attempts to share the warmth with the dog, Jimi uttered a line that would become a classic: “Oh, move over Rover and let Jimi take over.”

  “Fire,” inspired by the New Year’s Eve incident at the Redding house, became a favorite of Jimi’s. After the release of Are You Experienced?, the hard-driving tune became a centerpiece of the band’s live show. It was at Finsbury Park in March 1967 that the song entered rock-and-roll history. The Experience was on the same bill as teen idols the Walker Brothers. At the beginning of the tour, it was announced that they would split up after this series of shows. Hendrix wanted to divert some of the attention from the Walkers to the Experience, but he needed something new to punch up his act. Backstage, music writer Keith Altham proposed that as a climax to the show, Jimi set his guitar aflame during “Fire.” Lighter fluid was secretly procured to keep Hendrix’s new bit of pyrotechnics under wraps until show time. Not even Redding or Mitchell had any idea that Jimi planned to torch his Fender Stratocaster.