Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music

by Ramone, Phil

  Paul began running down “Me and Julio” for the band, and I rolled tape. The combination of Paul’s acoustic guitar and the odd-sounding rhythm made by Dave’s guitar created a new percussive sound, and when we played it back Paul said, “I really like that.” I was thrilled to have pleased Paul, and thankful that I’d stumbled upon something that brought a fresh sound to one of his records.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever see Paul in my studio again.

  While he expressed delight in how “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” turned out, Paul didn’t say, “We should work together again.” But about a year later I got another call—again, from Paul himself—and shortly thereafter we began work on There Goes Rhymin’ Simon.

  Our personal and professional relationship grew slowly, as Paul began to call more often. I was proud to have received the “Paul Simon Seal of Approval.”

  What I’ve always loved about Paul is his inquisitiveness, and his voracious thirst for regional and world music. While he has become renowned for integrating the native music of Africa, Peru, Brazil, and other nations into American pop, Paul was among the first superstars to recognize the wealth of regional talent here in America.

  Earlier, I mentioned the Muscle Shoals Sound Studio and the Muscle Shoals musicians. It was Paul who introduced me to the wonders of Muscle Shoals, Alabama, in 1973, during the sessions for There Goes Rhymin’ Simon.

  The Muscle Shoals Sound Studio—immortalized in Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama”—was the legendary home to a four-man rhythm section of unrivaled brilliance. Many artists (including the Rolling Stones, who cut “Brown Sugar,” “Wild Horses,” and two other tracks for Sticky Fingers there) flocked to the studio for the fresh approach of the band, and the unique sound of the room.

  The Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section (Jimmy Johnson, guitar; Roger Hawkins, drums; David Hood, bass; and Barry Beckett, keyboards) first began playing together in 1967, as part of the acclaimed Fame Recording Studio rhythm section.

  Within a short time, the band became one of the most sought-after group of studio players in the country. The quartet opened their own studio in Muscle Shoals in 1969.

  The rhythm section’s endemic style and solid backbeat helped propel such explosive records as Aretha Franklin’s “Respect,” Wilson Pickett’s “Mustang Sally,” Paul Simon’s “Kodachrome,” Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock & Roll,” and Rod Stewart’s “Tonight’s the Night.” During their years together, the group earned more than seventy-five gold and platinum albums.

  When you worked at Muscle Shoals you made records organically.

  No written arrangements were necessary. The Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section used a musical shorthand that enabled them to create and play a chart quickly without having to spell out every note and chord change. Instead of writing chord symbols, the Muscle Shoals guys wrote down numbers. It was a technique based on solfeggio, and it was the common musical language of the South.

  I can close my eyes all these years later and see keyboardist Barry Beckett playing the piano while calling out chord changes: “Bridge, bridge, two bars—1, 2, 3—turnaround—4,” he’d bark. Then, “Go to cymbals!”

  Paul admired Aretha Franklin’s Atlantic records—many of which were made in Muscle Shoals—and when he was thinking of ways to bring a twist to There Goes Rhymin’ Simon he said, “I love that sound—why don’t we just record where Aretha did?”

  We both marveled at the way Muscle Shoals was set up.

  “When you came into the studio you turned on a switch, and the sound was there,” Paul explained. “The drums were never moved, the bass was never moved. It wasn’t like it was in New York or Los Angeles, where you had the studio for a block of time, and when you were finished you had to break down so another act could come in later that night. Because the instruments, musicians, and studio were always ready in Muscle Shoals, you never had to struggle to find the sound.”

  The interplay between the Muscle Shoals musicians was unlike anything I’d seen anywhere except Nashville. The group played with a classic R&B style that, despite the studio’s location, wasn’t influenced by country or regional music.

  Muscle Shoals cofounder Barry Beckett played piano on There Goes Rhymin’ Simon, and has vivid memories of recording with Paul in Alabama:

  “The excitement of Paul coming in enabled us to psych ourselves up for at least two weeks before he arrived,” Barry explained. “We got some inkling of what to expect when we found out that he had booked four days to do one song! That surprised us, because [we normally finished] one song in an hour, or an hour and a half.

  “The [first song we recorded] with Paul was ‘Take Me to the Mardi Gras,’ which had a reggae feel. I remember Paul walking over to me at the piano, and making a suggestion. ‘Barry, by every indication, the gentleman in the song is going to get to go to the Mardi Gras,’ Paul said. ‘He wants to go, so he’s going to go. Nowhere in the song does it say he might not get to go. Is it possible to get that feel?’ ‘Sure,’ I said.

  “We cut ‘Take Me to the Mardi Gras’ within thirty minutes. Paul was flabbergasted that it took us so little time to get the groove and the attitude of the song. Attitude is something that Paul really concentrates on. He goes for attitude, then groove, and then color, and we caught all those ingredients very fast—and all at once,” Beckett concluded.

  But recording in Muscle Shoals wasn’t just about the music or musicians. The entire Muscle Shoals experience was a slice of Americana: the people were sweet, the food was delicious, and the businesspeople went out of their way to make you feel at home.

  Some examples:

  When Paul and I arrived at our hotel, a huge sign greeted us: WELCOME PAUL SIMON AND PHIL RAMONE. Seeing it made me feel very special. I’d never seen my name on a marquee before, much less on a Holiday Inn.

  That night we had a sumptuous southern dinner—catfish, biscuits, and vegetables like you’ve never eaten—for a quarter of what it would have cost us to eat in New York. I left a tip on the table, and as we were leaving, the waitress came over and said, “You forgot your money.”

  On a subsequent trip to Muscle Shoals I woke up with a horrific toothache. It was a Sunday, but Jerry Masters—the studio’s chief engineer—called a local dentist. “We don’t want you suffering,” the doctor said. “I’ll come and pick you up, and take you to the drugstore. Bill [the pharmacist] will meet us there, and make up a prescription for you.” Can you imagine such a thing happening in New York, much less on a Sunday ?

  The Muscle Shoals experience offered Paul the chance to infuse his music with loads of color, and I loved taking part in his impulsive flights of fancy.

  One never knew what direction—literally and musically—Paul’s whims would take us in, as I discovered during the There Goes Rhymin’ Simon sessions.

  After cutting the basic track for “Take Me to the Mardi Gras” at Muscle Shoals, Paul decided that he wanted to take the sixteen-track master tape to New Orleans to overdub the Onward Brass Band. It was a masterstroke—one of those spontaneous decisions that lend Paul’s music just the right degree of verisimilitude.

  I began making some calls, and was shocked to learn that none of the studios in New Orleans had sixteen-track recorders. The idea, though, was just too good to abandon, so I persisted until I found a studio—Maleco Sound in Jackson, Mississippi—that could handle sixteen-track masters.

  Jackson was halfway between Muscle Shoals and New Orleans, and the Onward Brass Band agreed to meet us halfway. Paul and I piled into a car and headed for Maleco Sound. We got lost, of course, and during one desperate moment we pulled into a gas station to ask for directions. I still laugh when I think of the puzzled look the attendant gave Paul and me; we were tired, unkempt, and at least one of us was famous—even in Jackson, Mississippi!

  I didn’t know what we were stepping into when we’d agreed to go to Maleco, but I quickly learned that working with the Onward Brass Band was much like working with the Muscle Shoals musicians; it ga
ve me a new perspective on professionalism.

  For the Maleco session, the Onward Brass Band members came to the studio wearing their uniforms. It might not sound like such a big deal, but that gesture really impressed me, and I know it impressed the hell out of Paul. Image and propriety were clearly important to them, and it was reflected in their look, style, and performance.

  There Goes Rhymin’ Simon represents Paul’s coming-of-age as a solo artist, and yielded a number of Paul Simon classics including “Kodachrome,” “Something So Right,” “Take Me to the Mardi Gras,” “St. Judy’s Comet,” “One Man’s Ceiling Is Another Man’s Floor,” and “Loves Me Like a Rock.”

  Muscle Shoals (and Maleco Sound) influenced the tone of There Goes Rhymin’ Simon—and the direction of Paul’s work for years to come.

  Another wondrous moment that Paul and I spent together was in Brazil, when he was making The Rhythm of the Saints in 1989.

  By then, Graceland—Paul’s groundbreaking world music album—had been hailed a masterpiece. With Graceland, and songs such as “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” “Gumboots,” and “You Can Call Me Al,” Paul skillfully blended his American pop music sensibilities with the seductive, unrelenting rhythms of traditional South African music.

  With The Rhythm of the Saints, Paul extended the concept, this time emphasizing the underexplored polyrhythms indigenous to West African music.

  Roy Halee supervised production on Rhythm of the Saints, but Paul also asked a friend—Brazilian producer Mazzola—to assist. Although portions were recorded in New York and Paris, much of the album was recorded in Brazil.

  For the Brazilian sessions Paul booked time at Transamerica, Impressao Digital, and Multi Studios in Rio de Janeiro. Because I had been on tour with Paul (and since Roy Halee opted to stay stateside and mix the tracks later, at the Hit Factory in New York), I accompanied Paul to Brazil.

  Recording in Brazil was complicated.

  Foreign engineers and producers weren’t permitted to bring recording tape into the country without prior authorization (the government wanted to know who you were recording, and where you were recording them). If permission was granted, the amount of tape you could get through customs was limited. Traveling to the country with recording gear of any kind—microphones, mixers, or tape recorders—was out of the question. The sessions at Transamerica were allowed because of Paul’s connection with Mazzola, and because only Brazilian studio space, engineers, and materials were being used.

  Working around the restrictions was worth the result; the locale brought a spirit to the music that could never be duplicated in the United States. Everyone involved with the project knew that like Graceland before it, Rhythm of the Saints would signify an epochal moment in Paul’s world-music canon.

  Paul’s international recording adventures on Rhythm of the Saints weren’t confined to Rio—or the studio.

  One evening, Paul, Mazzola, and I left Transamerica after a session and drove to the countryside for dinner. While driving back to our hotel, we passed through Salvador, Bahia.

  It was a hot, muggy night, nearly eleven o’clock, and the car’s windows were open. We’d had a long, fruitful day in the studio, and a satisfying (albeit late) meal. Both enhanced our weariness, and as Mazzola whisked us home, our conversation ebbed. When it became quiet, we heard the sound of drums in the distance.

  I instinctively perked up, knowing that Paul would want to investigate.

  “Drive in the direction they’re coming from,” we begged.

  Mazzola wound his way through the narrow streets of cobblestone, and we soon found ourselves in front of a cluster of buildings.

  “Let me get out first,” the producer implored. “I don’t know if this is a safe area, and I don’t want either of you getting hurt.” Ignoring Mazzola’s warning, Paul and I sprang from the car, intent on finding the musicians.

  When we did, we were speechless.

  There, playing in the street, was what appeared to be a marching band. The heart-thumping resonance of the sound their drums produced was mesmerizing.

  Paul and I looked at each other knowingly.

  The visceral punch of the sound reverberating off the buildings was unlike anything we had ever heard in a recording studio, and would fit perfectly on Rhythm of the Saints.

  Mazzola spoke to the group, and discovered their name was Olodum.

  Using Mazzola as an interpreter, Paul hastily explained what he was doing in Brazil, and that he wanted to record their music for Rhythm of the Saints. They expressed interest, and he made arrangements to return and discuss the details the following day.

  During their meeting, Paul learned that a recording agreement would come with stipulations.

  First, Olodum was eager to publicize their social and political agenda, and they wanted a worldwide forum. Then, any recording sessions would have to take place outdoors, in Pelourinho Square.

  Paul was sympathetic—and persuasive. Concessions were made, and the session planned. I was excited by the prospect of recording the ensemble, but concerned with the lack of suitable facilities.

  “What the hell are we going to record this on?” I asked Paul.

  We were lucky to have gotten permission to bring a few rolls of multitrack tape into the country for the studio sessions; we didn’t have extra recording tape, nor did we have any portable recording equipment. But Mazzola—God love him—scrounged up a battered eight-track recorder, ten or eleven dynamic microphones, a few mike stands, and two reels of tape.

  Paul’s manager alerted the media.

  When we returned to Pelourinho Square at the appointed time, we found Olodum’s members dressed in snappy uniforms: white shirts with red sashes. The walls of the courtyard had been painted a brilliant white, which accentuated the starkness of their dress.

  The scenario was very theatrical; everything that Olodum did was deliberate—and aimed at maximizing their exposure. I was surprised at the number of people who gathered in the square and impressed with the considerable press coverage that Paul’s publicist had arranged.

  The working conditions were, as expected, primitive.

  I’ll never forget what happened when I asked for some electrical power. The man who was helping me set up calmly reached into the street, lifted a manhole cover, and pulled two bare wires from the opening. “Here,” he said, shoving them in my direction. As I backed away, he touched them together. They began to spark. “These will do,” he said, calmly taping them up.

  We had enough tape for an hour’s worth of recording, and I didn’t have complete faith in our power source. I put a few microphones on stands and slung the rest over the branches of nearby trees. Motion played a major role in Olodum’s sound, and I wanted to impart the spatial depth of the performance as Olodum briskly moved through their routine.

  After a quick run-through for levels I started the tape machine, and the band’s director—Antonio Luis Alves de Souza—gave the drummers their cue. The music wrought from the session added a marvelous texture to “The Obvious Child,” which became the opening song on Rhythm of the Saints.

  The impromptu location session in Brazil was the kind of zany situation that I came to expect with Paul, and is indicative of the unexpected directions that my recording life sometimes takes me in.

  Paul’s Graceland and Rhythm of the Saints are momentous musical records, but they made their mark technically and socially too. It’s important for a songwriter or musician to blend the music of many worlds, but downright heroic to go as far as Paul does to preserve its authenticity.

  Liberty Devitto, Doug Stegmeyer, Billy Joel, & Richie Cannata Phil Ramone Collection

  TRACK 15

  He’s Got a Way About Him (Recording Billy Joel)

  When Billy Joel makes a record, spontaneity trumps all.

  There was seldom any fixing or polishing on Billy’s records; if there were minor flaws in the performance, they stayed in.

  As I touched on earlier, Billy’s method of writing
songs during his recording sessions was unlike anyone else’s.

  With Billy, the melody came first.

  He would sit at the piano and start with a riff that caught his ear, and build the melody around that. As he played the basic chords, the band would fall in, improvising a head arrangement; one that came together as they played. After a time we’d play back these attempts, then continue to experiment with the instrumentation.

  During the playbacks, Billy and I would talk about instrumental nuances that we each thought would improve the song.

  When I listen to a song and imagine how it might be arranged, I listen for melodic lines in the background—a haunting phrase that’s not fully developed—or another piece of the melody that could benefit from emphasis.

  With Billy, when such a phrase popped out we might double its line by having him play it on piano with his left hand (lower notes). Or, we might notice a phrase that Billy was playing with his right hand (higher notes) that clearly said, “This theme should be repeated elsewhere in the song.”

  If Billy became impatient or discouraged, I would urge him to keep at it. I never wanted him to settle.

  Once the framework was established, the band would start playing the song to get its general feel. When I sensed that Billy and the band were headed for a peak moment, I’d signal for Jim Boyer or Bradshaw Leigh to start rolling the twenty-four-track machines. Most of Billy’s songs were recorded in three or four takes.

  If for some reason a tune didn’t feel great, we’d put it aside, then try it again a few days later, or after Billy played it at a few concerts. The rationale was that a song sounded better after they’d played it on the road and worked out the kinks.

  The process of writing and recording continued every day and by the third or fourth week of work, we’d have hit our stride. Billy would cheer when he passed what he thought was the halfway mark and say, “Phil, I think we’ve broken the back of the album!”