by Lewis Shiner
That night Dave stayed in and watched tv. Between Blue Cheer and Frank Werber and the surrealistic humor of The Monkees, he felt old and out of place. He was crazy, no matter what Graham said, to even think about leaving New York.
His Tuesday appointment was Don Geis, the engineer at Coast Recorders. Coast was owned by Bill Putnam, a legend for the way he’d outfitted other studios, including Western in LA. The room was spacious and lively, with a stage at one end where they liked to put the drummer for a big, booming sound. Dave put it on his list as “possible.”
He spent the afternoon at Fisherman’s Wharf, watching boats sail out past the Golden Gate and into the great unknown world, wondering if he had maybe outgrown the record business, if he should look for something else to do with the rest of his life.
After an early dinner he took a cab to the hungry i, where the Spoonful had played the week before Sparkle Plenty. The owner, Enrico Banducci, in trademark beret and walrus mustache, remembered him and showed him to a table down front.
He was in time for the opener, a kid named Skip Shaw, and within five minutes his palms were sweating with the desire to sign him.
Shaw looked all of 16, crouched over his acoustic guitar like a vulture over a rabbit carcass. He was skinny and sickly-looking and chain-smoked Luckies that he kept in an ashtray on a second stool next to his own. His dreamy eyes closed when he sang, and his bruised and husky voice reminded Dave of Timmy Hardin. His original songs also bore the Hardin influence in their extended metaphors or open-hearted confessions, though they were all good enough to stand on their own merits. His covers showed taste and expertise, picked from Hardin, Fred Neil, Tim Buckley, even Phil Ochs, to whose “There but for Fortune” he gave a spare, wrenching reading. Clearly the audience loved him, especially the female contingent, and after his encore, Dave sought out Enrico at the bar.
“Has this kid got a record contract?”
“Hmmmm. Not an easy question. Has he made a record? No. Is he actively recording one? No. Are there people who think he owes them a record? Most certainly.”
“Oh.”
“He’s unreliable, I’m afraid. I always have a last-minute substitute available when I book him. And I keep booking him because he makes me cry.”
“I want to meet him.”
“I’ll bring him out. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Dave sat at the bar with Shaw, who sipped steadily at a double Jack Daniels and didn’t talk much. He bowed his head at Dave’s praise and they exchanged business cards and Dave walked away without a real sense of the guy other than his inscrutability.
Which didn’t stop him, first thing in the morning, from calling the manager listed on the card, a fast-talking former dj named Wes. Wes assured him that Shaw was 19 years old and no longer encumbered by a previous record contract that “hadn’t panned out.” They closed the call with a verbal agreement that Dave would pay for a recording session within the month and shop the resulting demo.
With Shaw in mind, Dave’s enthusiasm revived for his appointment with Leo “The Baron” Kulka, owner and chief engineer at Golden State. Kulka was six feet tall and balding, wearing thick glasses and a white shirt and ascot tie, whose formality didn’t match his easy, joking manner and big voice. He let Dave sit in on a session for a gospel group from Oakland that he was recording live: four singers, guitar, bass, drums, and piano.
“Is that going through the echo chamber?” Dave asked during a slow piano and bass break.
“It’s the room!” Kulka said. “It’s the room!”
The room was not as perfect sonically as Columbia’s “church” or their Studio A, but it had that big room sound, and it was a big room, over 50 feet on a side, with a high, arched ceiling. Dave had a vision of what Skip Shaw would sound like in there, letting the acoustic guitar ring from wall to wall, backing him with a small combo, string bass, quiet drummer, piano, some sonic coloration like cello or muted trumpet, an accordion here, an electric guitar there.
“Let’s talk,” he said to Kulka, “about what dates you’ve got open.”
Back at the hotel, he checked his answering service. Sallie Rachel was looking for him and had left a Denver number.
He sat on the bed with the slip of paper and stared at the phone, nervous as a high-school kid. It took him three tries to punch in his credit card number correctly. Maybe she’d already left for sound check. After three rings she snatched up the phone, out of breath and charged with the energy of youth and success. Dave was paralyzed with longing. What was the word for nostalgia for something you’d never had?
“Sallie, it’s Dave, I got your—”
“Dave! Where are you?”
“San Francisco. I—”
“I love San Francisco! What are you doing out there?”
The more he said, the more she drew him out, until he’d told her everything, from Blue Cheer to Skip Shaw. When he was done, she said, “Why don’t we make my next record there too?”
She was overdue for her sophomore album and Dave had assumed she’d already started it with somebody else. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to do it where Cornell and Bernard and those guys live instead of flying them all the way across the continent?”
“Actually,” Sallie said, and after a long pause her voice got very quiet, “I’ve got my own band now.”
He’d read in Billboard that she was now headlining theater-sized venues on the strength of two pretty successful singles, steady album sales, and a couple of hits she’d written for other people. Of course she would have her own band now.
“I know what you’re going to say,” she said. “You’re going to tell me the studio is not the road, different set of skills, every mistake costs hundreds of dollars. Am I right?”
He’d been taking in the breath to say those very words. “Yes.”
“You see? I really was paying attention all this time. Everybody in the band has studio experience. They’re all fantastic. Wait till you hear them.”
“What if you fly them to San Francisco and put them in a hotel and we get them in the studio and it doesn’t work?” He remembered her crying in the airport before the Peter, Paul and Mary tour, afraid to be without him. The power had shifted. She was a star.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll love them.”
*
Dave booked them back to back at Golden State, the first two days in February for Shaw, the next two weeks for Sallie. He cancelled his return flight to New York, rented a spartan furnished apartment in the South of Market neighborhood a few blocks from the studio, and went to work.
Leo Kulka gave him a list of jazz musicians he’d worked with and the clubs where he might find them. He met with Shaw and they settled on three original songs for the demo: “Tender Hours,” “Orchids for Your Smile,” and “South of the Line.” Skip shook his head at the notion of a jazz combo. “That’s great for a Tim Hardin or a Sallie Rachel. I want something with balls. I’m not asking for Keith Moon on drums, but I want a solid two and four. And an electric bass and electric lead guitar. I can play the leads.”
In one ear Dave heard Enrico tell him, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” and in the other Bill Graham said, “You serve the artist.” Dave said, “Okay, we’ll try it. We’ve only got two days in the studio, so it’s got to come together fast.”
“Don’t worry,” Shaw said, and then, after a second, “There’s one problem. My electric’s in hock.”
They took a cab to the pawn shop, where Dave paid $150 to reclaim the guitar. It was a cherry-red Gibson ES-335, and when the clerk brought it from the back, Shaw opened the case and sat on the floor and cradled it like a baby. “Never again,” he said to the guitar, “I promise.” He looked up at Dave with misty eyes and said, “Thank you,” and Dave could only nod and look away in embarrassment.
“I don’t suppose you have an amp?”
“I’m between amps at the moment,” Shaw said.
That next morning, he called Ahmet Ertegun and
told him Sallie wanted to record in San Francisco with her own band.
“That’s a lot of unknowns,” Ertegun said.
“I don’t disagree,” Dave said.
“That first record did well for us. I’d be glad to have another one like it. Are you sure you can take control of the situation if you have to?”
“I’m sure,” Dave lied.
With some reluctance, he called Bill Graham and asked his advice on bass and drums for Shaw. Graham was flattered and happy to help. “You’re not going to get the Airplane or the Dead for session work. I would try the Sons of Champlin.”
“Who?”
“Exactly. That’s why you stand a chance of getting them. Good players, and they’re hungry.”
Dave took a cab to Oakland to see the band, wondering if he was going to have to buy a car and learn to drive it. The band turned out to be another R&B flavored horn band, with better material than the Loading Zone, but, in Dave’s opinion, lacking a certain magic. The drummer and bass player, however, were as solid as Graham had promised and were willing to do the session.
He spent a couple of hours on the phone with Sallie. She played him half a dozen new songs, and they sounded to Dave like the road had sharpened her commercial sense without dulling the things that made her unique.
On Thursday, February 1, Dave arrived at Golden State Recorders ready to go to work, and all his careful preparation began to fall apart before Shaw even walked in the door.
First of all, he was an hour late. His face showed the flattened affect of terminal nerves. Dave had already miked the drums, had set up the rented Fender Deluxe amp that Shaw had requested, and had a tentative sound for the bass. The first words out of Shaw’s mouth were, “You put me on the wrong side of the drummer.”
After they switched the amps around, Shaw taught Al, the bass player, the part for “South of the Line,” note for note, while Dave adjusted the mikes and set levels, Kulka assisting from the control room. Al made a couple of suggestions for improvements, which Shaw instantly vetoed. When it happened a third time, Dave stepped in. “Al’s right. He was right the other two times as well. We’re paying him to play bass. Let him do his job.”
Shaw put his guitar down and walked out. Al exchanged a look with Bill, the drummer, and Dave held out both hands in a plea for patience.
Shaw came back two minutes later and they began running through the song. Shaw had a lot of instructions for both players, but after half an hour Dave was starting to hear potential.
They took a lunch break and Dave ordered in Chinese. Shaw came and went the whole time. At two they tried a couple of takes.
The playback sounded thin. “What about doing the basic track with your acoustic?” Dave said.
“The bass and drums’ll overwhelm it.”
“We’ll close mike it and punch it up in the mix. It’ll sound fine in the headphones.”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it.” Shaw disappeared for five minutes, and when he came back they tried the acoustic. Getting the balance right took time, and Shaw’s patience began to slip. By the time they tried a take, Shaw was slurring the guide vocal and botching the rhythm. The next time he walked out, Dave gave him a minute and then followed him into the men’s room. Shaw stood in front of the sink, draining the last of a pint of Old Overholt.
“You’re drunk,” Dave said.
Shaw dropped the bottle, which shattered on the tile floor. Then he gripped the edges of the sink with both hands.
“I’m paying for this out of my own pocket,” Dave said. “Every time you fuck up, it costs me money. Money that I’m spending because I believed in you.”
“I know,” Shaw said. “You think I don’t know? I’m scared out of my gourd. This is my last chance. Nineteen years old, and I’m on the edge of being washed up.”
“Go home,” Dave said. “Get some sleep. Come in here tomorrow sober, on time, and ready to work, or we’re done. Do you understand me?”
Shaw nodded glumly and Dave followed him into the studio. While he packed up his guitars, Dave took Al and Bill aside. “I’m paying you both for a full day. You have my word that this bullshit will not happen again tomorrow. I’m counting on you guys to stick with me and help me wrap this up.”
“We’ll be here,” Al said.
*
Sallie and her band had hit town at about the time that Shaw’s whiskey bottle broke. Dave took a long, scalding shower before meeting her for dinner, trying to shake the sense of doom that Shaw had left him with and to settle his own love-struck nerves.
She was waiting outside Sears Fine Food on Powell Street when his cab pulled up. She looked the same as ever, the lighter-than-air red-brown hair, the bottomless eyes, the devastating smile, the tight jeans, the ribbed sweater that clung to her the way Dave longed to. She ran to him as he got out of the cab and hugged him quickly, nothing much behind it.
They both had the roast turkey and dressing blue plate special and the famous Swedish pancakes for dessert. As he knew she would, she coaxed the complete story of his horrible day from him, and when it came time for her to reciprocate and talk about her last nine months on the road, he knew she was holding something back. To his shame, he found himself unwilling to push to find out what it was.
Standing on the street afterward, she said, “Can I come by the studio tomorrow? To check the place out?”
“And see my enfant terrible?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Try not to spook him.”
“Me? How could I spook anyone?”
*
True to his word, Shaw arrived on time and sober on Friday morning. His hands trembled and his concentration was poor. After three blown tries at “South of the Line,” Dave took him outside. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m a mess,” Shaw said, unnecessarily. “Nerves. I keep thinking about what this is costing you.”
There should be a word, Dave thought, for causing something by the very act of trying to prevent it. “What’s it going to take to get you calmed down and ready to work?”
Shaw gave the answer Dave expected. “A drink. Just one. Just the hair of the dog.”
“Did you bring any?”
Shaw nodded, then turned defensive. “You said I had to turn up sober. You didn’t say I couldn’t bring anything.”
“Where is it?”
“In my gear bag.”
“Bring the bag into the control room. I don’t want Bill and Al to know about this.”
Dave confiscated the bottle and gave him a jigger’s worth in a paper cup, mixed with Coke. Shaw knocked it back, and a half hour later they had a clean backing track for “South of the Line.” By seven that night, thanks to two more medicinal doses of whiskey, they had instrumental tracks for the other two songs. No vocals. No lead guitar. He’d used up all the time he’d allotted to Shaw, with Sallie ready to come in the next morning.
Sallie herself had dropped by in the middle of the afternoon and he’d played her what he had. “Beautiful,” she said. “It’s… vibrant.”
Kulka, who was listening in, said, “It’s the room!”
“The kid is cute, too,” Sallie said, giving Dave his one-millionth pang of jealousy.
“The kid is a complete pain in the ass,” Dave said. “It’s going to be such a pleasure to work with you.”
On Saturday morning the band assembled at the studio: keyboards, bass, and drums, the keyboard player doubling on sax. Dave spent a couple of hours getting the mikes positioned and listening to the sonic qualities of the instruments. He was not a fan of the saxophone, preferring the shiny sound of a trumpet where horns were concerned. But the saxophone was not the problem. The problem was Ted, the drummer, who was overly busy and tended to lose time on his fills.
After a run-through of the first song, “Breaking the Ice,” Dave checked it against a metronome and then brought Sallie into the control room to listen.
“Maybe he just needs to warm up?” she said.
“We’ve only got two weeks to make an album of sufficient quality to satisfy Ahmet Ertegun.”
“What are we talking about, here? Are you talking about replacing Ted?”
“If he doesn’t come around…”
“We can’t do that.”
“It happens all the time. Somebody can be perfectly fine on stage—”
“I know, I know, different skill set, we’ve been through that. These guys are all friends, it would mess with their morale—”
“You said they were pros. Pros are used to this kind of thing.”
Sallie didn’t answer. She looked at her hands, knotted in her lap.
“Sallie, what is it you’re not telling me?”
Her voice was barely audible. “Ted and I are… we have a… a personal relationship.”
You have no reason, Dave told himself, to feel devastated. What did you think, she was going to be celibate?
“The rest of the band doesn’t know,” Sallie said.
Dave doubted that. In the studio the three men, dressed in khaki slacks and sport shirts, were laughing, smoking, tossing a few progressions back and forth. Ted was tall and thin. A lock of brown hair fell over one eye in a way that struck Dave as vain.
He congratulated himself for not expressing dismay or disapproval. He stayed calm and practical. “Either you need to talk to him or I do. I’m going to put a click track in his headphones, and I want him to stay on it. He can shift the accents, as long as he cuts back on the fills. Anything he does I want short, sharp, staccato.”
“I’ll talk to him,” she said. Her eyes shone. “Thank you. We’ll make this work.”
*
They knocked off at 7:00. With some splicing, Dave was confident that they had a couple of acceptable basic tracks. Sallie wanted him to go to dinner with the band, and he had to beg off. He got a quick bite to eat and then went back to the studio to start overdubs with Skip Shaw.
Kulka was long gone and the two of them had the place to themselves. The studio lights lacked dimmers, so Dave killed them all and lit a few candles that he’d brought for the purpose. Shaw was relaxed and talkative, telling Dave about hunting rattlesnakes in the Sierra Nevada as a kid and running away to Mexico his sophomore year in high school, the inspiration for “South of the Line.” The stories were self-deprecating and genuinely funny, and Dave let him take all the time he needed.
