The girls arrived for their first show, and I was informed that they had their own drummer, but I could play percussion during their set. Bummer, but okay. They also had their own conductor, a man named Richie Barrett, who discovered them, produced them, managed them, etc.
So, the first night of the Club Harlem summer season begins, and the house band plays a set for cocktails and dancing by those audience members who have gotten there too early, and then it’s show time. Maestro Usry comes onstage through the thick velvet curtains on this small bandstand, takes a deep bow, and we play the book for his sister Soundra, the singer. I can’t quite remember the sequence of events, but we also played music for the aforementioned dance trio as well as for a comedian. Then the Three Degrees were announced, and I moved over to my tambourine spot while their drummer sat down at my kit and played their show. He was good.
“This would be fun to do!” I thought. So, early on the second evening I went up to the Three Degrees’ conductor/manager/producer, Richie Barrett, and I actually had the nerve to say, “Excuse me, may I ask you a question?” His reply: “Yeah, what?” “Well, I was just wondering if it might be possible for me to play one of the shows this week — you know, play drums on the show? After all, it’s only fair, I DID play the rehearsal, and…” He interrupted me with an “Are you kidding?” and walked off. Oh well; nothing ventured, nothing gained.
It might have been later that night, or possibly the next evening, but between shows 1 and 2, the Three Degrees’ traveling drummer came back from the break late and drunk. Apparently, this was not the first time that something like this had happened. And so, while we played some extra tunes out of the house-band book, I heard the following take place on the other side of that velvet curtain that was next to my drumset:
“THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU PULL THIS SHIT!”
“AW, FUCK YOU, MAN.”
“OH YEAH? FUCK ME? WELL, FUCK YOU! YOU’RE FIRED!”
The band stops playing. Sounds of pushing and shoving, and probably a few more F words.
Suddenly, Richie Barrett charges through the velvet curtains and strides angrily across the stage to give the downbeat for the Three Degrees’ first number. Halfway there, he stops, points HIS conductor’s baton right at me and says loudly enough for everyone in the club to hear:
“OKAY, YOU GOT YOUR CHANCE, MOTHERFUCKER!”
I played that show and finished out the week. Looking back now, I realize that this was all part of the training. The last night of the engagement, I got a signed photo from the girls as well as a kiss on the cheek from each of them. Barrett never offered to pay me anything extra for playing their show, and it didn’t even occur to me to ask.
The Three Degrees went on to have a couple of big hits, including “When Will I See You Again” as well as “TSOP” (the theme for Soul Train). Shortly thereafter, I began working with the Stan Kenton Orchestra, abruptly resigning my gig at the Club Harlem. Didn’t get to play too much more soul music for a while…
3. Weather Report is a Big Band
Pre-tour press conference in Tokyo with Weather Report, Monday, June 19, 1978. Several questions to Joe Zawinul, Wayne Shorter, and Jaco Pastorius. No one asks me anything, and I’m okay with that — still just trying to take all of this in. Finally, a journalist directs a question to the new drummer in the band. “Peter Erskine: You have played with the big bands of Stan Kenton and Maynard Ferguson. How does this qualify you to play with Weather Report?” Nice question, especially seeing how I have not yet played my first concert with the band. “Well… good music is good music…” — my first publicly spoken words as Weather Report’s drummer — “and good music is…” Zawinul interrupts my brilliant answer with, “Weather Report is a small group and we are a big band, too. Next question.”
To be honest, I am confident that, had Joe or Wayne heard me with either Stan or Maynard, they never would have hired me. I suspect that it was the idea that I had played with Kenton that intrigued them, and I imagine that the Kenton in their heads was the band from the ’50s. They simply liked the notion or the concept that I had played with a big band. (Joe and Wayne both enjoyed their first “big” gig as part of Maynard Ferguson’s band.) Luckily for me, it was Jaco who heard me play with Maynard.
I owe the Weather Report gig to Maynard Ferguson bandmate and trumpeter Ron Tooley, who called Jaco up when the band was playing in Miami at the Airliner Motel in March of 1977. Ron was surprised that his phone call was answered because Jaco was usually in Los Angeles working with Weather Report, and he made the call intending to just leave a message. So they talked for a while, and when Ron asked Jaco if he would like to come and see the band that night, Jaco replied, “Thanks but no thanks; I heard you guys the last time.” “Well,” Ron said, “we got a new drummer; you might want to check him out.” “Okay, I’ll be there.”
Even though the epochal album Heavy Weather was just about to be released, drummer Alex Acuña was apparently already making plans to leave the band. So I met Jaco that night and we chitchatted for a while. At first I was staring at him because he looked so different in person compared to his solo album cover photograph — that stylized black-and-white photo that made him look European. Here was this guy with stringy long hair wearing a Phillies baseball cap, horn-rimmed glasses, and a striped shirt that was buttoned all the way up to the top.
Eventually the band break was over and I had to go back to the stage to play the second set. Jaco then said something to me no one else had ever said. As I was walking towards the stage I heard, “Hey, man!” and I turned around to look. Instead of saying something like, “Play well” or “Have a good set,” Jaco yelled, “HAVE FUN!” And I thought, “Wow, that’s a nice idea.” So I went up and had fun — smiling and laughing and enjoying myself, and that’s how I played. Jaco was that kind of person: He truly enjoyed bringing out something in people — most often bringing out their best. Sometimes, getting any type of reaction was good enough for him (even if it meant trouble to follow). One nickname he had for himself was “catalyst.”
After the Maynard gig was over that evening, Jaco and several of us sidemen stayed up all night listening over and over again to the cassette tape that Jaco had brought with him of Heavy Weather. I told him, “This is the version of Weather Report I have been waiting for.” He told me that he would be calling me one of these days.
4. I Join the Band
What follows is a glorious period of spring touring with Maynard, and I’m listening to that cassette tape of Heavy Weather at every opportunity, knowing that there is a great musical vista around the corner. “This is the kind of music I want to play when I grow up.” It isn’t the first and won’t be the last time that thought occurs to me. The sound, the compositions, and the playing on Heavy Weather mesmerize me — me and everyone else who hears the album (except for some of the trumpet players on Maynard’s band who only seem to like older Maynard recordings. To be fair, the rhythm section guys are playing that tape a lot on the long bus rides between towns). It’s intoxicating. And so is listening to Jaco on Joni Mitchell’s Hejira. The two best things I’m hearing both have Pastorius all over them.
Jaco is true to his word and does indeed call me a few months later. It’s the beginning of a severe winter, and Weather Report is starting work on a new album. I’m invited to come out and audition in the form of recording for a day in the studio with the band. With the combined elements of the weather being so bad (making it risky for me to fly out of and back in for a Maynard tour without possibly hanging him up) and my lack of studio experience, I turn down the offer to play with Weather Report! “Sorry, I’d love to do it, but the timing just isn’t right.” Without my realizing it, this apparently makes some sort of good impression. The band proceeds to work on the album that would become Mr. Gone with drummers Steve Gadd and Tony Williams. Eventually, a tour of Japan and Australia is planned and Weather Report needs a drummer for that. I get the call again, and this time I accept the invitation.
; I’m not thrilled to be leaving the employ of Maynard Ferguson, as he has been a terrific boss, and I’ve had a good time traveling and playing, but music calls. Actually, Joe Zawinul calls and I’m taking an afternoon nap. The conversation is awkward and inconclusive. I’m called again a few days later by someone in Weather Report’s management. Paul Bruno says, “Hi Peter. Joe Zawinul has asked me to ask you if you can play the beat to ‘Nubian Sundance’.” Call it the impetuousness of youth, but I reply, “You tell Joe I can play the shit out of it.” “Okay,” Paul says amiably, “I’ll let him know.” And so, I get the gig. I sit as tight as I can on this news for a couple of months, but word gets out. I ask my drum company, Slingerland, to prepare a kit for this tour, and they comply with a one-of-a-kind spruce-veneered kit, outfitted in custom flight cases and pre-shipped to Los Angeles ahead of the tour’s start. I bid Maynard and the band farewell and fly out to L.A., checking into the Sunset Marquis Hotel, Jaco’s hotel of choice. He’s nowhere to be found that evening. I find out later that he was up the street at the Roxy, attending a CBS Records album rollout gig for Billy Cobham. Jaco later brags to me that he and Stanley Clarke were picking grapes, raisins, and nuts from a record company-supplied fruit basket on the table and throwing them at Billy during one of his drum solos.
Rehearsal is set to begin early the next afternoon, and I decide to walk from the hotel situated near La Cienega Blvd. in Hollywood to the S.I.R. rehearsal studio that’s located near Highland Ave., a distance of two-and-a-half miles. I enjoy the morning trek and am pleased to see my new drums in their cases waiting for me at the studio. Several crew members are milling about, and I introduce myself to them and then begin setting up this new kit.
While I am doing this (a start-of-tour ritual I will repeat often during the ensuing years), a manager comes over and informs me that the “guys will be a little bit late” getting to rehearsal. So, the 1 p.m. rehearsal is now looking like a 3 or 4 p.m. rehearsal start — no problem. The crew guys are very helpful, and we’re experimenting with the setup, working in some Chinese gongs I brought along, instruments I found in London during a tour with Stan Kenton. (I will take Jaco to this same shop during a later Weather Report tour, and it is here he will find the Chinese koto that is heard to prominent effect on his album Word of Mouth.) Four p.m. rolls around and we’ve figured out the gong setup. The same manager comes over and apologetically informs me that he has been told that the “guys will be delayed another couple of hours.”
It must be 6:30 or 7 p.m. by the time Joe, Wayne, and Jaco enter the rehearsal studio together from the parking lot. I’m happy to see Jaco and walk over to greet him, but he only smiles, waves, and departs as quickly through the doorway as he had entered. Instead, I shake hands with Joe Zawinul, who has a small, dried-out marijuana roach stuck to his lower lip. He stares at me and shakes my hand, almost glumly. Wayne is far friendlier and smiles warmly and broadly. They go their way towards the stage where the band setup is waiting.
Zawinul begins noodling on his recently repaired and factory-returned Prophet 5 keyboard while keyboard tech and programmer Alan Howarth explains what work has been done during the machine’s absence. Wayne is unpacking his tenor saxophone. Now, had I stayed true to my big band experience, I would have awaited instruction or invitation to play. Any band with a dozen or more musicians requires this sort of traffic control, and a good sideman knows his place. But I’m bored by all of the waiting around, and so I do something uncharacteristic for me and begin playing the drums — BAM! — throwing the gauntlet down to Joe instead of waiting for it to come from him. He turns and looks almost startled but pleased, and so he begins to play. We’re just jamming at this point, and Wayne wastes no time joining in. The monitor mixer is vigilant and everything is sounding really good.
I look out into the rehearsal space and see Jaco re-entering the building, this time with a 6-pack of Heineken beer and a big smile. He quickly deposits the beer into the rehearsal studio fridge and jumps up onto the stage, turning to catch a Fender bass that’s airborne as soon as he is ready to catch it. He grabs it midair with ease and fastens the strap around himself, turns a knob, and we’re off to the races. What unfolds is an impromptu medley of Weather Report tunes, all sounding very familiar to me because I had done my listening homework. The experience feels as familiar as possible, and yet I know I am on new ground and that I am, in effect, playing for my very life. These guys are my heroes, and these are the musical moments to live for. An Olympic downhill skiing run where turn after turn only reinforces what we already know: that we’re going to enjoy this and that we’re going to win.
There is a theory I’ve read that states, in effect, that musicians reach their moment of readiness after they’ve put in about 10,000 hours of playing-time on an instrument. I added up all my hours while sitting in a bathtub one day, and my 10,000 hours pretty much coincided with the time that I joined Weather Report. I played a lot when I was young. And here I was, going for it with Joe Zawinul, Wayne Shorter, and Jaco Pastorius.
We cover a lot of musical ground and play a lot of tunes non-stop for over 40 minutes without a word being spoken. I look out into the rehearsal room space at some point during all of this and see saxophonist Tom Scott (whom Jaco had invited to come over) standing there motionless with his mouth open. By this time we are playing “Gibraltar,” which has a rousing vamp for a finale, and we all seem to know that it’s time to end together, Zawinul confirming this with a jubilant and vigorous nod of his head. “Bup-bup-buh, bap-bu-DAP!” The guys are high-fiving and laughing and smiling, I’m catching my breath, but of course I am smiling, too, and this all seems like a good thing. This is confirmed by rehearsal being called for the night, with a photo session hurriedly scheduled for the following day.
The night, however, has just begun, and I’m riding shotgun with Jaco as we go from one L.A. landmark to another, ending up at the former home of Stan Laurel. From a jam session with Michel Colombier to a drawn-out existential dialogue between Jaco and Steve Gadd that I overhear from the couch where I’m napping (and left to wonder how in the world these guys can stay up so late), I discover that Jaco’s sound is indeed in his hands and that Tom Scott is a nice fellow, and that Jaco and Steve can really TALK.
Jaco takes me to a clothing store on Santa Monica Blvd. the next morning so I can get some hip stage clothes as well as something for the band photo. I put on my new white T-shirt and join Joe and Wayne, who have been waiting for us to get into the picture.
Feeling bold, I venture to ask Joe while we’re posing:
“Hey, Joe.”
“What?”
Pose. Snap.
“Can I tell my friends that I’m in the band?”
Pose. Snap.
Pose. Snap.
“You can tell your friends that you are going to Japan.”
Pose. Snap. Snap.
at my first Weather Report soundcheck in Japan, 1978
5. Mr. Gone
Zawinul: “We don’t have too many rules in this band, but we got one very important rule you need to know.”
Peter: “Okay. What’s that?”
Zawinul: “No boogers allowed.”
Peter: “Boogers? Uh, what do you mean, ‘No boogers allowed’? What’s a booger?”
Zawinul: BOOGERS! UGLY BITCHES, MAN! No fucking boogers allowed!”
Peter: “Um…you’re joking, right?”
Zawinul: “I see you with an ugly booger, I’ll fire your ass!”
* * *
In the days between my introduction to the band and our flight to Japan, I was invited to visit Devonshire Studios where Joe, Wayne, and Jaco had been hard at work on Mr. Gone. Devonshire Studios is in North Hollywood and was the scene of some incredible recordings by Weather Report. I was amazed to see that room for the first time. THIS is where they recorded Heavy Weather? The room seemed quite small, longer than it was wide, and the narrow confines of Studio A made it an unlikely place in which to create classic recordings. But thanks to the cl
everness of the engineers and the musical vision of Joe, Wayne, and Jaco, a lot of great music came out of that room.
My first recording experience was to do a hi-hat overdub on Joe’s tune “Young and Fine.” He wanted to tinker with the feel of the fine drum track that Steve Gadd had played, and I set up a hi-hat in a small iso-booth and played along with the track from start to finish while Joe watched a World Cup soccer game on TV in the control room. When I was finished, I took off my headphones, climbed around the mic stand, and walked into the control room. Joe seemed to be concentrating on the game. I asked, “How was it?” to the room. “How was it?” Zawinul replied. “You tell me.” And so I said, “I think it was good.” “Okay then,” he said. “Watch the game.”
The next day or so I was in the studio with my full drumset. We started off with a soundcheck for the engineer that morning and someone suggested that we run Wayne Shorter’s “Pinocchio.” Wow! From being a drummer in a big band to all of a sudden playing “Pinocchio” in the same room with its composer, and with WEATHER REPORT. Meanwhile, we still needed to get a drum sound, so my excitement combined with my wanting to make some sort of an impression, as well as figuring I should hit as much of the drumkit as possible, well, that wound up being my world premiere on record with the band. I was a bit horrified when I realized that Joe, Jaco, and Wayne were seriously considering just using this rough run-through as the “take”; I was used to working laboriously over and over again to get a good “take” when I made recordings with the Kenton or Ferguson bands, and I wanted my first recording with Weather Report to be SO GOOD, especially on a tune where Tony Williams played so ingeniously and sublimely. But when I objected to the idea of the run-through being used, Jaco cut me off and announced, “Hey, you’re going to join the band the same way I did: first take.” And that, for better or worse, was that.
No Beethoven: An Autobiography & Chronicle of Weather Report Page 2
