“Deceptively simple. It’s hard to say so much with so little. There’s a reason the Stones have endured as long as they have.”
“I’m sure.” She hesitated, then said, “What do you think Gabe liked about that song? I mean, if you don’t mind talking about it. I’d love to hear a musician’s point of view.”
I considered that. I really didn’t talk about him much, with anyone. Mainly because the last many, many conversations I’d had about him had been so utterly painful… I’d just stopped having them.
I definitely tried never to talk for him.
However. Taylor wasn’t just anyone. And her interest always seemed genuine.
“I don’t like speaking for Gabe,” I told her. “People are always asking me to do that. But… he told me that the first time he ever heard ‘Gimme Shelter,’ it gave him chills. The layered guitars and that haunting Mick Jagger falsetto at the beginning… We were fourteen and he sat me down in his basement where we always listened to music. He was all amped up about something. Said he had a song I had to hear. He did that a lot. Then he put on ‘Gimme Shelter.’” I paused, trying to remember that day. “I’d never heard it before. And we listened to it over and over, trying to deconstruct it and pick out all the instruments we were hearing. There’s this wounded harmonica on it playing, like, two notes. And the scraping ratchet sound is this Latin percussion instrument called a güiro. We didn’t know what it was at first. We just had to listen. This was right before the days when you could just look up all this shit on the internet, you know?” I glanced at Taylor and she was listening intently.
“I didn’t know any of that,” she said. “I never even thought about what instruments were in it.”
“Well, you’re not a musician, so really, why would you? It has all the elements of an incredible song, and you don’t have to be a musician to pick up on that. The catchy melody, lyrics that slip into your subconscious before you fully realize what they’re singing about. And great production, including sounds that you don’t expect to hear. But I think what Gabe liked about it the most was the emotion he got from it. Kind of like what you said about the mood of the song. It was actually raining like hell the day he first played it for me, and the song has this feeling like Armageddon raining down on you. It’s apocalyptic. There’s this aura of darkness and doom in it. Keith Richards actually said he wrote it on a stormy day, so I’m sure that had some impact.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It ended up being the opening track on Let It Bleed, which was a pretty groundbreaking album in 1969. It was probably the most sophisticated music the Stones had recorded so far. And somewhere in the process of recording and mixing that song, someone came up with the idea to bring in a female vocalist to sing the ‘rape, murder’ lyrics. And as you know, the result was pretty powerful.”
I met Taylor’s eyes again, and she was watching me with this dreamy look. I realized I’d been lost in the memory of that day, hearing the song for the first time. With Gabe, down in his parents’ basement. I almost thought it was raining out, and when I saw the sun shining through the window beside her it was disorienting.
“It was a brilliant idea,” she agreed.
“Hard to believe they were so young. Mid-twenties. Merry Clayton was only twenty when she sang on that track.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“Holy shit. How is that possible?”
“Well, she was a gospel singer and a session backing vocalist. She’d already sung with Elvis. Imagine that, as a teenager.”
“Wow,” Taylor mused. “What the hell am I doing with my life?”
I laughed.
She smiled, like she was surprised she’d made me laugh. She always looked at me like that when she made me laugh. “How do you know so much about this song?”
“I’ve pored over a lot of interviews about the ‘Gimme Shelter’ recording over the years,” I confessed. “Thanks to Gabe being obsessed with the song. It’s a pretty cool story. You wanna hear more?”
“Yes, please.”
“You sure? Sometimes peeling back the curtain ruins the magic.”
“I’ll take the risk,” she said.
“Okay. The story goes, Merry Clayton gets this call in the middle of the night from a producer friend of hers, asking her to go down to the studio and sing vocals on a song. She was pregnant at the time, and her husband convinced her to get out of bed and go do it.”
“Really?”
“Really. She’d just come off of touring with Ray Charles, and she had no fucking clue who the Stones were. And this was three years after ‘Paint It Black’ was released.”
Taylor grinned. “I love it.”
“So, she went down to the studio in the middle of the night, with curlers in her hair. She had to sit down because she was so pregnant. She laid down three takes in total and then she went home. The rest is history.”
“Wow. That’s so fucking cool.”
“That’s fucking kismet at work or something. It was the most famous performance of her career, in the end. And you can hear why, right? She sings it with such power and emotion, you can hear her voice actually break on the track.”
“Seriously? How did I not notice that? I’ve listened to that song hundreds of times.”
“Listen to it again. You’ll hear it. You can hear the guys like, whoop with excitement in the background. Because she fucking slays it.”
“Huh.” I could see her thinking about that.
“Sad thing is, nowadays, a lot of producers would probably cut that shit out, just loop the most ‘flawless’ cut of her vocals back around. Or fix it. But the album is called Let It Bleed. You’ve gotta let it bleed sometimes.”
“Shit. I can’t believe I razzed you about ‘Heart of Gold.’ There must be a ton of shit I don’t even hear when I listen to music.”
“Doesn’t matter. You just listen, and everyone hears what they hear, right? You have your own personal experience with it. You take it on and it becomes yours. Maybe it even becomes your favorite song. Like something you’d ink into your flesh.”
She smiled a little. “I love that so much. That her voice broke and they didn’t fix it. Makes me love the song even more. The soul she infuses into it… that’s what grabbed me when I first heard it. Not just the sound of her voice.” She reached to open her laptop and checked the time. “It’s almost time for your call with the band. I’ve got us set up. They’ll be calling us when they’re ready.”
“Okay.”
“So… how do you remember that whole story?” she asked me. “You paid attention, because it was important to Gabe?”
“Well, I’m a musician. What am I gonna do except make music… and listen to music, and read about music?”
“And yet you didn’t know ‘Heart of Gold’ was a love song…” she teased.
I liked that. That she was comfortable enough to tease me.
“And that would be why I keep listening. There’s always more to learn.”
“That’s true. You just schooled me pretty thoroughly about one of my favorite songs. I seriously didn’t even know there was anything more to know about it than what I heard when I listened to it hundreds of times over. I feel kinda stupid now.”
“Don’t. Stupid would be not listening at all. Not being open to listening.”
Damn. I heard myself say it, and I could hear the voices of so many people in my head. People who tried to get me to listen to them when I really didn’t want to listen.
“So, before we get on this call, maybe I should ask you what exactly it is you do as a producer,” she said. “I wanted to ask you on day one, but I should probably confess that I was afraid to because I thought you’d fire me on the spot.”
“Good thing you didn’t ask.” I smiled, so she’d know I was kidding. “By the way, you’re fired.”
“Seriously.” She poked my knee. “If you had to sum it up, to try to explain to somebody like me who’s utterly clueles
s…”
“Okay. Basically, I’m responsible for this album. It’s my job to make sure that it turns out as good as it possibly can. So, that’s it in a nutshell. But that didn’t really tell you anything, did it?”
She smiled. “Not really.”
“The answer you get would probably depend which producer you ask, honestly. A producer’s job can really vary. I’ve known producers who do little more than sit back and listen, and yay or nay things as they go, and maybe they earned that position, but that’s hardly any better input than my dad could give.”
“And your dad would be…?”
“Moderately clueless about music. He still thinks Bon Jovi is what the kids are listening to.”
“Right. Go on.”
“I’m more of a hands-on, up-to-the-elbows type of producer. I’m providing the studio on this project because I can control the sound that comes out of that studio and that’s what I want on this album. Basically, I put my favorite bands and any heavier bands through Little Black Hole because the studio, the equipment, and the staff there are set up for that. I oversee every single aspect of the project, no matter how small. My engineers and the assistants down at LBH take care of any physical work for me, like if they need to re-mic something or move something in the studio for me. And then I’m here, listening to every fucking thing that band does in there.”
“It’s cool that technology allows you to do that.”
“Yup. I’ll be co-writing and helping them weed through everything they write and organize what’s good into kick-ass songs. I’ll be playing on the album, too, as needed. Guitars, for sure, because we haven’t locked down a second lead, which Ash wants badly, and I know he wants that collaboration. Keys and piano, maybe, if it’ll bring something to it on top of what Summer’s doing. Vocals, maybe. I don’t play drums or any percussion, really, but I play pretty much everything else we’ll need, or I’ll get someone else in who does. If I decide they need a Merry Clayton on a track or some obscure instrument or an entire orchestra or a fucking choir, I’ll bring it in. When we’re deciding which songs will go on the album, I’ll oversee that, and I’ll oversee the arrangements of the songs, who plays what, who sings what, how they play it, how they sing it, how it’s recorded. Everything.”
“Wow.”
“Then if anyone in the band isn’t getting their part right, I have to make sure they get it right. Along the way, I’m listening to what the band is coming up with and forming a vision of how the album will turn out, how each song will sound. And then I need to convey that vision, in detail, to the members of the band, any guest musicians we bring in, to the engineer, and to Brody and the record company, too. They’ll be asking me all along the way how things are going. Am I hearing any hits? All that bullshit.”
Taylor cocked an eyebrow at me. “And will you be hearing hits?”
“I fucking hope so. I’ll want to make sure each song is as incredible as it can be so the whole album rocks, and that we have a handful of hits, or at least the potential to have some hits. I don’t want the band thinking about that part, about what sells. I want them making art in there, expressing themselves from the heart, and then I’ll help them make it into a sellable song. It’s hard to know what’ll hit, but after so many years and so many songs, you get a feel for things. You can feel it when you’ve got a great song. And you know when you’ve got a song that should sell well. You want to make sure it’s competitive with what’s out there. Like if Drake’s been hanging out at number one for weeks on end, you want to make sure your song has at least a fucking chance of blowing it out of the water. If there’s no hope in hell, why are you even releasing it? Sometimes you’re wrong, but producers who turn out consistent hits are paid to get it right.”
“Like you?”
“Yeah. Like me.”
“So how easy is all of this to do, for someone like you?”
I considered that. There was really no simple answer to that question. “I told you the first day we met, it’s never easy. And that’s the truth. But some albums are definitely harder or less enjoyable than others. If everything’s going smoothly, between the band’s writing and performance, their ability to work together, the engineering, the equipment, then things should roll smoothly. But there are always unforeseen glitches, and that makes my role get more complicated. Basically, whenever there’s a problem, it’s up to me to fix it or make sure it gets fixed. And all along the way, I’m balancing budget and logistics in the back of my mind, planning ahead for future days in the studio. Like booking session musicians to come down when I decide we need them, making sure the studio is on top of bringing in equipment I need or replacing shit that needs to be replaced. And while all that’s happening, I’ve gotta be on top of everything that’s going on, minute to minute. Which bass is Matt playing on this track? When is Summer laying down her backup vocals? Did they get Xander’s snare replaced yet? Why is Ash not hitting that note properly? Why is that beat still wrong? Why is everyone hungover today? Do I give them shit or a pep talk or let it slide and see what happens tomorrow? Where the hell are those files I was supposed to be sent two hours ago? Etcetera. And if it all goes to shit, basically, it all lands on me. So there’s not a ton of room for things to go too far sideways, or my life goes to shit.”
“Well, holy shit,” Taylor said. “I had no idea.” I studied her thoughtful, mildly amazed look. “Right about now, I’m feeling pretty bad about handing over all those edibles to the band…”
“Don’t,” I said. It had annoyed me, at first, but I also appreciated that she had that side of her that didn’t worry about the consequences of things like that too much. “This is rock ’n’ roll, Taylor. I’m sure the band appreciated the gift. And I’m definitely way more uptight about that kind of thing than I need to be.”
“But you need to be,” she said. “Basically, there’s a ton of pressure on you.”
“Sure, but there’s pressure on the band, too. They’re more the public face of this thing, and if the album is no good, it’s not the producer the fans and even the critics are looking to tear apart. Most people don’t listen to a song and say, ‘This producer sucks,’ or ‘The record label really got this wrong.’ They say, ‘This band sucks. I’m not buying their next album. I’m not going to the show.’”
“True.” She sipped her coffee, studying me. “So, how did you get into producing? Was it natural, after you’d already established yourself as a musician?” She smiled. “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m interviewing you for a music magazine. But I’m just so curious.”
“I don’t mind.” I really didn’t. I could talk to this girl all day.
If I didn’t eventually have work to do… I probably would.
“I think about that sometimes,” I told her. “There’s a part of me that feels like maybe this was always where I was meant to be. In the studio, rather than out onstage. I kinda hated touring, at least some aspects of it, but I loved it, too. And I miss it, sometimes. Other times I’m glad I’ll never have to do it again. It’s strange. I don’t regret anything I did professionally with Alive or other bands before that. But I belong in here, for sure. I think Gabe understood that better than I did, and earlier than I did. He always said I would’ve been the one who called Merry Clayton into the room on ‘Gimme Shelter,’ that kind of thing. Taking a good or great song we were writing and elevating it to outstanding, that was my thing. I found my place in the studio, so to speak, much easier than I did onstage. Gabe saw it, and he was always a huge voice for me producing our music. I didn’t produce Alive’s album, Stand and Fall. I probably wasn’t ready yet. Or at least, I thought I wasn’t. But now we’ll never know, will we?”
“That’s too bad,” she said gently.
“Yeah. I guess I always kind of regretted that part. That we didn’t give ourselves a chance, Gabe and I, to produce together. We planned to, but we just ran out of time.” I went silent for a minute, absorbing that. I didn’t like to think about it, and it had been a long
while since I’d talked about it. “After Alive broke up, and I eventually got back to work… I went into producing because I guess I was trying to believe in whatever good shit he saw in me.”
“That’s amazing, Cary. He saw you as a producer even before you were one.”
“Yeah. He just knew the things I was capable of better than I did. I don’t know how he did that. He just always saw the best in me before I did, I guess.”
She smiled at me softly. “It’s probably out of line for me to say this. But… I think I love Gabe already.”
“He was pretty easy to love.”
Maybe that was why I had to fill every moment of my life with the thing I loved the most—music. Because without music, I just felt the emptiness in the recording studio, the void of him, when he wasn’t here.
He was supposed to be here, but he wasn’t.
That was the part that was always the hardest for me to accept.
Somehow, Taylor filled that void. It was hard to say why, since she wasn’t a musician. But when she was in the room, it didn’t feel so empty.
I studied her. She was definitely listening with rapt attention to everything I said, like she was truly interested. She didn’t seem to have an ounce of musical background in terms of playing anything, or any technical knowledge, so it wasn’t like she was looking to produce. But I could see her becoming a great fit—not just in the office side of things, but in the studio, somehow. Maybe with her organizational skills, her communication skills, her ease with people. And whatever business savvy she’d picked up along the way at all her various jobs.
Plus, she seemed to have a pretty good ear. One that could be trained. And maybe the most important of all, she had passionate interest and she seemed dedicated.
“If you really want the best answer to your question about what it is I do,” I told her, “you can just watch me work as this album unfolds, and see what I do. We haven’t really gotten into the creative thick of it yet. But that part is coming. The obsessive artist stupor. Staring at the wall, playing the same chord progression five hundred times trying to figure out why it sounds wrong. Agonizing over one wrong word in a line of lyrics. The sleepless nights. Forgetting to eat. Forgetting my name. It’ll be a real treat.” I smirked and she grinned.
Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4) Page 22
