Time Is Tight

by Booker T. Jones

  In Washington, intricate, elaborate security precautions had been put into place, and everything from checking into the hotel to driving up to the White House was steeped in red tape and individual identity checks and long waits. Anything but the “exciting adventure” our friends and neighbors at home were jealous of. The “ball” we played at was one of many, this one held at the huge Washington, DC, train station, a logistical and acoustical nightmare for its cavernous space and general inaccessibility. With binoculars, I could have been more certain that the president and first lady were actually dancing to our music. The rumor was Mr. Clinton was keener on jamming with the musicians on his tenor sax than attending the multiple balls.

  The White House press agents arranged on-camera interviews with some of the musicians on the South Lawn of the White House with San Francisco’s Vic Lee of KGO-TV.

  The following day, after the performance, the agents hustled me and Steve Cropper into cars and dropped us off in a large grassy area on the National Mall at the interview location. When Vic asked about the inception of Booker T. & the MGs, Steve leaned into the mike, looked into the camera, and said, “If there had never been a Steve Cropper, there never would have been a Booker T.”

  A veteran reporter, Vic allowed the silence that followed Cropper’s remark to create dead time—rarely done in the world of live television. It proved to be a potent omission. As the commentator’s eyes drifted to mine, he let the camera once again settle on Cropper’s smiling face. I could not summon words. My facial expression may have said something. I looked over at Steve. He was still grinning that satiated grin. After more uncomfortable, vacant, unfilled moments, the announcer turned to the camera: “Live from the White House in Washington, back to you, Fred.”

  A few months later, we returned to the White House to play with Lyle Lovett in a performance for the Clintons. On that visit, I smuggled in a book from Olivia’s third-grade class, Letters to the President, and presented it to President Clinton, who was happy to receive it. “I never get stuff like this,” he said. “They won’t let it through security.”

  Chapter 17

  I Believe in You

  DUBLIN, IRELAND—2014—12

  At the door, at the sight of me, Sinead collapsed. Her three young children rushed over, concerned about their mother. When she saw my face, the time since we were on stage at Madison Square Garden condensed. She mumbled, “I let you down.”

  That day in Dublin, all she wanted me to do was accept her apology, and I did. We went inside to meet her kids and go to work.

  Sinead led me to her workspace, a dining room with a large black upright piano. I sat down, pulled out my pocket four-track, and started to twiddle with a few notes on the piano. The children stayed in the front room and the bedroom, peeking in occasionally. Sinead lit a cigarette. I tried to hide my discomfort with the smoke. She walked over and opened the double doors, then I was cold.

  As I twiddled, Sinead picked up a writing pad from the shelf, jotting down some words. She looked off into the distance. The tears were starting to come back. She still hadn’t sung a note, and out of the blue she told me how blacks hadn’t been the only slaves; the Irish had been slaves too. Then she told me I had no idea of the injustices that had occurred in the churches in Dublin. The extent and the brashness of it all. I did have an idea, somewhat.

  Sinead lit another cigarette and started to sing of places she had been. New York, Canada. A song was beginning to show its head between us. I turned the recorder on. Her voice was that of an angel. Pure, uncontrollable.

  Then there was more talk of church institutions and their mistreatment of children.

  NEW YORK, Madison Square Garden—1992—3

  Next to the door in the rehearsal room at MSG was a long utility table. A clipboard, tied to a string that was attached to a Magic Marker, held a list of Bob Dylan songs that were to be chosen from to perform on the show. Most had been scratched through, crossed out, or initialed by one of the performers, indicating they were taken for the show.

  Eric Clapton walked into the rehearsal room.

  He tried out a few of the remaining songs, looking for one that suited him. Nothing was working. In the seventies, I had conjured up an arrangement of “Don’t Think Twice” at my Malibu ranch that Duck Dunn heard.

  So Duck, who was there, said to Eric, “Booker has an arrangement for ‘Don’t Think Twice’ you can use. Hey, Booker, why don’t you do your version of ‘Don’t Think Twice’ for Eric?”

  I did, on the piano. Played and sang my arrangement of “Don’t Think Twice” for which I changed the meter to 12/8 time. That gave the music and the lyrics a nice little lilt. That night, Eric performed it with much success, the audience appreciating the unexpected fresh new take on an old Dylan song.

  The night before the show, which the MGs were slated to open, I stayed up until dawn learning the seven verses of “Gotta Serve Somebody.”

  I never thought it would come to pass that I would sing with the MGs. It was an arrangement I secretly wanted, but all three band members were very vocal about being against it. Steve often repeated, “No one in the band can sing well enough for us to record.”

  In the interim, when the band was broken up, I sang on a regular basis. It was only the MGs that didn’t regard me as a singer. And now, suddenly, was the opportunity on a high-profile concert and TV show.

  Later in the evening, the MC introduced Sinead O’Connor.

  There were a few boos when she walked out.

  Sinead stood motionless on the immense stage—alone but for me. Emitting a silent scream, intense to the degree of pain she suffered as a child, a phantom, a wraith speaking for every abused child, she paused to look over at me.

  I mouthed, “Sing!”

  Then I played the chords. She didn’t. I didn’t get it. At rehearsal, she sang Bob Dylan’s “I Believe in You” to my piano, and people gasped at the tenderness of it.

  More people started booing. The roar mushroomed into a cacophony of rebuke, reprimanding Sinead for ripping up a picture of the Pope on Saturday Night Live to protest the complete lack of response to numerous reports of sexual abuse at the hands of priests. I still didn’t get it. I started the chords a third time.

  The boos were deafening—I became more determined with each wave. Sinead stood frozen. However, she was completely composed. The consummate artist, Sinead needed complete silence to begin the song because her first notes were whispers. I was the one lacking in artistic grace. The clumsy one. I started the song a fourth time, and Kris Kristofferson mercifully stomped out from backstage and led Sinead away from the vice we had created for her. On one hand, I was a strong force, desperately wanting her to sing the song. I felt even if she started softly, the power of the music would have taken over. Opposing us loomed the brute power of mob mentality. Sinead could have just as well walked off the stage on her own, but she strongly wanted to please me. And thus, the arms of the vice closed in on her.

  NEW YORK, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame—January 21, 1992—7

  My family finally got to experience the sandwiches at New York’s Carnegie Deli. The kids weren’t actually able to attend my induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I was only allowed a couple of guests.

  Brian was the first of our big boys to wolf down the delicious, enormous pastrami sandwich, then he looked at me, smiling, as I was just starting on my fourth bite. “’Bout ready?” I tell you, those sandwiches were a sight to behold. For years, my friend Rick at the deli made sure I never paid for one, but on this day, unfortunately, he wasn’t there. Rick sent huge grocery sacks of Carnegie Deli pastrami sandwiches to the Lone Star Roadhouse on Fifty-Second Street on a regular basis. We were so spoiled.

  After a trip to the Natural History Museum, which had something to intrigue each of the children, we hoofed back to the Waldorf Astoria, but not before stopping at every market on the way. Nan loaded the boys down with paper plates, napkins, baloney, peanut butter, bread, fruit, and any microwavable
item. People stared when we walked through the lobby.

  Our troupe, however, the inveterate hikers that we were, just kept on trucking through, even as a crew was filming Scent of a Woman in that same lobby.

  When we got to our hotel room, Olivia said, “It’s like we’re camping, but we’re not!” Everyone agreed and laughed. The Jones crew could survive anywhere, even in a posh New York hotel.

  That night, Booker T. & the MGs were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I just couldn’t believe it. It seemed so soon into the establishment of the award, and I was so honored and surprised they thought we were worthy of such a prestigious honor. I was so thrilled I grabbed the trophy when they handed it to me. The All-Star Jam for “Green Onions” lured so many musicians and guitar players they tripped over each other. Steve Cropper, Duck Dunn, Lewis Steinberg, Neil Young, Keith Richards, the Edge, Johnny Cash, Dr. John, Little Richard, Aaron Neville, John Fogerty, and Carlos Santana. With such a big crowd on stage, I was lost in the moment and found myself absently watching the jam.

  The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame trophy sits on the top shelf of my trophy case between the Memphis Music Hall of Fame and the University of Memphis Distinguished Achievement Awards, above the Grammy Awards. Not that the Grammys aren’t close to my heart. But the most significant trophy I have is a very small one I got from the school bands of Memphis. A group of high school students pooled their nickels and pennies together and presented it to me one night at a football game at Melrose High Stadium on a return trip to Memphis after I had recorded “Green Onions.” They got a convertible on the field and drove me around the stadium with two pretty girls sitting on the back while “Green Onions” played on the loudspeakers.

  LOS ANGELES—1992—3

  At this point in my career, I had become a session player in Los Angeles, playing on records for numerous artists and bands. It was a great relief to me to survive the dry period of the mideighties and have the financial resources that regular session work provided. Without asking, most artists paid me a premium rate—double or more what other session players received. I was called on to produce first demos for up-and-coming artists and did so for Melissa Etheridge, Joss Stone, and others.

  Dave Pirner called, and I went in the studio with him and his band to play on ten tracks for their album. Soul Asylum’s Grave Dancers Union, including “Runaway Train,” is one of my favorite albums of all time. The minute I sat down at the organ, Dave walked over to tell me what he wanted. This wasn’t going to be the usual Hollywood session experience.

  Why did the band want me to play on this song? Why did they want the sound of my organ? Given the lyric, I believe their offer to have me play was a call for help, encouragement, and strength by way of my Hammond sound in the music, and my physical presence in the studio, in the battle against hopelessness.

  LOS ANGELES, CA 1971; EUROPE—1993—1

  After I moved to Malibu in the early seventies, I was driving up LaBrea Avenue and saw a man standing at the corner of Fountain. It was Ringo Starr. This was my chance. I pulled over, introduced myself, and asked if he would be available to play some sessions around town for me. The nerve I had. He was a Beatle. He graciously reached into his pocket, pulled out an old business card, and wrote down the name and number of Jim Keltner. “Call this guy.” I thanked him, got back into the car, and drove to the studio. It was a great tip. I loved Ringo’s playing. He was the type of drummer who played the song, not the beat.

  However, it was Jim Keltner who turned out to be the godsend. He played on most of my productions from then on, with the exception of John Robinson. It was Keltner at the drum set on stage at Madison Square Garden when Neil Young decided we were his band of choice.

  So in 1993, Neil Young took Steve, Duck, Jim, and me on his worldwide tour. A family man, I brought my wife and young children along, a decision that none of Neil’s tour handlers were happy with. I wouldn’t go otherwise, though. I was getting good at doing what I wished.

  In the States, I rented my own bus. In Europe, however, because of logistics and costs, my family and I shared the common bus with Neil’s band, including Cropper, Dunn, and Keltner. Nan and I shared a double room with our three kids at hotels. In Norway, when the sun came up at 3:00 a.m., Cicely flung open the drapes and shouted, “It’s a good day! It’s a good day!” Needless to say, the rest of the family hastily subdued her enthusiasm and insisted she get back in bed and go to sleep.

  One day near the start of the tour, my three-year-old son Teddy donned a cape fashioned from an old receiving blanket and held together with a safety pin and generously anointed Neil with “magic.”

  “Now you have magic!” declared my young son, waving a drumstick that Keltner gave him in place of a wand. Neil was amused and took it in stride, until one day, unhappy with something Neil had done, or failed to do, Teddy took Neil’s “magic” away. That night, after a less-than-perfect show in Paris, of all places, Neil prevailed on Teddy to restore the “magic.” Teddy reluctantly complied, but not before Neil trashed the dressing room.

  Neil is very passionate onstage. He doesn’t phone it in; all of his performances really do have magic. He cares deeply about giving his all for his fans and for himself. Neil has studied the blues—the roots for his music—and often listens to Jimmy Reed after a show to unwind.

  After the tour, Duck and I took Neil into a San Rafael studio and produced Neil’s Are You Passionate? LP. The making of Are You Passionate? was a labor of love. The production location—San Rafael’s the Site studios—provocative lyrics, and musical content of the songs all combined to make it a unique album.

  Neil’s music has always moved me. The irony of “Only Love Can Break Your Heart” sparked some soul-searching on my part, and I started looking for true love. “Southern Man” stands tall as a beacon illuminating hypocrisy. No other musician has incited or provoked me more. The tension between Neil and Stephen Stills has been palpable for a long time, as has the respect and admiration between them. The chemistry I observed during my time working with Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young remains an enigma in so many ways. David Crosby gave me the name Buddha, and the others started calling me that. Short for Booker, I guess.

  Like good old books, Neil’s best songs lurk in your subconscious rather than on the Top 40 charts. They visit when you least expect. There are just so many of them—“When You Dance,” “Words,” “Down by the River,” “Don’t Let It Bring You Down.” There are some gems on Are You Passionate?: “Differently,” “When I Hold You in My Arms,” and “You’re My Girl.”

  I loved David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash to their souls because they wrote “Wooden Ships,” “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes,” and “Carry On.” Their debut album was in my bag when I left Memphis for California. They were a world unto their own. The addition of Neil Young added exponentially to create a universe. What holds a universe together? What held Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young together? Neil Young. They are the kings of rock. I got my 1972 Les Paul out of storage and started playing guitar again because of Stephen, David, and Neil.

  Neil Young. You don’t have to like him; you just have to love him.

  NEW YORK—1994—12

  We were still living in the Canoga Park house when Steve Berkowitz, head of Columbia Records’ Sony Legacy unit called.

  “How’d you like to do a solo project for us, Booker?”

  “I’d love to!”

  “You got it, man!”

  A few months went by. In the interim, we moved to Marin County, and I rented the back room at Sausalito’s Plant Studio for the purposes of songwriting and record production. The back room at the Plant, though small, was fully equipped with a multitrack tape recorder and a twenty-four-channel console. Still no word from Berkowitz.

  When my lease at the Plant was up, I rented an old two-story warehouse in San Rafael and set up my writing studio. I got a call from Berkowitz, just like it had been no time at all since we spoke.

  “What if we got Cropper a
nd Dunn involved in the project?”

  “Well, that’d be great!”

  “You’re on, man.”

  Contracts were drawn up, money was advanced. Cropper came out and spent some time working with me in my San Rafael space, and we came up with a tune we called “Cruisin’.”

  I had done some work for Linda Ronstadt at a great studio up the hill called the Site, so I booked it. My little San Rafael space was little more than a songwriting room. Cropper and I wrote more tunes. Berkowitz called Steve Jordan to coproduce and play drums. These were the sessions that finally confirmed Hollywood’s “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” reputation for me. Most times, because everyone knew I didn’t do coke, people wouldn’t flaunt it too much around me. Same to a lesser extent with the booze. There was no dearth of tables full of cocaine and closets full of wine and booze in my memory, but I never witnessed a recording project to surpass this one in that category. Truth be told, the other sessions may have had the same degree or more of indulgence, just not as visible to me.

  The album was called That’s the Way It Should Be, and in 1994, “Cruisin” won the Grammy for Best Pop Instrumental Performance, our first Grammy.

  LOS ANGELES—1997—6

  My beloved father passed while we were at the 1997 Grammy Awards in New York. Since 1992, I had spent countless hours at his bedside when doctors told me the end was near, but Dad came roaring back.

  This time, when the phone rang, we were at the Hilton Midtown. Nan answered, and she didn’t have to say a word. I was standing at the closet putting my coat away. We hadn’t won the Grammy. Dad was gone.

  At the memorial service in LA, I reached over and put my finger on a bulging vein on the back of my father’s hand the way I used to as a very young boy. I always loved seeing the vein spring back up after I pressed it down. This time, the vein didn’t spring back up. My father’s hand was cold. He was lying in his casket. Touching his hand helped me realize the truth of the situation. I caressed it for another minute, then walked to the podium.