I was in the 8th grade when a record came on the radio and almost instantly I knew I liked it. To be fair, that was true of a lot of records in the late 50s and early 60s. After all, in the age of Elvis, radio was changing, reflecting a wealth of new artists, songwriters, producers, and record labels. That new record I heard wasn’t rock ’n roll, but it seemed clear—at least in retrospect—that I could like it and maybe my circle of friends and family might like it too. It was a bit campy, and was primarily in a minor key (I’ve always been an easy mark for songs in minor keys.) The song was simple, fit into the early pop/rock genre, and was a bit corny with some added crowd sounds.
A decade later I began working in the music business, promoting new releases from a number of labels including RCA Records. Two of the artists I met in the early 1970s were singer-songwriters John Denver and Townes Van Zandt, meetings that took place about a year apart. During those separate conversations I learned something about songwriting. Nothing that would turn me into any kind of a songwriter, but enough to give me insights into them and the process of creating music. In both cases their songs were not only about what they knew, but also what they imagined.
A couple of years later I was working for A&M in Chicago, and was at Richard Harding’s legendary club, the Quiet Knight, where now and again I had other occasional conversations with songwriters, including one of the most private and shy artists I’d met during all of my record label days: Joan Armatrading.
A couple of years later I was sitting in a studio in Hollywood, listening to the playback of some new music by Armatrading. One of the songs was “Love and Affection”, from Armatrading’s then soon to be released 1976 self-titled album. Almost 50 years later, her song, her vocal performance, Glyn Johns’ production, and Jimmy Jewel’s sax solo continue to deliver chills. Songwriters like Armatrading create songs that work their way into our emotions, our psyches, our souls. It’s magical.
This all brings me back to that song I’d heard years earlier in 8th grade, a song written by, using his pen name, Sol Lake(1911-1991). Over the years he was credited with writing (perhaps) between 25 and 50 tunes, a number of them quite successful. Lake’s original title for that “8th grade” song was “Twinkle Star”. According to Herb Alpert, in a 1979 interview,
In 1962, I had my first experience at [a] bullfight; I saw the great Carlos Arruso. I was taken in by the bravado and the sounds of Mexico . . . not so much the music, but the spirit. I got home that afternoon and had this tune — “Twinkle Star” — in my head. I translated that song and worked it into the feeling I was having. We finished recording, but it needed one more element: the sounds of arena. A friend, Ted Keeps — an engineer — happened to have a tape of sounds of [a] bullring in Tijuana and overlayed it onto the tape, and we became the Tijuana Brass.
“The Lonely Bull” was a hit, and was a foundational moment in the creation of what became the A&M Records label, the legendary endeavor of Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss.
By the time I was introduced to Herb and Jerry—the “A” and the “M”, A&M Records had become a successful, independent label, and those introductions only confirmed what I already knew intuitively, and for almost 20 years, I called A&M home. My conversations with Herb were infrequent but always enjoyable, and always an opportunity to learn something about music, performance, recording, touring and life. Whether in a studio on the A&M lot, at a concert performance or, as once happened, running in to Herb at Heathrow Airport (we were both waiting for the same London to New York flight.)
Earlier this year my longtime friend Mike Regan, whom I worked with at A&M for much of the 1980s, got in touch with me. His email was simple:
“Hope you’re well. Herb and Lani are playing at SF Jazz in early August (11-14th although the 11th looks sold out). Any interest in going?”
That was one of the quickest times I ever hit reply. We were going! Five months later, on Friday, August 12, we were at SF Jazz in San Francisco, waiting for the start of the concert. This would be, perhaps, the 4th or 5th time I’d seen Herb perform in a concert or club setting since I began my work for A&M , oh so many years ago. Six of us—old friends and new— arrived in SF Jazz’s Miner Auditorium and Mike, Jasmine, Lars, Carol, Dolly and I became part of a capacity crowd. We spent some time before the show getting caught up on each other’s lives and then, suddenly, the music started and Herb and Lani were on stage. For the next two hours it was a bit like a personal concert. He was speaking to each of us.
Herb and Lani brought a mix of familiar songs and some that many of us would be hearing for the first time. If you arrived expecting to hear 1962’s “The Lonely Bull”, 1965’s “A Taste of Honey”, 1968’s “This Guys in Love With You”, 1979’s “Rise” and others, you weren’t disappointed. But the fact is that this performance was more than just something for the ears or a trip down memory lane. It was a multimedia evening with images from television appearances, film clips, video montages and more. The evening was about Lani and Herb, and a history of their recorded music so replete that almost every song, every transition, every segue, every comment from the stage and every image from the film and video clips brought a smile to the faces of all of us.
Herb and Lani were supported by three exceptional musicians: Hussain Jiffry, bassist, percussionist Ricardo “Tiki” Pasillas, and keyboardist Bill Cantos. The fact is that Jiffry, Pasillas and Cantos helped fill the concert hall with music accompaniment that was always perfect for the evening. And Herb and Lani gave all of us in that audience renewed memories, and new memories as well. They spoke, sang and played to each person in that room. Yes, it was that personal.
I could have left it at that, with two hours of terrific entertainment, interspersed with memories and admiration for a friend I hadn’t seen in 20 years.
I also had a memory from about 30 years ago. My days at A&M were winding down and I was about to take some time off before moving to New York to start a new chapter in my life. But I decided to spend my last day at A&M with my family. Actually, both of my families. Dolly and Caitie, and A&M.
We drove into Hollywood and I had planned on saying a few good-byes to those I worked with for many of those years at A&M. For those who aren’t familiar with the A&M offices, Herb and Jerry had purchased the old studio complex once owned by Charlie Chaplin. As was the norm with film studios, there was no skyscraper, no massive single building, no walled fortress. Well, there was a gate with a guard, but this was sunny southern California and Joe the guard offered and returned a friendly wave each day. In the center of the lot was open space. Walk 30-40 seconds in one direction and you’d be in the recording studios. Take a different turn and you’d be in the art department. Another turn and you’d be in front of the old Chaplin home which had been turned into office space for Herb and Jerry. Make one more turn and you’d be looking at the soundstage.
Almost anytime you wanted a bit of fresh air—well, fresh for Hollywood and L.A.—you’d leave one building, and walk into the middle of the lot.
On some days we’d gather near the soundstage which was a working facility. I remember a day when Sting, Stewart and Andy—the Police—were on the soundstage shooting a video for “Wrapped Around Your Finger”. Another day someone would be rehearsing for a tour. There were stairs that took you up to the second level, and on that day Dolly, Caitie and I were saying our goodbyes to a few friends, and then, out of the blue, I got a tap on the shoulder; it was Herb, saying goodbye. As it turned out, we didn’t talk long, as once he saw Caitie sitting on those stairs at the soundstage, he turned and walked over to spend a moment with her. Whatever he said, she was paying attention. And happily I have that moment on film. And like the imagery from that Police song, I think Caitie had Herb wrapped around her finger, if only for a few moments.
“Every Breath You Take”, the first track I heard from the forthcoming “Synchronicity” album. Stewart Copeland, Andy Summers, and Sting would not again achieve this level of success as a group. At that moment the trajectory of their recordings had hit their zenith. We all expected future recordings from the trio but this was their real parting shot. And it was a shot heard round the world.
Jazzdavid 