As the days go by, I’m learning more and more that my son, who’s now one year old, seems to respond to music. Whenever my wife turns on CMT or I pop on a record, he stops in his tracks, stares at the noise coming out of the big machine, and then starts bobbing his head — actually, his entire upper body — to the tunes.
So, as of last Thursday I’ve decided to play him a “classic” record each morning as we’re getting ready for the day — you know, with the hope that he’ll grow up liking daddy’s music (God help him). I’ve had four opportunities so far and I’ve chosen Peter Gabriel’s So, Arcadia’s So Red the Rose, the Time’s Ice Cream Castles, and INXS’s Kick. He seemed to like Peter Gabriel and was dancing all over the place during “Red Rain” (the first time I’ve ever seen anyone dance to that song). He also bobbed his head quite a bit during INXS’s “Guns in the Sky,” and Arcadia’s “Election Day” had him swaying back and forth. Unfortunately, Morris Day and the Time seemed to do nothing for him, but I still have plenty of formidable years ahead to get my son to blow his funky horn like dad.
Now, back to the ass end of the 1980s, i.e. songs that charted below #40 on the Billboard Hot 100 during the Reagan years, featuring our final week of artists whose names begin with the letter P.
Billy Preston
“I’m Never Gonna Say Goodbye” — 1982, #88 (download)
Billy Preston & Syreeta
“One More Time for Love” — 1980, #52 (download)
Billy Preston’s smash duet with Syreeta, “With You I’m Born Again” puts me to sleep, so if I’m listening to Billy’s singles chronologically, I just never get to these. Man, “With You” must be the slowest ballad to chart in the decade. Not like either of these tunes here are barnburners, either. I’m pretty sure “One More Time for Love” is actually a really good song, but I haven’t been in the right mood to verify that in ages.
Pretenders
“Stop Your Sobbing” — 1980, #65 (download)
“Thin Line Between Love and Hate” — 1984, #83 (download)
“My Baby” — 1987, #64 (download)
Here’s one of those artists that I’m going to learn a lot about by reading the comments. They’re pretty much universally loved, but I, of course, can’t stand their music and think they are way overrated. But as with pretty much every artist I hate, there isn’t one thing I can pinpoint or one moment where I realized it, but there has never been a point in my life where I have cared to hear a Pretenders song. The 1986 #10 hit “Don’t Get Me Wrong” is the closest I come to enjoying one of their songs. I’d be completely content if I never heard any of these three songs again.
Brownsville Station
When I became involved with Ted Nugent’s recording, I spent quite a bit of time in Atlanta. We were recording at The Sound Pit, a nice little studio in downtown Atlanta owned by a man named Mike Thevis, who apparently had something to do with pornography, and who also apparently spent some time in prison as a result. I never met Mr. Thevis, but I did become very friendly with the house engineer, Tony Reale. Tony was a great engineer with a very agreeable personality. Aside from engineering my early records with Ted, he also mixed the Johnny Nash hit “I Can See Clearly Now.” To a visitor like myself, Atlanta in the Seventies had the feeling of a boom town – we were told that women outnumbered men three to one, and the population was young. There was a buzz about the town, and a festive atmosphere. Anyone who grew up in the South and had a dream seemed to be drawn to Atlanta in order to realize that dream.
In the Seventies, New York’s music scene was largely downtown in the Village area. Aside from all the traditional West Village clubs like the Village Vanguard, the Village Gate, Gerde’s Folk City and the Bitter End, two of the mainstays were the Bottom Line and Max’s Kansas City. Allan Pepper and Stanley Snadowsky opened the Bottom Line in 1974, and it quickly became an adjunct to the New York record business – the premier showcase spot for both new and veteran acts. The owners of the club worked closely with the major labels, and if you worked for one of these labels, you could walk into the Bottom Line on any given night, and you’d know enough record executives there to literally work the room for 30 minutes before showtime, meeting and greeting both your competition and your colleagues.
The office I was given at Epic was located between the offices of Barry Kornfeld and Sandy Linzer, who were both A&R men and producers, as well. Both had been there for some time, and were at least five years older than I. Barry seemed partial to folk music, and had longish hair and a curly beard. He was soft-spoken, helpful and easygoing. I’m honestly not sure what he did at Epic, but I know he was involved with Tom & Harry Chapin early in their singing careers, and he was related to Artie Kornfeld , a successful producer/songwriter in the ’60s, and one of Woodstock’s originators. On the other side of me was Sandy Linzer, a pleasant, clean-cut guy from New Jersey who was a great songwriter, and had written some big hits for Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, including “Let’s Hang On.” Sandy was involved with a few artists while I was there, and just before he and Barry left Epic, he cut the original track to “Brandy” by Looking Glass, but the band felt it was a little too pop and wound up re-recording it with another producer. Sandy was managed by a casually dressed young guy with a great sense of humor, who would stop in my office after his frequent meetings with Sandy, and greet me with “Werman, what’s up?” He would sit down and we’d chat about the music business for a few minutes. I always enjoyed these impromptu meetings with the young Tommy Mottola.
Epic Records was located on the 13th floor of the imposing Eero Saarinen-designed CBS Building, dubbed “Black Rock” due to its black granite exterior. The interior was furnished with fine tables and chairs designed by Mies van der Rohe, and many of those same tables and chairs could be found at the Museum of Modern Art, just down the block on 53rd Street. During that time, one could find himself in the elevator with John Hammond, Goddard Lieberson, Clive Davis, or even William Paley, the president of CBS. I had an office at Epic in New York from 1970 to 1978, when I moved to Los Angeles. During that time, our annual record sales grew from roughly $12 million to $250 million, but strangely, the number of offices never increased — we actually occupied very little space for the powerhouse we had become. The entire national Epic Records staff occupied 15 offices. We had one conference room. Epic shared creative services with the Columbia label, which was located on the 10th and 11th floors, and occupied all of both floors.