I
tell those who ask, "Sure. Making records is a lotta
fun." I don't say it's all fun, but one tends to shuffle
memories of the stressful, angst-addled ilk right along
to Buffalo. It's only the good times I remember. That
being so, I tell those who ask how working with excellent
musicians is a joy forever - and for a guy from the Okie
side of the tracks in Salinas, CA, I've worked with some
exceedingly world-class players. It's a gift, I guess: Ma
Nature counterbalancing my own rag-ass musicianship by
bestrewing my world with the real deal. Everywhere I go.
Lucky Duck Syndrome. Some of these musicians - the more
obscure geniuses - you wish you knew, believe me. Some
you would know. Some favored few live lofty lifestyles,
radically rich and famous.
I tell those who ask,
"Most famous guy I've ever worked with? George Harrison.
Give me a tough one." I flip out this set reply with
studied nonchalance, a casual whut-hasn't-everybody?
offhandedness. Showin' off. But you know, I know, they
know, everybody-knows-to-this-day - making music with a
Beatle is a major coup: socially, certainly; musically,
absolutely.
I used to sit out in a
Salinas lettuce field with the Wence bros back in the
E-Types days, '65-'67, drinking hard cider, playing,
singing, and talking Beatle songs. Not so unusual at that
time, granted, but the E(nglish)-Types were, after all, a
band known as the "Salinas Beatles". We belonged with the
raw-meat Beatle freaks: disciples who lamped unto our
turntables' feet in analysis of Their Word. We dissected,
devoured; we duplicated everything Beatle. We exhausted
the Beatle oeuvre. Then again. Then again. George
Harrison's stuff was as much a part of my musical
education as anyone I could name. It wouldn't be at all
fair, though, to censure him for my mega-pathetic way
with a guitar lick. 'Fraid that shadow falls at the
student's feet. That's why I play rhythm, or sometimes
simple bass.
One night out there
amongst the row crops - cloaked in the dark obscurities
of circumstance and the night - we thought how good
'twould be to someday run into these guys on a
more-than-fanship basis to be known to our favorites
beforehand. That nifty trick - at least with George - I
was fortunate enough to pull off.
In 1975 I was on the
roster at Shelter Records, a hip little label owned by
Tulsa top cat Leon Russell and the veddy-veddy British
Denny Cordell. Okies and Limeys. My producer, Dino
Airali, had progressed from the promo department at
Shelter (he's the one who broke the first JJ Cale
singles) and into the studio scene. Plucking Phoebe Snow
out of New York club obscurity and putting together her
outrageous debut (gold) album had set him on a roll.
Somehow along the way between my first and second LPs,
Dino met - and conspicuously hit it off - with George, as
he forthwith wound up running George's Dark Horse
Records. In a couple of years he rose from Shelter PR to
Dark Horse Prez, or whatsoever his title there. Not for
rhyme alone did we dub him, "Svengali
Airali".
Dark Horse was housed
in offices at the A&M studios in Los Angeles. A&M
also distributed DH. Dino set up shop with his favorite
Gal Friday, Linda Arias, and started moguling-signing
acts, wheelin' deals, shining on phone calls. I first
dropped by some time that summer/fall, when Dino and I
were still imaginating Crosswords, my forthcoming
LP #2. I was in and out of there often, making lots of
hops to So-Cal from my place in Santa Cruz. This was
fairly concurrent with the release of George's Extra
Texture album on Dark Horse. I've still got a sizable
pile of souvenir "ET" flack someplace around. Recall,
"Ohnothimagain"?
I was in Svengali's
office typing up song lyrics when my lettuce-field,
nighttime daydream came to pass. Unannounced, George one
sunny day shambled in with Linda's sister, Olivia Arias.
Gorgeous as she was, he was the one who seemed to glow.
He was "aurafied"; something shimmery this way comes. His
vibratory sheen, real or fancied, I have noted on only
one other person: I saw it all around Bobby Kennedy
shortly before Sirhan Sirhan shot him dead. Happily,
George survived me. (Hmm. Now I'm thinking Charlotte
Hickenlooper outshone them both back in grade school, but
I'm pretty sure that was a different
phenomenon.)
Dino
made the intros, and George said, "Hosford - oh yes, with
Shelter, isn't it?" What a gas! I knew the Wence boys
would be proud of me. George was cool. Chit-chatty.
Affable. I bounced into him numerous times that fall, and
we got out and festive a time or two and played some
songs (although I wouldn't expect to find myself
remembered in his will.)
It is not to tell
tales out of school to proclaim that George knows his way
around a yo-ho-ho-and-a-bottle-of-rum fest. Such
proclivities we held in common. And abundance. I'm
certain he'd never deny that - as Jaques says in As
You Like It - "Yes, I have gained my experience."
George could party hearty and was good at it, but I don't
recall any bozoity. He was a lot like our own ace Santa
Cruz hot-lickster, Ken Kraft, in that regard. And
others.
George was working
with a new Dark Horse act, Stairsteps, a group from . . .
Chicago (?). Soul bros. Young guys. Great guys. One night
we were all down yonder checking out pictures and
listening to mixes and such. After dusting a few jugs of
the good, puffing a few bombers of the bad, the boss
ahemed to us a brief speech rife of quasi-propriety that
went something like this:
"Listen . . . I
wonder-and if the answer's, 'No', just forget I asked,
hey? But, I wonder, does... Oh, I shouldn't ask . . .
does anyone have perhaps . . . oh, forget . . . .no, if
the answer's, 'No', forget . . . but . . . is there,
y'know, any...
We're all ears, like,
C'mon George . . . spit it out.
" . . .
cocaine?"
Well, the answer was
no, and I normally would just forget, as he asked, that
he asked. But the way we all started slapping at empty
pockets hoping for a miracle is just far too memorable.
We defined "aiming to please," affirmed George's
star-guy, deference-eliciting mechanisms to be still
well-oiled and operative.
George had made Dino
aware he'd like to do some studio work with his guitar.
Dino, sage producer, said, "Let's see your resume." No -
maybe that's not exactly how it went. Anyway, George took
a liking to my stuff and agreed to pitch in when we got
the tapes a-rollin'. I was way happy, calculating up what
the Wence bros would kick out for tickets to this event.
No - maybe that's not exactly why. But I was
happy.
*********
Long about - what?
November? December? - we were in full-on recording mode
over at the Capitol Studio A in Hollywood with engineer
Hugh Davies. I'd done most of the work there with Fly By
Night, the group with which I worked back in God's
country. When basics, set parts and vocals were pretty
much done, we started calling in the guest stars. I loved
that part - I'd just sit back cruising, sipping bubbly
with ol' Hugh while this parade of primo pickers came and
went outside the studio window.
From the Capitol
Tower, I checked in with my Christina one evening by
phone, asking, "How ya doin'?" She replied, "I'm
lonesome, and I'm pregnant." Instantly accepting this as
great news, I told Christina I'd arrange for her to wing
down the next day, resolving her first problem. The
second problem was not a problem. All smiley, I returned
to Studio A and informed everyone: "Call me
Dad."
As
fate would have it, that next night was the one we now
refer to as "Famous Night." Christina and our
kid-in-the-works got a great show. For starters, Mark
Lindsey, the erstwhile lead singer in Paul Revere and the
Raiders, had booked up Studio A for the night, so we were
next door in Studio B. Leon Russell was first on our
agenda; he came in super-hip, snowy hair everywhere,
beard, God's little bro, somber, no-nonsense. He
maintained his game face 'til he'd effected his customary
take-one piano magic and a vibes track on a new tune of
mine, "Direct Me." He then dropped his mystique-ish
reserve like bad pizza, tossed down some suds, and got to
wanking out hard-core honky-tonkers on the Steinway.
Everyone joined his afterwork party. Leon can play his
ass off, get him goin'. He quickly had that stu hopping
like Spike's Rockin' Piano Bar. Then it was George's
turn.
**********
He came in sorta like
that goose - loose. We "how-goesed" it in the hallway and
he disappeared into the john. I told Dino, "Hey now -
he's a trifle geezed, Svengali!" Dino went all
hushy-shushy with me 'til I explained my stance: "C'mon,
you know me, Dino. I just want some of whatever he's
having." Man, you'd think a producer would be sensitive
to his artist's needs.
And right you'd
be.
Dino beamed, clapped
his hands, and down a set of stairs came Fly By Night's
Annie Hughes, toting a giant tray/bucket loaded up with
magnums of Mumms on ice. If guest of honor Christina had
doubted my paternal enthusiasms, it was about now she
ceased doing so. George reappeared, was put wise to the
occasion, and joined in with a jolly good will. Svengali
snuck us off to somewhere between Spike's place and the
Mother's Day party, and gave us a producerly prepping.
Through the door, human fun sensor Mark Lindsey's head
popped. His eyes popped. Corks popped. Studio B was the
place to be.
When George got down
to business, he too was serious about it. These superstar
guys have a rep to maintain, after all. He'd done his
homework, with a cassette of "Direct Me" Dino had
provided. I sat with him behind some studio baffles as
Hugh got the sound down and adjusted the headset levels.
George had whipped up a smooth, tasty slide thing on his
National, and when I heard what he was going for I near
to broke out laughing. 'Twas perfect - pure, signature
George. He winked at me a sly eye.
When he was satisfied
with the sound, he spoke into the mic: "I'm ready now."
This brought his Indian cook/valet to our side in a
trice. It was bang, bang, boss, bang, bang, me, and, "Let
'er roll, Hugh." As the song went down - George
first-taking all the way - I thought of the countless
times he had brightened my being with his music, exulting
now as he brightened my music with his being. I truly
hope everybody in this world will at least once in their
life have cause to feel so special.
Having accomplished
his trick as quickly as had Leon, George now as quickly
let down his hair. He joined the Fly By crew at Spike's
Rockin' PB, their revelry having scarce been interrupted
by his speedy stint at the mic. We should have recorded
the piano bar: all those choice vocalists adorning Leon's
88s as birds do the dawn. When Leon and George asked,
"Got anything else, Hos?", it was easy to say, "But yes!
Let's sing one."
Hugh readied "Wishing
I Could," and we began to work it up in three parts at
the piano like George "used to do with the lads." Leon,
Tulsa timin' in LA, advanced an urban-campfire ambiance
and got pretty dust-bowly with it. Put him to mind, he
said, of Lefty Frizzell. When George heard these lyrics
about conversing with a very pretty girl . .
.
Wishing I
could ain't the answer,
Whether I should ain't the question,
And it ain't just a matter,
Of excess nervous tension...
. . . he demurred
candidly, saying, "But that's exactly what it is!" Wise
ass.
As we circled a mic to
record this vocal, my instant backup duo - realizing they
hadn't sung together since the Bangladesh concert - began
harmonizing on "Just Like A Woman." Such a session. What
with the "Call Me Dad" factor, the "Famous Night" factor,
and the various pursuits of happiness available, I wasn't
sure if I was Larry Hosford, a Beatle, or Bob Dylan. I
love my job.
**********
We got it down. Nobody
went anywhere; Studio B was still the place to be. After
we'd got our tracks done, we all fell out to watch the
final player do his schtick. This was Tom Scott, La-La
Land's sax-flute-etc man par excellence, a wizard I'd
also encountered a few times at Dark Horse, though his
presence at the session was another Dinoism. I didn't
fully grasp 'til that night what a hotrod Tom was, only
that he was friendly, smart, and had a few hip jokes up
his sleeve. George and Leon knew him well, of course, and
after a bit of chumsy by-play sat right down to hear him
blow.
Me too. In the control
booth with Hugh, Svengali, Christina, et al, I was the
consummate glad lad. Tom put a clarinet down, quick, on
one cut, and commenced upon another with his flute. But
this didn't seem to go so smoothly for him, and I have
always suspected good-guyness played a part in his
difficulties. He'd got wind that he was supplanting Annie
Hughes on this tune - she who did it quite well herself.
I'd somehow deemed her flute-ably unsuitable, her utile
tootability futility: unincludable. Fine on stage, but
not on this recording. Ann, understandably, was sorta
hurt, sorta bummed. I'm sure Tom picked up on this and
poo-piffled his way through the piece, mug-puzzled, all
inadequacy in diplomatic consideration of various tender
psyches. He is, as I say, a good guy.
Leon - savvy judge of
sensitive energy, and pragmatic - chimed in with an out.
He leaned over to say, "Y'know, if you're gonna have a
famous guy on your album, y'oughtta have him play his
famous instrument." So ended the flute dispute; so, by
wise compromise, did Tom's tasty tenor sax find its way
onto the song, "Loving You, Like I Do." Me 'n Mom thought
it agreeably romantic.
**********
Now, George, like me,
like most of us there, was having your 23-skidoo good
time. I thought to warn him that his new career as
session man could be in fast jeopardy if word got around
that he hung out in studios when he didn't have to.
Really, George - it's just not done. People get to
thinking you pick that guitar 'cause you plain old like
to. Hey, this messes with the pay structure; you'll not
get rich that way. But sometimes a guy's gotta learn this
stuff on his own, the hard way. I kept my counsel, and
his company.
I,
clearly, feel very good about my opportunity to meet,
work, and engage in advanced conviviality with a
musician-person I so legitimately admired; still do,
though our paths have as yet to cross again. Too, I
thought/think it a bonus that I was the first recording
artist, since certain of George's prior contractual
restrictions had lapsed, to use his actual name in the LP
credits instead of his former sideman
spoonerism/pseudonym: Hari Georgison. Don't know
specially why, just find it specially so. In sooth, he
didn't need no steeenking credits - that guitar line on
"Direct Me" is manifest, indelible, George
Harrison.
George's endorsement
of my music meant a lot to me, personally even more so
than professionally. His vote, whereas he knows whereof
he speaks, counts for more than sundry others, and he
tendered up some enlightened positive commentary
regarding my songs. I'd like to think my sapient
precognitive advice that he ought to scoop up Olivia and
do the Dadly thing wore similarly well with
him.
**********
We hung in 'til the
wee hours, listening to playbacks, winding it down -
after a fashion. As I sat with Christina and my friendly,
formidable allies near the end of this doubly special
night, Leon looked my way, grinned, and summed it
up:
"Hosford, your mama's
gonna be real proud of you."
**********
Larry Hosford
© 1997
http://larryhosford.com
Reprinted by permission
Photos top to
bottom: Larry Hosford, George Harrison, Leon Russell;
KUSP Benefit Poster by Jim
Phillips.