We tell those
who ask, "Most famous guy we've ever worked
with? George
Harrison.
Give us a tough one." We flip out this set reply
with studied nonchalance, a casual
whut-hasn't-everybody? offhandedness. Showin' off.
But WE know, I know, they know,
everybody-knows-to-this-day - making music with a
Beatle is a major coup: socially, certainly;
musically, absolutely.
Hosford 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 lammed 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 'would 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 (platinum) 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"?
Larry was in
Dino'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.
GEORGE HARRISON
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.
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.
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.
FLY
BY NIGHT
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 ( Beans Sousa, Jimmy Norris, Annie Hughes,
Gary Roda, and Pat Hubbard), the group with which I
worked back in Santa Cruz. When Fly By Night finished
recording basic Tracks, 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."
LEON RUSSELL
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. Goerge joined the
Fly By Night 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
Photos
top to bottom: Larry Hosford, George Harrison, Leon
Russell; KUSP Benefit Poster by Jim Phillips.
