Waiting on the Moon, page 29
I did not have a good track record with movies. Previously, I had turned down roles in the Alex Cox film Sid and Nancy and, more recently, in John Waters’s Hairspray. But it turned out that the role of Pontius Pilate required only four or five lines. I resolved to give it a try.
Several weeks later, I drove to New York on the day of the audition. I checked into my hotel and, with my reading scheduled at 4:00 p.m., decided to distract myself from my nervousness with a visit to my adoptive “guru,” Earl McGrath. He greeted me at the door with a big smile, wineglass in one hand, cigarette in the other. “Ah, our thespian arrives for some fortification before his grand debut!”
“No, Earl—I’m too nervous to even drink.”
“Too nervous to drink? Are you mad? You know how many great actors pass through this very portal just to savor the fruits and encouragement of the gifts of Dionysus? Camilla will talk sense into you!”
Earl McGrath
Camilla, Earl’s wife, was an elegant, wise, and refined woman descended from Italian royalty whose family relations included Pope Leo XIII. Camilla could immediately tell how nervous I was. She led me into the sitting room and gave Earl a disparaging look when he offered me a joint, admonishing him, “Earl, let him be, for God’s sake!”
For Earl, that was just fuel for the fire. “Listen, if you have to read your lines in an hour, do them here, and let Camilla and I be your audience. You’ll be more prepared and relaxed.” Camilla was truly interested in hearing my reading, and Earl, with his caustic humor, added, “Who better than Camilla to hear your reading, with her close papal relations?”
I stood by the window, the flags of Carnegie Hall across the street waving in the wind, holding the script in my hand. I paused and began.
“Are you Jesus of Nazareth? They say you are the Messiah.”
“Wait, hold on!” Earl interrupted. “What are you, a cab driver? You’re Pontius Pilate, man! You have to speak with authority, nobility; you’re ruling all of Jerusalem!”
I began again, this time with more emphasis on enunciation.
“Are you Jesus of Nazareth? They say you are the Messiah.”
“Better!” Earl said. “But think of Olivier in Henry V—clearer and with more authority.”
“Earl, let him be. He’s doing fine. You’re going to make him more of a nervous wreck than he already is. When did you become Cecil B. DeMille? Stop it!”
Earl sat back on the couch, chastised by Camilla, and poured himself another glass of wine.
I read my lines again and again, attempting to sound as eloquent as an Englishman can be—if he’s from the Bronx. Earl and Camilla listened, argued, and listened some more.
Earl walked me out and bade me farewell with, “Well, here’s to you, my young Barrymore. Go in there and break a leg!”
I arrived at the audition and took the elevator to the third floor. My stomach lurched as I approached room 302. A young woman sitting behind a long table piled high with scripts smiled. “Ah, yes, Mr. Wolf. Go through the door to the right and take a seat. Shirley will be calling you shortly.”
The room had around twenty chairs against the wall, with twelve people seated, all holding or reading scripts. After ten minutes, a woman popped her head in, calling, “Mr. Wolf, follow me, please.” She led me to Shirley, who would be conducting my audition.
“Good afternoon. May I call you Peter?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
“I’m Shirley. You’re here today to read for the part of Pontius Pilate. Tell me about yourself. Have you ever acted before?”
“Acted before? No, not really,” I replied.
“Well, then, why don’t you begin your reading?”
I cleared my throat and began. “Are you Jesus of Nazareth? They say you are the Messiah.” I emphasized each word, speaking slowly and distinctly, enunciating with the clarity my guru, Earl, had instructed me to use.
“Excuse me, Peter. I don’t mean to stop you, but are you from England?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well, where are you from?”
“The Bronx.”
“You see, what Marty is looking for is a natural approach to each character. So being from the Bronx, you should say the lines as if you were going into a local candy store and asking the owner something like, ‘Can I get some candy and some comic books?’ Just speak naturally. Now try it one more time, as if you’re really in the candy store.”
There was a puzzled look on my face, and she noticed.
“Peter, maybe you want to go in the other room and think about this approach, and I’ll call you back in about fifteen minutes.”
Glad for a reprieve, I was desperate to take a leak and walked to the men’s room, where standing by the urinal was a notable screenwriter and director who years earlier went to Harvard, where our paths had crossed several times.
“What are you doing here? Reading for Scorsese, too?” I asked.
“Well, sort of. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me the other day. I got to cast Bibi Andersson in a part! I’ve had the hots for her ever since I saw my first Bergman film. Every time I was with a woman, I’d fantasize it was Bibi. I met her three days ago, and I still can’t get her off my mind. She’s amazing!”
Then I noticed that he wasn’t peeing but rubbing his penis up and down so hard I thought it would break right off into the urinal. “Damn, she was just amazing!” he yelled.
I forgot about my urge to pee, and I forgot about my Bronx interpretation of Pontius Pilate. I walked out to the front room and handed my script to the girl at the desk, asking her to tell Shirley, “I’ll be back when I can deliver an authentic Bronx accent.”
I had no intention of returning and, like Pilate, chose to wash my hands of the whole affair.
I walked across Columbus Circle, past Earl’s apartment, past Carnegie Hall, then arrived at my hotel, checked out, and drove straight back to Boston.
The Last Temptation of Christ was released to mixed reviews and protests from Christian groups—even a ban from the Catholic Church.
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon I went to see the film when it opened in Boston at a nearly empty theater.
Judas, played by Harvey Keitel, betrays Jesus, played by Willem Dafoe. Suddenly on the screen appears David Bowie as Pilate, delivering his lines in pitch-perfect King’s English.
“Are you Jesus of Nazareth? They say you are the Messiah.”
In the words of George Burns, “Acting is all about honesty. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made!”
33
I NEVER LOVED A MAN (THE WAY I LOVE YOU)
Aretha Franklin
With George Clinton, Aretha Franklin, and producer Michael Narada Walden
ONE DAY IN 1985, a message on my voicemail from the president of Arista Records took me by surprise. “Peter, Clive Davis. I’m having one of my A and R people call you tomorrow regarding a duet with Aretha Franklin.” A duet with Aretha Franklin? That seemed as incongruous a combination as a nightingale harmonizing with an alley cat.
Sure enough, the following day an A and R person called to confirm Clive’s request. I explained that I was honored, but it was a difficult concept to wrap my head around. Next, the producer of the project, Narada Michael Walden, called me, and I told him flat-out that I didn’t think it would work. “Pete, it’s Aretha. There are musicians who would give their right arm to record a duet with her. It doesn’t get any better than Aretha.”
“Michael, you hit the nail on the head. I’m honored that you’re even thinking of me, but to save you, Aretha, and myself from unnecessary humiliation, I think it’s best to pass.”
“Pete, I’ll send you the track. Just live with it and I’ll get back to you.”
He sent the track: a well-played basic dance groove. Michael persisted: “You’d better have changed your mind. We can cut it in any key, anything that will make you comfortable. Also, Carlos Santana is adding a guitar solo to the track, so just think about it some more.”
His final call came two days later. His persistence paid off: I bit the bullet and flew out to Detroit before I could change my mind.
I loved the idea of recording in Detroit; it was a spiritual second home to me. When I arrived at the studio, Michael met me, all dressed in white; there was a peaceful calm about him. The studio was lit with candles and incense sticks, and NO SMOKING signs hung everywhere. As we listened to the track, entitled “Push,” he explained the approach he envisioned. “Pete, when Aretha gets here tomorrow, this place will be on fire.”
As we were leaving the studio, I ran into funk master George Clinton, who was there working on a new album with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. “Pete, you’re gonna do a song with Aretha? Damn, it doesn’t get better than that. But look out—she can be a tough one.” Hearing this certainly didn’t calm my nerves.
The next afternoon, Michael and I waited in the overly warm control room. Aretha didn’t like air-conditioning. It was already a half hour past the time she was scheduled to show up. An hour passed, then another, and I sensed Michael, too, was getting a bit nervous. Finally, from the window of the studio lounge, I saw a long black Cadillac making its way to the entrance. The car’s back door opened, and two mustachioed men dressed in dark suits, fedoras, and sunglasses got out; you surely didn’t want to mess with either of them. After five minutes, the taller of the two opened the door. Out stepped the Queen of Soul in a full-length mink coat.
I ran to tell Michael that Aretha had arrived. I nervously sat behind the glass wall of the control room as he went outside to meet her, then I watched as Aretha, her bodyguards, and Michael entered the studio.
Michael waved me over for a formal introduction. Aretha just nodded as she took off her mink and placed it on top of the baby grand piano. I knew she was accustomed to hearing praise, but we were both there to work, so I stopped myself from being too effusive in my admiration. She asked me where I lived and when I had arrived in Detroit. What took me by surprise was her heavy British accent. I answered her questions, trying hard not to show my bewilderment.
Aretha started singing some deep gospel licks that—especially when heard up close—were powerful and dramatic. She glided through the first verse of the song with ease, adding impromptu touches that few singers are capable of mastering. We both sang the chorus, and I joined in on the second verse. After a long instrumental section, Aretha started ad-libbing in her British accent.
“Darling, you are looking so well tonight.”
“The gown you’re wearing makes you the belle of the ball,” I replied.
Aretha started laughing so hard that she asked Michael to stop the tape and get her some water. I went to the control room to grab her a bottle and asked Michael, “What’s with the British accent?”
Michael laughed. “She’s imitating Joan Collins. Aretha is a huge Dynasty fan and watches it every week without fail. She obviously feels comfortable to be joking with you. If something is bugging Aretha, she’s not shy letting you know, that’s for sure.”
When I gave her the water, still in her British accent, she said, “I’d just love a spot of tea. No milk and a dash of sugar.” I gladly offered to get it for her.
While I was in the lounge preparing the tea, the bodyguards were watching me. The taller one asked, “You look familiar. Are you in a famous rock band or something?”
I told him I used to be on Atlantic Records, and thanks to the Big M and King Curtis, I once saw Aretha recording in the Atlantic studios. In a surprisingly high-pitched voice, like one you’d expect from Minnie Mouse, the heavier guard shouted, “You knew King Curtis? Wait till I tell Aretha!”
King Curtis was a highly talented and beloved musician who had led Sam Cooke’s band. He was fatally stabbed in 1971 in front of his own brownstone in New York City after asking a group of men, high on drugs, to quiet down and get off the front steps of his house. It was a tragedy that shook up the music industry and the soul world in particular.
When I returned with Aretha’s tea, she sat down on the piano bench. Dropping the British accent, she asked, “You knew Curtis?”
I told her, “When Jerry Wexler was thinking of dropping the Geils band before we recorded our first album, it was King Curtis who convinced him to keep us on the label.” We reminisced about all the great characters and artists who hung around the studio and offices of Atlantic. When I mentioned that I wrote my first solo single with Don Covay, she really came to life.
“Oh, mercy! What a character that man is. He wrote me a number one song, ‘Chain of Fools,’ and I can remember the day he and Jerry Wexler first pitched it to me. We cut it so fast, and when we were done, we all felt it was going to be a huge hit. I can sure use several more songs like that. Next time you speak to that crazy man, tell him Re sends her love, and tell him to write me a couple more hits.”
She reached into her handbag for cigarettes. Seated right underneath a large NO SMOKING sign, she lit up a Kool. She became quiet. With a far-off look she said, “King Curtis—what a loss.”
She turned around to the piano and opened the lid. She started playing chords in a slow tempo, then began singing Little Willie John’s “Talk to Me.” Her version was breathtaking. If the mike had been on to record it, she would have had the number one hit she was looking for.
“Peter, I do miss them, but most of all Sam. Oh, Sam—he was my first love and will always be my first love.” She played a little while longer, caught up in the reverie. It was powerful to hear her speak so intimately about Sam Cooke.
Michael came into the studio, breaking her trance, to tell her we still needed to jam out on the vamp part of the song.
We returned to the microphones, and Aretha wailed. Michael said, “Try it once more, Re. I think you got a better one in you.”
She stopped cold. “You think I got a better one in me. So you mean I don’t know if I got a better one in me? I’ve got to be told?” I thought she was fooling with him until she said, “Listen, if I thought I had a better one in me, I’d just do it again. I don’t need anyone telling me what I got in me. You think you can tell me what my own mind and ears can’t?”
She walked over to the piano, grabbed her mink, and strode to her Cadillac, bodyguards trailing behind.
Years later, in 2005, the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame held a tribute to Sam Cooke. It was an all-star event with a roster including Solomon Burke, Cissy Houston, Elvis Costello, the Manhattans, the Dixie Hummingbirds, and the Blind Boys of Alabama. In the audience was Sam’s family, seated with writer Peter Guralnick, author of Dream Boogie, the definitive biography of Sam Cooke.
Because Aretha didn’t want air-conditioning backstage, it was like a hothouse. Everyone performed a rendition of Sam’s songs. I sang “Everybody Loves to Cha Cha Cha.” Costello did a duet with William Bell. When it was time for Aretha to go on, however, there was a long delay. No one was allowed in her dressing room, and everyone was getting nervous, wondering if she would even come out to perform. The question of the night was, Who would sing Sam’s iconic “A Change Is Gonna Come”? It was assumed that it would be Aretha, but for some reason, she didn’t want to perform it.
As I walked past her dressing-room door, one of her bodyguards recognized me. I asked him if I could say a quick hello to Aretha. To my surprise, he opened the door and let me in.
Aretha performed her set backed by her own band rather than the house band. Next up, seated on a large red-satin-draped throne, wearing a glittering purple sequined suit, was a larger-than-life Solomon Burke. When he started to sing the final song of the night, “A Change Is Gonna Come,” the audience went wild. He was channeling Sam that evening like no one else could. I stood next to Aretha, who was watching from the side of the stage, and her eyes moistened. Slowly, she started singing along. She kicked off her heels, took a spare microphone from its stand, turned to me, and said, “Peter, grab the train of my gown.”
I held it as I followed her slow progress toward center stage, where she joined Solomon. The entire hall came to its feet. Soon after, all the performers joined in. When the song ended, as she was leaving the stage, I rushed toward her and grabbed the train of her gown. I walked behind the Queen as she made her way to the dressing room, and she said, “After a first love like Sam, there’s no encore.”
34
PARTNERS IN RHYME
Tim Mayer and Will Jennings
Tim Mayer
SOME OF THE most intense relationships in a songwriter’s life come from collaborations—they can be incredibly fruitful; they can also be fraught. I am at my best when working in a collaborative partnership. Alone, I can too easily fall prey to my own lack of discipline and to self-doubt. The creative process is a challenge that can at times be overwhelming. When you can’t find the words to express something, a collaborator is that rare individual who sparks ideas and helps lead you to what you’re trying to accomplish. I’ve been fortunate to have several important partners since the breakup of the Geils band.
It was 1988 when I stood alongside others in a small anteroom just off a main hall, trying to think of anything except the one reason why I was there. Staring down at the cigarette butts littering the floor, I noticed the black sheen of Donald Fagen’s shoes and the well-worn suede of Bill Murray’s loafers and how they contrasted with the stiffened leather of my wing tips. We could easily have been mistaken for a group of overgrown prep-school scruffs loitering aimlessly outside the headmaster’s office.
Our soft-spoken conversations were interrupted when we were summoned to take up positions beside the coffin of our beloved and gifted friend Tim Mayer. Together, James Taylor, Bill and his brother Brian Doyle-Murray, Donald Fagen of Steely Dan, and I shouldered the weight of this enigmatic and boundlessly gifted playwright, stage director, poet, and lyricist on the final leg of his journey.
Tim was a wordsmith with a Harvard pedigree, equally adept at translating the Iliad and composing song lyrics. He was there at the beginning of National Lampoon and Saturday Night Live, using his razor-sharp intelligence to bring cutting-edge comedy to the masses. He was, to quote the poet Paul Schmidt, a “firework of wit.”
