SKF NOTE: This Pt 2 segment of Jimmy Webb’s Feb. 28, 1983 interview picks up where Pt 1 left off. I just flipped the audio cassette and began taping again.
Here Jimmy Webb talks more about his songwriting; about how he writes songs.
Also, the conversation reminds us of how digital music and the internet are such game changers. Webb talks here, in 1983, about the frustrations of a songwriter with a record label unwilling to do much to promote his newest album.
This interview was originally for a short piece in Mix magazine. This is the first time the full audio interview has been made public.
SKF NOTE: This Feb. 28, 1983 interview with Jimmy Webb was for a short piece in Mix magazine. Unfortunately, the magazine editors, in my opinion, rewrote and botched the manuscript I sent them.
Although I’ve posted on my blog a few excerpts from this interview, this is the first time the full audio interview is available to the public. This is interview Part 1 of 4, conducted at the Webb home in Tuxedo Park, NY.
In this segment, Webb talks about quitting college to become a songwriter. He insists he had no musical gift as a child.
After dropping out of school he started knocking on record company doors, including Motown, where one of his songs made it onto The Supremes’s Christmas album.
You’ll hear about Webb’s initial meeting with legendary drummer Hal Blaine who went on to record on some of Webb’s hit records.
Webb tells the origin of the “Morse Code” intro to Glen Campbell’s recording of “Wichita Lineman.“
Met Hal Blaine on an early recording session. Blaine encouraged Webb to “stick with it.”
Webb talks about help he received from Marty Paich and other recording studio pros.
“I should have worked harder,” Webb said of his early years. “One of the biggest mistakes I made is assuming I had the magic formula, and anytime I wrote a song it was going to be a hit.”
Part 1 ends with Webb talking about his latest album at the time, “Angel Heart,” which, he says, “Is the best album I’ve ever made.”
But in 1983 he was still figuring out how to successfully move from being a writer of entertaining songs to being a writer of socially responsible music.
SKF NOTE: My high school friend and guitarist, Jimmy Weisbin, was listening to Charles Mingus’s classic “Mingus Ah Um” album on the Ralph Family stereo. Neil Ralph was another high school musician friend. His parents’ home in Centerport, NY was a welcoming gathering place for us aspiring musician. Plus it had the advantage of a great sounding stereo system.
During a “Mingus Ah Um” rapid fire drum solo, Weisbin declared, “That guy is the best drummer I’ve ever heard in my life!”
Inwardly I protested. It was a time in my musical education when I measured all drummers against Buddy Rich. Of course, my sophisticated ears picked up on points of technical sloppiness during Richmond’s solo Rich would never have made.
But not long after that listening session, I was at the 1971 Newport Jazz Festival where Mingus’s current band was making me understand, for the first time, the language of jazz. It seem to happen as quickly as flipping on a light switch. One second jazz was a mish-mash of confusing sounds. A second later is spoke to me as clear as Irish crystal.
Dannie Richmond was not Mingus’s drummer at the 1971 Festival. That honor belongs to Buffalo, NY drummer Virgil Day. And it was a riff played by pianist John Foster that actually turned on my jazz light.
But ever since the ’71 Festival I’ve felt a closeness to Mingus’s music. And I haven’t worked out the percentages, but in my lifetime all of Mingus’s best albums included Richmond.
While at Modern Drummer I phoned Richmond, offering him a MD feature interview. The details are sketchy. Richmond was playing in NYC the night I called. He invited me to come hear the band, and we agreed on a separate NYC time and place to meet for an interview.
Maybe I was broke, or tired. Maybe my car registration had expired. For some reason I did not make it to NYC to hear Richmond that night. In my weak defense I hadn’t promised to show up at Richmond’s gig. But neither did I give him an unequivocal no.
I had seen Richmond in concert with Mingus a couple of times. I saw him at The Maine Point club in Philadelphia when he was with the rock band Mark-Almond. And, by that time, I had listened to countless hours of Richmond on every Mingus album I could get my hands on.
In my mind there was no urgency to see Richmond play that night. It’s not as if I was unfamiliar with his drumming.
But when I did arrive in NYC at our appointed interview time, Dannie Richmond was the no-show.
We reconnected later by phone. Richmond confirmed his no-show was payback for my no-show. And our interview never happened.
What’s my lesson from that snafu? Honesty is the best policy. When Richmond invited me to NYC to hear his band, if I couldn’t make it – even if it was I didn’t have the money for tolls and parking – I should have put aside my ego and said so.
Instead, my good intentions for a Richmond interview collapsed and soured what might have been a good friendship.
SKF NOTE: Drummer/bandleader/composer Paul Motian was one of my first feature interviews for Modern Drummer. His interview appeared in the April-May 1980 MD. I loved his songwriting and I liked his playing jazz drums without the traditional ding-ding-ding cymbal beat.
Last year I found out from friends visiting Rockland, ME that a woman living there had a local radio show dedicated to Motian. And she had all of the late drummer’s belongings in a Rockland warehouse.
That piqued my curiosity. Who was this woman? And how did she end up curating one of the world’s most renowned drummers artifacts?
I reached out to Cindy McGuirl by email, which we followed up with phone calls. This conversation took place during two sessions (February and March) in 2024. Paul Motian was McGuirl’s uncle. And as he neared the end of his life, Motian asked his niece to take possession of his life’s work and belongings.
That’s exactly what McGuirl did. After Motian’s death, McGuirl drove a moving truck into NYC and drove all of the drummer’s possessions back to Rockland, ME.
McGuirl appears in the 2020 documentary, “Motian In Motion.” She also hosted the “Uncle Paul’s Jazz Closet” blog and radio show. Her dedication to Motian’s legacy is admirable.
McGuirl has compiled for sale two volumes of Motian Songbooks. He has an extensive song catalog, and McGuirl, an artist and bookbinder by trade, has made these songbooks works of art.
Cindy McGuirl and Paul Motian
Covid-19 curtailed her on-air Motian radio shows. So while she is not now producing new “Uncle Paul’s Jazz Closet” podcasts, McGuirl is digitizing the more than 200 archived shows, making them available to the public through her website.
Finally, the “autobiography” referenced several times in this conversation is a work in progress, chock full of interesting observations by Motian throughout his career.
The Derek Baily/Paul Motian “Duo in Concert” album is available here.
Thank you, Cindy McGuirl, for preserving your Uncle Paul’s legacy. He left his life’s work in the right hands.
SKF NOTE: If the circumstances for conducting a drummer interview aren’t right – don’t conduct the interview. Say, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
That is one lesson I learned from my disastrous attempt to conduct a feature interview for Modern Drummer with Little Feat drummer Richie Hayward.
Let me say unequivocally: I love Hayward’s drumming, especially, but not exclusively, with Little Feat. His swinging, easily recognizable style was his own. And I very much looked forward to sitting with Hayward to find out what made him tick.
I have forgotten many of the details of my brief time with Hayward. We met somewhere in NYC, I believe. I remember showing up for the interview a bit earlier than the appointed time, and being met by a tall, muscular guy in a shiny gray suit. He looked to me like a bodyguard. I don’t recall his name.
The bodyguard escorted me along a series of cement block hallways covered in white high-gloss paint. Perhaps we were in the basement of a hotel. I don’t remember. But our walk ended in a very brightly lit room also made of high-gloss cement blocks.
Ritchie Hayward was in that bare room by himself, seated in a corner. He acted nervous, twitching. Hayward’s appearance reminded me of how dogs behave when they are consistently abused by their owners.
While the bodyguard introduced me to Hayward, he told me I had “15-minutes” to interview the drummer. Then Hayward had to be on his way to wherever Little Feat was playing that night.
That was the first time anyone from Little Feat’s management mentioned a 15-minute curfew. MD’s feature interviews had a minimum 7500 word count. That’s 25 single-spaced typewritten pages. Fifteen minutes is barely enough time to get a quote from somebody.
I thought maybe I could still pull a rabbit out of a hat. Maybe once our interview was underway Little Feat’s people would grant Hayward more time with me.
After firing up my trusty audio cassette deck I asked Hayward, “How did you first meet Lowell George?” Little Feat was really an extension of George’s songwriting, singing, and guitar playing. It is no exaggeration to call George Little Feat’s bandleader.
In response to my first question, Hayward answered, “I took the train from Iowa to California and met Lowell George.” Then Hayward stopped talking. And my horror over a bait-and-switch 15-minute curfew grew worse with an interviewee who gave minimal word answers to questions.
When I asked a follow-up question, trying to get Hayward to provide a more detailed answer, he acted annoyed. As if he was thinking, “You asked me a question. I gave you an answer.”
My wish for an interview extension never happened. At the appointed time the bodyguard accompanied Hayward to a taxi cab destined for wherever Little Feat was performing that night.
I remember Hayward getting into a disagreement with the cab driver. The cabbie made a rather innocent reference about working as a rock musician, which set off Hayward into a “How do you know what it’s like working as a rock musician?” exchange.
And that was it for my so-called interview with Ritchie Hayward. I did stick around to hear Little Feat in concert that night. Ritchie was playing a killer sounding brass snare drum made out of a timbale. At some point, Ritchie shared that detail with me.
Overall it was a disappointing interview session. But I learned a valuable lesson. Make sure to have, in advance, agreement on interview logistic details.
And if the logistics aren’t to my liking – just say no to the interview.
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