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Authors: Mary Lou Sullivan

Raisin' Cain: The Wild and Raucous Story of Johnny Winter (Kindle Edition) (44 page)

BOOK: Raisin' Cain: The Wild and Raucous Story of Johnny Winter (Kindle Edition)
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Johnny’s touring band, consisting of Paris and Tom Compton on drums, took a break while Johnny made his Alligator recordings. Johnny hired Compton when Torello left. Despite the band’s great chemistry, Johnny was happy to use studio musicians on his Alligator recordings. “I thought those guys were probably better for a blues feel,” says Johnny. “I’d heard the Ice Breakers play with Albert and I’d seen Ken Saydak playing with Lonnie Brooks. I liked Ken Saydak. He wasn’t more powerful than Dr. John but he was good. We used horns for songs that needed a Gulf Coast sound. It was hard to find players that could play blues with power without gettin’ in the way, but Bruce did it. That record went pretty quick because the group was so good.”
Johnny’s first Alligator sessions were held at Red Label Recording Studio in the mansion of Dick Meyer, a Jovan CEO who lived in a North Shore suburb of Chicago. Iglauer didn’t like the physical limitations of the basement studio but booked it to work with Fred Breitberg, the house engineer who had designed the studio. Iglauer and Shurman had worked with Breitberg before and he knew how to get the sound they wanted. Unfortunately, booking a studio in someone’s home would prove to be damaging to Johnny and Iglauer’s budding relationship.
“Bruce got us kicked out the second night,” says Johnny. “Dick Meyer didn’t want us there anymore. He had brought us some champagne he wanted everybody to share, and Bruce said, ‘This isn’t a party—it’s a recording session.’ Bruce didn’t want us to stop. He felt like it was his money and his time. He was being a real asshole about it. I can see where he wanted to get things going, but it wouldn’t hurt to take fifteen minutes off and drink champagne with the guy. The next day, Bruce told me we were kicked out of the studio. It was my first session with Alligator and I was kinda pissed off. We were gettin’ used to the place and he gets us kicked out.”
Iglauer remembers the situation differently. “We didn’t get kicked out—I left,” he said. “I got in an argument and stormed out. It was at least the third night. Normally, you book the studio, and essentially you own your section of the studio. It’s your time, it’s your space.
“The owner came down in the middle of our struggling to get a Magic Sam song that wasn’t coming off right. He didn’t buzz down and say, ‘When you’re taking a break, I’d like to come down and have champagne.’ He just appeared. I was really tense because the song wasn’t happening and he was a convenient target because he was walking into my space. So I exploded at him and it escalated from there.”
Meyer and Iglauer talked the next day, with neither one willing to budge in terms of access to the studio during the sessions. So Iglauer picked up cassette rough mixes of the sessions and began looking for another engineer who could capture the sound he wanted. He took them to Chicago Recording Company (CRC), but their best engineer couldn’t duplicate the sound. Reluctantly, he took the tapes to Streeterville Studios, where he was introduced to a young engineer named Justin Niebank, who quickly duplicated and improved the sound Iglauer had in mind.
While Iglauer searched for a studio, Johnny scouted Chicago record stores or hung out in his hotel room, listening to records with Shurman, who empathized with his situation.
“Johnny had been trying for three years to get on this label,” said Shurman. “He said he literally put his hands on Teddy’s throat and said, ‘I asked you to get me a deal with Alligator for three years. If you don’t do it, I’ll just call myself.’ He was really up for it and he comes in, and here’s this guy who is so egotistical and into himself that he’s gonna torch the whole project. Poor Johnny is sitting in his hotel room, not knowing what the hell to think or what’s going to happen to the project now that he got kicked out of the studio.”
Johnny’s angst had turned to anger by the first session at Streeterville Studios.
“Johnny was drinking vodka real steadily and smoking pot,” said Iglauer. “We were in a small room used as an overdubbing, soloing space. Johnny was really drunk and he kept saying I’m going to kill somebody. I’m going to kill somebody. And I was the somebody, of course. It was both scary and hilarious at the same time because I wasn’t sure if he was going to kill somebody.”
Johnny remembers that evening well. “I told Dick I was gonna show Bruce what it’s like to be a jerk. I walked around all night saying, ‘I’m gonna kill somebody, I’m gonna kill somebody.’ I felt like murdering somebody—I was really that mad. It’d take a lot for me to murder somebody, more than just a fucked-up record, but I would if I got mad enough. I think it scared Bruce a little ’cause he was hidin’. I’ve got a reputation for not taking any shit.”
The combination of alcohol and anger took its toll on Johnny’s output during that session. The only useable take was the solo on “Lights Out.” “We recorded some other things and they were useless,” said Iglauer. “He was either fumbling or too drunk. First he was just too angry, then there was a moment of being able to play, and then he was just too drunk.”
The first night at Streeterville Studios with the entire band started out just as badly, but Johnny surprised them when they realized the method behind his madness.
“Johnny was really rude to the band,” said Iglauer. “He spent the whole night just changing strings, tuning, screwing around, and ignoring them completely. They didn’t know what to do with that—they were pretty pissed. We cut ‘My Soul’ that night. Johnny asked for some very heavy strings because he wanted to play the solo on bass strings for a different kind of sound. It was about eleven o’clock at night and I was phoning around the city, trying to find a musician who had a big E string—it was like a .60. I didn’t know what was going on until I heard the final song. I was baffled. I think Dick was baffled too. We cut the track and the band was just playing parts; they had no idea what song we were doing. They were playing patterns, and Johnny eventually built the song from the basic rhythm track.”
Johnny didn’t like too much structure in the studio; he wanted to be able to create the sound he heard in his head and change it until it felt just right. “My records tend to be spontaneous—not planned out,” Johnny says. “You can change a song in a lot of different ways. Sometimes I play a song two or three different ways before deciding which version I like best.”
Iglauer was accustomed to working with artists like Albert Collins, who would lay down tracks for six or seven hours and finish an album in two nights.
“I’m used to people coming in and saying, ‘Okay, let’s make a record, here’s a song list, does everybody know the arrangement?’” said Iglauer. “With Johnny, you had to create the atmosphere to get him to record. Johnny also had his body-clock schedule where we couldn’t start before a certain hour. We usually went to the studio around eight thirty. The first hour to hour and a half was often a big waste. He’d be getting his momentum up. Then there would be peaks of creativity, and he’d have a two-hour block of being extremely productive, doing songs quickly, leading the band, and showing them what he wanted them to play. He’d be really energized. He’d knock out three or four final takes in a row. When the energy started dropping, you’d usually get nothing after that.”
In an interview published in
Jazz News
, Iglauer was less generous. “Johnny is a very high-strung and nervous guy, and it’s hard for him to get focused in the studio,” he said. “He works in ‘streaks,’ so that in five hours he may have thirty minutes of greatness, but that thirty minutes is truly great.”
Johnny agrees with the first statement, but dismisses the notion that he was only on for such a short period of time. “I don’t agree with that,” he says laughing. “I think he got more than that. But maybe he felt that way.”
Shurman felt that Johnny’s energy level during a session depended upon his alcohol intake. “It wasn’t temperament; it was how much he ingested and how long ago,” Shurman said. “He liked to record his guitar sober, because he thought he played sloppy when he was drunk. But he liked to sing when he was a little bit drunk. Not over the edge, but just more relaxed. We’d have him do his guitar part in the earlier part of the evening. When he felt relaxed enough to start singing, he would sing until he got beyond the point where he was going to do anything productive. You could tell. He’s start grumbling about small things, getting a little more scattershot in his approach and comments. It was obvious when it was time to stop for the night.”
Johnny’s first priority in the studio was laying down guitar tracks because he found it more difficult than the vocals. Although two of his solos were overdubs, he recorded the majority of his leads with the band.
“It’s the hardest part for me, and it makes it easier to do it with the band playing,” he says. “I do the leads first because they are harder to do and then do the rhythm parts. I do the vocals later because they’re easier. I usually drink when I’m doing my vocals. It helps me to relax a little bit and do the songs better. I don’t drink when I play the guitar—not as much,” he adds with a laugh.
“Johnny never liked to do his final singing and playing at the same time,” said Shurman. “The way he plays guitar is more or less steady through the whole song—compared to a lot of other blues artists. There is a little less call-and-response in his guitar patterns. So when he’s tracking with the band, he wants to be able to concentrate on his guitar playing. He’ll do enough of a vocal just to give the band an idea. The hope is he’ll get his lead guitar track with the rest of the band because the band is playing with him when they do their track.”
Iglauer also observed a nuance of Johnny’s guitar style that set him apart from other blues guitarists. “Johnny tends to solo in four-bar segments,” said Iglauer. “A lot of blues artists do but because he knows so many licks, his four-bar segments will sometimes be somewhat disconnected from one another. Like a four-bar Slim Harpo, followed by four bars of Gatemouth, not imitation, but clearly inspired by. And he finds ways of stringing them together. His mind would swing from place to place to place very quickly; he was playing them that way, too. Not just because he’s playing fast; the synapses work very quickly with his fingers.”
On the third night in the studio, Johnny placed his guitar on a stool, and when Gayden walked by, he stepped on the cord, which wrecked havoc on the input jack. “It was my Lazer,” says Johnny. “He broke the guitar; yanked the guts out of the inside where the cords connected to the guitar. I flipped out. I said, ‘Oh no, man, how could you do that?’ He said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ He didn’t mean to do it, and I knew it wasn’t his fault.”
“Poor Johnny Gayden was waiting to see which one of us was going to kill him first, but fortunately Johnny was in a good mellow mood about it,” said Shurman. “I think that helped with all of them. They saw Johnny was just a guy like them—he wasn’t going to put some kind of attitude down because Johnny Gayden accidentally damaged his guitar.”
Johnny’s mellow demeanor also made an impression on Branch, who didn’t quite know what to expect. “You get this image of this wild man with long white hair and tattoos, but he was cool, real mellow, and laid-back,” said Branch. “He’d greet me very warmly; he was always pleasant and easy to work with. You got a good vibe. He wasn’t like some people that you get a vibe, ‘Okay, I got you guys working here, let’s get this over, I’m a big star, the hell with you guys.’ It wasn’t that at all. He didn’t talk a lot but you still got a warm feeling from him.”
Johnny’s initial Alligator recordings had three producers, which is atypical, but Iglauer and Shurman had worked together before with Albert Collins (and after with Roy Buchanan), and had their roles worked out.
“Bruce makes it happen, I help it happen,” said Shurman. “Bruce would organize everything, do the business, and book the studio. We’d have a preproduction meeting at my house and go through the material, and Bruce would run the rehearsal. Bruce’s nervousness drove a lot of artists nuts, so I would be on the floor with the band, to give them cues and take them through the performance. He would be in the control room with the engineer making sure it was coming out well on tape. It was a good complementary situation.”
 
MTV debuted in 1981 with the ambitious goal of playing music videos 24/7. A shortage of material in those early years allowed bands with professional videos to get airtime. So Iglauer decided to film a video for Johnny’s “Don’t Take Advantage of Me.”
“It was very early in MTV’s history,” said Iglauer. “They would play all videos and there weren’t that many videos. The video got on regular rotation on MTV—what they call lunar rotation, which meant very often. It was on in the middle of the night, but it was there. It was a big turning point for Alligator because that was the first time we were perceived as being something more than a blues specialist label.”
BOOK: Raisin' Cain: The Wild and Raucous Story of Johnny Winter (Kindle Edition)
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