Tag Archives: Dionne Warwick

Guilty – Barbra Streisand & Barry Gibb

In the mid-1970s the music industry rose to Olympian heights after a tough few years. Records by the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac and Peter Frampton sold in thitherto unimaginable quantities and everyone involved made correspondingly astronomical sums of money. But sitting top of the heap, king of the unit-shifters, was the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.

Not actually a Bee Gees album (their picture is on the cover sleeve, but it’s a various-artists record – the Gibbs brothers wrote only six and performed just five of the 17 tracks on the original release), Saturday Night Fever nevertheless turned the Bee Gees into the pre-eminent kings of disco, all off the back of half a dozen R&B songs they’d cut in Miami over the course of three years for various album projects.

Their success made them sought-after producers and writers for hire and, in 1980, Barbra Streisand asked Barry Gibb if he’d write an album for her. Streisand had risen to prominence in the 1960s as a cabaret belter, singing with Judy Garland and Ethel Merman for TV specials, until in 1969 she released an album of contemporary pop and rock material. She stayed in this idiom throughout the 1970s, faring best with ballads (who can deny The Way We Were?) but dismally when trying to be hip with the kids. She even managed to make Donna Summer seem uncool when the two duetted on No More Tears (Enough is Enough) in 1979.

Taking on the challenge of writing for Streisand, Gibb responded by adapting his style somewhat, slowing the tempos and allowing greater space for the lead vocal in the arrangement. The songs that Barry (co-writing some of the tracks with Robin and Maurice) gave Streisand were some of the best she’d ever had to work with, and they brought out the best in her. Singing Gibbs’s material, she dialled down the eyes-and-teeth, can-you-hear-me-in-the-back-row projecting that mars so much of her work. Most of the time when she sings, Streisand sounds imperious, a star who knows she’s a star. It’s a polarising, divisive vocal persona. Singing Guilty and Woman in Love, she sounded softer, much more human. They’re the perfect Streisand records for a Streisand sceptic like me.

Both songs are masterful slices of post-disco balladry, but force me to pick one and I’ll plump for Guilty. I’m particularly fond of Guilty’s asymmetrical phrases and the sudden jumps created by dropping in a bar of 5/4 here (in the verses) or 7/4 there (choruses) – a neat trick that Gibb would repeat in the intro to Dionne Warwick’s Heartbreaker a few years later. Gibb’s contrasting  vocal in the second verse works beautifully, and when those three-part harmonies come in during the final chorus with Barry’s moneymaker falsetto on top, it’s a triumphant moment.

Thirty years on, though, and “We’ve got nothing to be guilty of” is still a grammatical howler.

barry & babs

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State of Independence – Donna Summer

Donna Summer was among the original crop of artists to sign to David Geffen’s new Geffen label, along with Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Elton John and John Lennon & Yoko Ono. Geffen was perturbed that, Double Fantasy apart, the first records by his chosen signees all flopped. This was an intolerable state of affairs; the artists had all received large advances that would now not be recouped in one album cycle, but more importantly, they had harmed the reputation of his new label in its very earliest stages. Asylum had been a boutique operation, an artists’ label (“I don’t think that every record we make is a hit or that every artist we record is going to be a star but I think that all the music we put out is very valid”, said Geffen in a TV interview); Geffen Records was about making money, and being seen by the industry to be making money.

When Summer was working on the follow-up to The Wanderer, that flop first Geffen record, David stepped in, cancelling the project and insisting that she work not with her usual collaborators, Giorgio Moroder and Pete Bellotte, but with Quincy Jones instead. It may be no exaggeration to say that Summer, Bellotte and Moroder had changed the course of recorded music when they made I Feel Love, but for Geffen this was not enough. Jones’s involvement, Geffen felt, would guarantee a hit (after all, Quincy had made Off the Wall and Give Me the Night) and Summer needed a hit. Geffen needed a hit.

Recorded between late 1981 and early 1982, Donna Summer was the last record Jones worked on before commencing Thriller and tells us quite a bit about where his head was at, particularly in regard to rhythm tracks. For Thriller, Jones made use of the new drum machines that had come on to the market (his engineer Bruce Swedien namechecks the Univox SR55, but it’s safe to assume the ubiquitous Linn LM1 was in there too) as well as his first-call session drummers (John JR Robertson, Jeff Porcaro).

State of Independence got there first. The herky-jerky swing of Summer’s Jon & Vangelis interpretation foregrounds its mechanical qualities and doesn’t pretend to have been played by people. Jones:

We started with a Linn Drum Machine, and created the patterns for different sections. Then we created the blueprint, with all the fills and percussion throughout the whole song.

From the Linn, we went through a Roland MicroComposer, and then through a pair of Roland Jupiter 8 synthesizers that we lock to. The patterns were pads in sequencer-type elements. Then we program the Minimoog to play the bass line.

The programs were all linked together and driven by the Roland MicroComposer using sync codes. The program information is stored in the Linn’s memory, and on the MicroComposer’s cassette.

Interview with Recording Engineer/Producer magazine

The question becomes, how do you add humanity, soul, to this kind of production? Fortunately Summer was adept at this kind of thing. She had done it ever since I Feel Love. Jones was moving into her territory on this tune, not the other way round.

I’d love to know if Summer handpicked State of Independence for her record. Jon & Vangelis’s original is, politely, all over the place. Anderson’s vocal is staccato, playing up the abstract, disjointed nature of his lyric and downplaying the gospel. Only in the “Sounds like a signal from my heart” does he seem to relax in his phrasing. Summer takes this as her starting point. The track’s early-days sequencing be as Brian Eno pointed out in a BBC documentary “crudely mechanical”, but Summer’s vocal is as sinuous as Pharaoh Sanders tenor solo.

But what truly puts the song over the top is the all-star chorus, described by Jones as a dress rehearsal for We Are the World: Michael Jackson, James Ingram, Dionne Warwick, Kenny Loggins, Lionel Richie, Stevie Wonder and Michael McDonald. Jones and Swedien created the most glorious-sounding vocal texture in recorded-music history. Nothing else sounds like it. Every time, every time, I hear this song, the chorus give me goosebumps. But Summer earns the right to bring so much heavy-duty vocal power to bear in the preceding section with her own performance; there’s so much spirit and joy in her own interjection of “hey, hey” after the “holy water to my lips” line, and when she insists “his truth will abound the land”, it’s hard not to believe her, whatever you believe when the record finishes.

Not a big US hit, State of Independence did much better in Europe and still gets airplay in the UK. It deserves it. Outside of his Jackson work, it may be Quincy Jones’s finest production; outside of I Feel Love, it may be Donna Summer’s finest record.

donna summer

New recording by the author. The author cannot sing like Donna Summer or produce like Quincy Jones

Phil Ramone

If my appreciation for lo-fi rock music was partly an ideological one – founded on an adolescent need to carve out an identity for myself as a musician and listener – my love for the music of Paul Simon was the reverse: instinctive, soul-deep and already in place when I was too young to even grasp that some music was new and some music old, some music cool and some square. At that age – eight, nine maybe – I hadn’t heard a whole Paul Simon record. My parents had Greatest Hits Etc. on cassette and we used to listen to it on car journeys to visit relatives. It took me places, made me feel stuff I didn’t understand yet. The post-divorce ennui of Simon’s Still Crazy-era songs shouldn’t have resonated with such a young kid, yet I absorbed every note, learned every word. I loved the way these records sounded, the way they felt.

After Simon himself, the man most responsible for the sound and feel of those records was Phil Ramone, who engineered and co-produced Simon’s mid-seventies records There Goes Rhymin’ Simon and Still Crazy After All These Years. Ramone died yesterday, aged 79. He was a true giant of record-making. Big Band Bossa Nova, Genius + Soul = Jazz, Getz/Gilberto, Blood on the Tracks, Still Crazy and Blood on the Tracks – Ramone recorded them all. He recorded Do You Know the Way to San Jose, The Look of Love (Dionne Warwick’s version and Dusty Springfield’s) and We Have All the Time in the World. Most engineers and producers would kill to have even his more minor artistic successes on their CVs: Rock of Ages, Ram, 52nd Street. Ramone’s list of accomplishments speaks for itself.

His records do, too. A sense of space, an ability to tailor instrument sounds to a particular recording while still retaining their identifiable sonic signatures, attention to detail, to the little things that lift a record – these are the Ramone hallmarks. It’s something of a shame that over the last twenty years or so this magnificent recordist and producer didn’t move a little more with the times and work with some younger, hungrier artists. I’d have loved to hear the work he might have done in the 1990s with a good songwriting guitar band, like Albhy Galuten did with Jellyfish and Glyn Johns with Belly. Instead he worked on a series of Duets records (two each with Sinatra and Bennett) and Rod Stewart’s execrable American Songbook series, seemingly happy to work on music that recalled that of his early career, despite the degradation of his collaborators’ vocal abilities.

But no amount of late-career clunkers can detract from the brilliance of his early work and his name will be remembered for as long as folks collect vibrations in air, mess around with them and make them come out of little speaker cones. Year by year we lose more of the greats from Phil Ramone’s generation, and things have changed so much in the industry that it’s unlikely we’ll see their kind again. But as long as millions continue to listen to Dionne Warwick, Quincy Jones, Paul Simon and Billy Joel, they’ll still be listening to Phil Ramone too.

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Phil Ramone, ©Ken Weingart/Getty Images