young actress refused to take a photo with me, declaring, “No, I don’t wanna take a picture with him. Not that has-been.”
Charming. This made me long for the warmth of Charlton Heston.
What does that mean, anyway?
Has-been?
If I still “am,” I “be.” Correct? And if I “were,” at least I “was.” Right? “Was” means I got “there”! In Hollywood, “there” is the goal! And as far as I and many of my fans are concerned, I still “is”! That actress, no doubt, was new to there—Hollywood—and who knows if she still is? I no longer remember her. Where is she “be”? But I digress.
Anyway, we thought it was the perfect title, and Ben then chose a cast of perfect collaborators with whom I could create this album.
Jackson floated in all the way from England, although I understand nowadays he lives in Berlin. I think the Germans keep the white, white Joe Jackson around so that they might feel “ethnic.” He is a white wraith, with white-blonde hair, tall and thin and ephemeral. He was in a cloud. He reminded me of Nosferatu, and I half expected all the flowers in Nashville to shrivel and wilt in his wake.
He came into the studio and plopped down in front of a piano in the sound booth. And began to warm up. He would make . . . sounds. Tinkle away at keys. Make more sounds. Tinkle. Sounds. Tinkle. Sounds.
For three hours.
At one point, I walked up to the window in the sound booth and took a look at him. As with Ben, my daughters were very helpful in letting me know Mr. Jackson’s story. He emerged as a force in the British punk/New Wave movement in the late 1970s, where he created a sound that was an eclectic hybrid of pop, classical, and jazz. It was really a thrill to work with him, especially after I realized that the Joe Jackson who Ben kept talking about was not the patriarch of the Jackson 5. I’m not sure I could have taken that kind of trauma.
I watched Joe do his warm-ups and gave him a little wave. Joe looked up from what he was doing, rose, floated out of the booth, and had a conference with Ben.
Ben later called me over and said, “Joe doesn’t want you to look at him.”
Oooookaaayyy. Joe seemed to be taking a page from the actress who didn’t want to be photographed with me. I thought my transition to rock star was going to award me the slavish devotion that would entitle me to a rock star–sized ego. Either way, I respected the man’s process, backed off, and let him enter into hour four of his warm-ups unwatched.
The warm-ups were worth it. Joe Jackson’s vocals on “Common People” are enough to send shivers down your spine. (Although honestly, a lot about Joe Jackson is a tad spine-tingling.) All the people I worked with on that record were great: Aimee Mann, Brad Paisley, and Henry Rollins, who I’ve stayed friends with ever since. Henry and I performed a song called “I Can’t Get Behind That,” which featured him and me trading shouts over a freight train of percussion and guitar feedback. That performance certainly would have harshed the mellow of my “Mr. Tambourine Man” junkie.
Rollins has released many spoken-word records, so pairing up with the world’s premier “speak-singer” was a natural for me. Also, I like to stand next to him to appear more buff. Seriously, Henry—hit the gym!
RULE: Make Cracks about Henry Rollins When He Is a Good Distance Away
FUN FACTNER: Henry Rollins was once the manager of a Häagen-Dazs store in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, D.C. And he’s the only guy on Earth who can say “white chocolate raspberry truffle” and still sound tough.
Ben and I learned a lot from one another making this record. He helped shape my fifty different sets of lyrics into cohesive songs. At first, though, he was surprised I came in with anything.
“I figured we would just write them here,” he said.
“Wait a minute. You mean you don’t have the written material, like a script, when you come into the studio?”
Charming. This made me long for the warmth of Charlton Heston.
What does that mean, anyway?
Has-been?
If I still “am,” I “be.” Correct? And if I “were,” at least I “was.” Right? “Was” means I got “there”! In Hollywood, “there” is the goal! And as far as I and many of my fans are concerned, I still “is”! That actress, no doubt, was new to there—Hollywood—and who knows if she still is? I no longer remember her. Where is she “be”? But I digress.
Anyway, we thought it was the perfect title, and Ben then chose a cast of perfect collaborators with whom I could create this album.
Jackson floated in all the way from England, although I understand nowadays he lives in Berlin. I think the Germans keep the white, white Joe Jackson around so that they might feel “ethnic.” He is a white wraith, with white-blonde hair, tall and thin and ephemeral. He was in a cloud. He reminded me of Nosferatu, and I half expected all the flowers in Nashville to shrivel and wilt in his wake.
He came into the studio and plopped down in front of a piano in the sound booth. And began to warm up. He would make . . . sounds. Tinkle away at keys. Make more sounds. Tinkle. Sounds. Tinkle. Sounds.
For three hours.
At one point, I walked up to the window in the sound booth and took a look at him. As with Ben, my daughters were very helpful in letting me know Mr. Jackson’s story. He emerged as a force in the British punk/New Wave movement in the late 1970s, where he created a sound that was an eclectic hybrid of pop, classical, and jazz. It was really a thrill to work with him, especially after I realized that the Joe Jackson who Ben kept talking about was not the patriarch of the Jackson 5. I’m not sure I could have taken that kind of trauma.
I watched Joe do his warm-ups and gave him a little wave. Joe looked up from what he was doing, rose, floated out of the booth, and had a conference with Ben.
Ben later called me over and said, “Joe doesn’t want you to look at him.”
Oooookaaayyy. Joe seemed to be taking a page from the actress who didn’t want to be photographed with me. I thought my transition to rock star was going to award me the slavish devotion that would entitle me to a rock star–sized ego. Either way, I respected the man’s process, backed off, and let him enter into hour four of his warm-ups unwatched.
The warm-ups were worth it. Joe Jackson’s vocals on “Common People” are enough to send shivers down your spine. (Although honestly, a lot about Joe Jackson is a tad spine-tingling.) All the people I worked with on that record were great: Aimee Mann, Brad Paisley, and Henry Rollins, who I’ve stayed friends with ever since. Henry and I performed a song called “I Can’t Get Behind That,” which featured him and me trading shouts over a freight train of percussion and guitar feedback. That performance certainly would have harshed the mellow of my “Mr. Tambourine Man” junkie.
Rollins has released many spoken-word records, so pairing up with the world’s premier “speak-singer” was a natural for me. Also, I like to stand next to him to appear more buff. Seriously, Henry—hit the gym!
RULE: Make Cracks about Henry Rollins When He Is a Good Distance Away
FUN FACTNER: Henry Rollins was once the manager of a Häagen-Dazs store in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, D.C. And he’s the only guy on Earth who can say “white chocolate raspberry truffle” and still sound tough.
Ben and I learned a lot from one another making this record. He helped shape my fifty different sets of lyrics into cohesive songs. At first, though, he was surprised I came in with anything.
“I figured we would just write them here,” he said.
“Wait a minute. You mean you don’t have the written material, like a script, when you come into the studio?”
Similar Books
