Hang On A Minute.I've Got A Better Idea

Q Magazine article from December, 1994.

Posted by Badge



How to make your third album really difficult: Write
it, record it, finish it, scrap it, start all over
again. The Black Crowes are no strangers to Getting It
Right; the vagaries of schedules and commerce hold no
sway in their old style rock n' roll world. David
Cavanagh witnessed the making - and remaking - of
their meisterwork.

Friday, January 28

Chris Robinson has his TV eye on Garth Brooks and a
snigger on his lips as the bestetson'd laird of
Nouveau Yeehaw recounts some especially faught marital
moments to a toadying David Frost up on the Conway
Studios cathode. In anecdote, Brooks falters and his
lower lip commences to vibrate. "He's gonna cry,"
predicts Robinson from the couch.
Sure enough, tears well up in Brooks's eyes (Frost:
"Take your time") and Robinson dissolves into hoots of
derision and slaps his pants. A result! What could be
finer?
Then, free-associating expansively like Peter Buck on
a glucose drip. Robinson launches straight into a
recent scene, at a club elsewhere in Los Angeles
whereby Crosby - this is David, not Bing, for the
latter was not much of a Black Crowes fan while alive
- duetted historically with Robinson on Almost Cut My
Hair. This leads him into a chortling recollection of
John Patrick McEnroe, a tennis's wayward genius and
most certainly a Crowes man, stopping by Conway to
hear latest tracks and getting so obliterated that he
passed out in the band's van and had to take advice
from the Crowes' crew on how to get home.
This in turn somehow becomes a manic apologia
delivered without repetition, hesitation or deviation
on the merits of Thee Hipnotics, the English band
whose latest album Robinson has produced: "I wanted
them to have a sticker saying, Warning - Contains
Excessive Amounts Of Amp Buzz."
All these gents are awarded the fair-play epithet
"cool" - one or two warranting the more gregarious
"they're doin' some cool shit"- and Robinson glugs
happily from his beer after each speech, before
slapping his knees and motioning eastwards,
"Wanna go see the studio?"


If warmth had a PhD in d‚cor, it would deck its living
quarter out as follows. One, a scatterload of futons,
expansive slumping back for the use of. Two,
ceiling-to-floor kaleidoscopic eye-bath of vintage
posters, thoughtful contemplation for the purposes of:
Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, Bob Dylan, The Grateful Dead,
John Coltrane, plus mandatory photos, positioned, of
Lowell George and Duanne Allman. The latter, a fellow
Southerner, has an impregnable place in The Black
Crowes' affections.
"I remember hearing Ron Wood one time say The Faces
did their first tour, " chuckles Robinson, "and this
guy stuck his head in - Hey, man, mahnd if ah gray-ub
a beer? And Ron Wood goes, Oi, you fackin' redneck -
out! And it was fuckin' Duanne Allman, and he died,
like, two weeks later. But, back then, man, no videos
- who knows? You didn't know till you got there."
Three: no lights. Dim those lights completely and have
yourselves a dozen or so ornate Spanish candles in
long tall glasses, the prevailing gloaming topped up
with the rosy festive output of hundreds of Christmas
lights stretching not only the length of the studio
itself but also twinkling out on to the porch area and
car-park.
"Everywhere we end up for more than, like, a day and a
half starts to look like this," explains Robinson.
"Well, you live in here, you know what I mean? You
only get to make a record every couple of years."
The record The Black Crowes are making - their third -
is all the while being represented by a loud, heavy,
swampy, organ-propelled boogie number that the Allmans
themselves would probably not have disowned. Inside
the studio, lead guitarist Marc Ford is overdubbing a
solo part for the song's smoky middle section.
"It's called Evil Eye," shouts Robinson, taking a seat
besides engineer Jim Mitchell. (The Crowes are
producing the album themselves.)
In no time, Robinson and Ford decide to go for a slow
Leslie speaker effect on the guitar, pumping it up and
making it sound like the arresting voodoo jam Turner
cooks up in his Powis Square studio halfway through
Performance.
A very tall, long-haired Neil Young lookalike emerges
slowly from the studio and enters the control room.
This is Ed Hawrysch, the keyboard player. Clearly much
older than the others, Hawrysch is a Detroit native, a
laconic speaker who was recommended to the band by
Chuck Leavell.
"He came down in December '90," explains Robinson.
"Johnny (Colt), our bass player, went to a strip bar
with some people and got in a fight, the story goes.
And Ed wasn't even in the band, but he was on the
floor slugging the guy too, so we were like, Cool,
he's ready to go. Came to his first rehearsal, I think
we went through two and half songs and he did his
first gig opening for ZZ in January'91."
The actual studio itself is as cluttered as a new
house when you make the first car journey and just
dump everything in one room. Through the pileup of
drums, guitars, a Mellotron, a Wurlitzer and congas it
is possible to walk a narrow trail, which leads,
pleasingly, to a bar. Somehow Robinson is already
behind it. It has a sign behind it, hard to decipher
in the murk.
Does that thing light up? Click. It reads: "Johnny
Wong's Tikki Hut".
As he mixes Margueritas, Robinson explains that Johnny
Wong's Tikki Hut, like the Christmas lights and
futons, is central to the recording of Black Crowes
albums. On the bar lies a Gro-bag's worth of grass in
a Ziploc "gripper zipper", keeping it fresh. Unclasped
and sniffed it reeks of possibilities, but that's for
another night. Next to it is a box of nitrous oxide
charges, for the whipping of cream. This is not the
use The Black Crowes have in mind for it.
Ffffwwwhhhhhhhh-tt-k.
Chris Robinson lifts his mouth off the tap, grimace,
coughs, laughs and says: "Man!" He passes the box
over. It's an amiable version of amyl nitrate,
producing a woozy effect and a lot of coughing and
laughing. By now Robinson is unstoppable. Looks like a
slow Leslie nitrous Mellotron vibe over at Johnny
Wong's, and Robinson, inhaling from a spliff that
holds terrible secrets, is displaying his full mettle.
To every story he gives full comic value, mimicking
the voice of each participant, borrowing further and
further into each routine like Robin Williams at an
open-mike session. The entire Jerky Boys album is
really no problem. The last episode of Black Adder
Goes Forth is effortless. Impersonations of Theolonius
Monk, Evan Dando and Furry Lewis are always a
pleasure, never a chore. And somehow in the midst of
all this lunacy, The Black Crowes have managed to lay
down 70 per cent of a great rock n' roll album.

Saturday, January 29

In his villa at the Sunset Marquis Hotel, Rich
Robinson has a rare moment of afternoon tranquility,
and these moments he has learned to savor. Rich's ear
infection has made him wary of loud noises - e.g.
anything uttered by his brother - so it's a bit of a
shame that his villa should be the one directly
underneath that of Ron Wood of The Rolling Stones.
"I don't know what they do up there," he says. "I hear
running back and forth. He must have his kids out. And
then someone'll bang on the piano, close it and run
back around. I heard somebody fall down the stairs the
other night."
It's been said before, but unless you actually had the
information direct from their parents, it would just
about impossible to imagine Rich Robinson as the
brother of Chris. Whereas Chris is a skinny,
raggedy-bearded, jump-cut personality, Rich at 24
two-and-a-half years his junior, is composed, sober,
and thoughtful.
"Has it been stress free? Uh, no. Well, think about
it. There was a fuckin' six point six earthquake in
the middle of us recording." 
The Northridge quake which "rocked our spirit and
changed our lives" (L.A. Times) put the fear of God
into the Crowes' rhythm section, Gorman and Colt, who
have returned to Atlanta.
"Whoever makes horror movies, says Rich "like
Poltergeist and all these movies where the rooms
shake, has been in an earthquake. Because it totally
felt like that. It felt like the room was mad at you."
Worse, the ceiling at Conway collapsed five feet, and
the band couldn't get in there for a week. Now, Rich
himself is getting out. He's finished his parts and
leaves tomorrow. But before he goes Rich, seated next
to his wife Emma, a real live actual supermodel,
treats us - and indeed Ron Wood, who may be listening
- to about eight rough songs from the album.
And, well, it is really, really good. As in about 10
times better than The Southern Harmony And Musical
Companion, as in a real old mighty leap skywards.
There's nothing remotely Stonesy or Facesesque about
it. It is top-drawer syncopated rock n' roll. There is
a beautiful, floating song called Wiser Time. A song
called Feathers lopes along like the best of Free.
There is a stormy, bluesy track called Cursed Diamond.
Saturday Night Buttermilk Waltz is acoustic and
temporarily instrumental, although David Crosby is
going to teach them how to add four-part harmonies to
it. Evil Eye is raucous and Allmans-like, but Rich's
tape isn't up to date with what Marc and Ed added last
night, which indicates that things are changing all
the time. P-25 London is flashy and funky. But the
best of the lot is A Conspiracy, which boots the
Crowes up into the Little Feat league as far as
masterful ensemble playing and downright syncopation
goes. There's a deep-rooted Southern gumbo languer to
it, as well as a lot of ingenuity from the guitarists.
And Chris' guide vocals sound impressively like the
real item.
"The first two records were really different,
obviously, because we grew as people," Rich points
out. "I mean, the first record (Shake Your Moneymaker)
I wrote and recorded when I was 19. I graduated from
high school, lived at my parents house for a year, and
then went on tour for four years."
Rich, who writes the band's music, listens intently to
the songs, playing along on imaginary guitar, bass,
organ and drums. And although the protocol for
interlopers like ourselves demands only nods of
approval and foot-tapping, it's hard not to get
exited. This is a record that's going to light up the
autumn.
"If anyone says we sound like the Rolling Stones after
this," Rich sighs, getting up, "they'd be daft."

It's Saturday evening and Chris is wireballed again,
gabbing furiously about John Lee Hooker, and
surprisingly, Syd Barrett; he played Piper At The
Gates Of Dawn when he awoke at 4:30 this afternoon. It
begins to dawn on you that there is, sure enough, a
kind of Englishness to Robinson's sense of humour -
certainly a Goony predilection for absurd voices - and
he is one of the few American rock stars who can do a
convincing English accent. The title of the new album,
he has just this minute decided, will be The Rape Of
The Canadian Tourist.
"I was channel-hopping," he explains.
Minutes later, conceding that this title might prove
stressful for any Canadians who may, through no fault
of their own, have been violated while touring, he
announces that the title will instead be Tall.
Hawrysch is putting some organ on A Conspiracy, which,
when Chris plays it back over the big studio speakers,
swells into a deliriously infectious switchback drama.
Inside its complex power structure The Black Crowes
have managed to nail down every single beat, just like
The Grateful Dead on Tennessee Jed or the Stones on
the last minute of Loving Cup.
Oh no, a Stones comparison. Well, how about a totally
uncalled for Santana namecheck in that case? Chris
cranks up High Head Blues, a Latin-influenced
percussion free-for-all redolent of three-day
festivals and two-day jams, and, on a whim, he and
Marc Ford head for the booth with acoustic guitars to
record Tornado, the only disappointment so far
inasmuch as it's a fairly average country tune.
After a while, and a bit of chatting, Q is invited to
have some of Chris Robinson's spliff.


Sunday, January 30

"No problem. You don't ever have to apologize for that
around here."
It's almost closing time at the bar of the Sunset
Marquis Hotel. The Black Crowes are having a day off.
"It's just weird man," says Chris reassuringly. "I can
smoke those all day. I just have a really weird
metabolism. My family are, like, Scotch-Irish mountain
people, from Tennessee. It's sort of like a thing in
the South when you're a kid - you want a drink? Then
here. Hah! And you fuckin' drink, man, and then you
throw up. It's like a dumb macho thing. But that's the
thing about weed, man, you wouldn't know I was stoned
now. It's not like I sit here and go, Wowww, man,
check it out..."
It's late-ish and Robinson has a lot of work still to
do on the album, but tonight is earmarked for yet more
babbling and music, and smoking and mimicking, and
life-and-souling the assembled with boundless dry
mouth rhapsodies. The bar of the Sunset Marquis is now
holding court to one of Izzy Stradlin's JuJu Hounds,
one of Lenny Kravitz's band and Slash, who is, word
has it, eager to meet Chris Robinson but who has only
a rough idea what he looks like.
"You Chris?" he asks Hawrysch.
He is blanked superbly. In the LA rock hierarchy, the
Crowes are picky about their associations. There's
nothing aggressive about it, but they do keep a
certain amount of distance. The cast, sans Slash,
leaves for Robinson's house in the hills. Aboard the
vehicle in which McEnroe so recently bid adios to
consciousness, Robinson, his girlfriend Lala,
Kravitz's guitarist Craig, Jimmy from the JuJu Hounds,
the Q party, two Crowes techs and six-foot-seven
former Chicago Bears football player Keith Van Horn
head for the mountains.
"The dogs are kinda friendly," warns Robinson as we go
inside, "and they tend to leap at your balls. So if
you have a scrotum."
With six-yard-area precautionary stances, the party
enters. Two bulldogs, Skunk and Doyle, each sporting
kiddie straps in the eventuality of ever having to be
surgically prised from somebody's scrotum, leap from
nowhere to bark hello.
The pool is heated, but quite discreet. In the house
itself, comfort is the key, rather than full-head
opulence. Indian rugs hang from walls. There is a big
wooden table where the JuJu Hound and Robinson
immediately set about rolling. A CD case of Welcome To
The Canteen by Traffic lies open on a coffee table. In
the loo hangs a poster of the Rolling Thunder Revue.
"We do represent a specific culture," Robinson will
acknowledge. "I mean, there's people, they're allowed
to have hip-hop culture. Well, there's still rock n'
roll culture and there's still some of us that believe
it ties hand in hand with all the arts."
He reaches for another Ziploc. This one, however,
hasn't got grass in it.
"You know, the weirdest thing about The Black Crowes
is that they're popular," he says, unfastening it. It
contains a magazine. "If we weren't popular, you
wouldn't have to think twice, it would just be simple.
I've always felt like I've been accountable for being
popular."
Gently, he takes the magazine out. It is an antique
copy of Rolling Stone, dated December 2, 1970. With
delicate pincer fingers, he turns the pages.
"Look at these ads! American Beauty by the Dead. Oh
man, the second Allman Brothers album."
He raves about a Leon Russell article in the issue, a
piece so massive it takes a good half an hour to skim
through. In the days when Rolling Stone could do that
sort of thing, they gave him pages and pages to
theorize about religion, music, satire, the South,
Easy Rider, long hair (still, then, a major issue),
Dylan and Joe Cocker, and illustrated it with a
picture of Russell looking like sheer mascara cowboy
class.
As for the Black Crowes' album, it must be remembered
that the last one debuted in the American charts at
Number 1. The band don't exactly struggle.
"I like that I have an audience. And if that means I
can't go everywhere I want to go because I have
irrational fears that something weird might happen,
well."
He grins.
"I just want to work."

He wasn't kidding. At the beginning of June, with the
album long since finished and mixed, Q learned from
Phonogram - The Black Crowes' then-parent label in
Britain - that the band had gone back to Los Angeles
with Jellyfish's producer Jack Puig to record some new
songs

Tuesday, July 12

They've all gone now. Chris Robinson doodles with an
unplugged electric guitar on a sofa at Ocean Way
Studios. The beard has been shaved off. His
relationship with Lala ended some time ago. There are
no Christmas lights perking up the studio this time.
The other Crowes have returned to Atlanta and, save
for the bear-like shape of Jack Puig in the control
room, Chris Robinson is alone.
This mysterious saga is almost concluded, give or take
a little mixing. Soon it will be time for another
mammoth tour. In two years it'll be time to make
another album - possibly on a soundstage somewhere, or
in a big house. Right now, Chris has had enough of
studios.
What happened was this. After living with the tapes
for approximately a month, Chris and Rich Robinson -
between whom relations had mot been overly friendly at
Conway in January - discovered during a conciliatory
phone call that they both had serious misgivings about
the album.
"The songs were there," insists Chris now. "We just
wanted the performance and the songs all to be one
place - an apex, sort of."
They called the band back to Los Angeles to record a
few more songs, for which Rich had written music in
the interim.
"At least, with the luxury of our last two records, no
one freaked," says Chris. "Management or the record
company, no one said anything except, OK, record more
songs."
At Sound City Studios out in the valley, however, big
alterations were made to the agenda. They decided
early in the proceedings that this session was much
more like it, and that nothing from the Conway
sessions was worth salvaging in its original state.
"We just started over," Chris shrugs. "Day one, man.
All new stuff."
With Puig co-producing, they recorded 15 songs. These
included five outright new ones and, interestingly,
She Gave Good Sunflower, which they had played live on
the High As The Moon tour, but overlooked back in
January. Of the Conway songs, a handful - including A
Conspiracy, Wiser Time and Cursed Diamond - were
rearranged and re-recorded at Sound City. The
remainder, practically an album's worth, has been
stamped as unfit for human consumption and, as things
stand, will not come out - although it does add up to
potentially one very hot bootleg.
The new album is called Amorica and Chris Robinson
fells it gets much close to their original intention
when they chose Los Angeles as the venue - to enter
the belly of the beast.
"I'll play you some of it," he says "It's a much
fuckin' different thing."
Frayed blue denim flares flapping, he presses the play
button on the studio hi-fi and settles back.
"It's more focused," he says before the music kicks
in. "That's what it is. It's like a focused thing."
To be frank, these explanations are erring on the side
of the woefully abstract and unhelpful. Very loudly,
Amorica bursts into the room, in the shape of an
ancient blues song, electrifyingly reworked, called
Chevrolet. There is absolutely no messing about with
this one. It's the sound of all-out attack. Then comes
a new track, Downtown Moneywaster, which also sounds
like an ancient blues song - gritty and acoustic,
speckled with dobro, mandolin and pedal steel. The
other album certainly didn't sound quite like this. It
wasn't so harsh. It was a little more embellished. It
may have been a bit more beautiful. But was it worse?
The new stuff has an intensified, percussive, hardline
sound. It's almost violently bluesy. It's lost weight.
It clatters and gyrates. But the question is, is it
better?
Next up is another new song, Gone, which Chris has
ear-marked as a potential single. He is, of course,
lost in it - smacking invisible drums, playing
air-bass, flailing away on the couch to his
unbelievably raucous new single. Next to follow is
good old A Conspiracy, which sounds brilliant,
familiar and yet oddly foreign. Now what's happened
here?
"It's a different vibe."
Well, it's got a new ending - a Layla-esque piano
coda. The solo is different. The drummer hits the
hit-hat where he used to hit the crash cymbal. But is
it better? Away with the cloudy vernacular! Can't
Chris be more specific why the first A Conspiracy
wasn't good enough? No.
"Because it's a vague thing," he protests. "It's way
more abstract than just the music, or the attitude, or
me and Rich's bickering. It's not a point of wrong or
right. It was a point of just, Are you in the same
headspace, or are you in different spaces at different
times? (Uh-oh) The album was like.it wasn't done. So
we wrote some other songs and it was a totally
different session. Two totally different studios. We
were in different seasons. Different everything. And
this is where we want to be."
What if you were to go down in history as the band who
scrapped a perfectly good album?
"But how objective are we supposed to be? A perfectly
good album is one thing, a great album is another. To
us, it wasn't great. And this is."
Is this all going to prove fantastically expensive?
"I'm sure it is. I don't care. I don't do things for
financial security. I mean, we still do it pretty
fast."
What happens now, physically, to the Conway tapes?
"They're probably in a vault. I've got a DAT of them.
We were going to burn them for a joke. Fuckin' put
them all in a pile and cover them with kerosene,
videotape it and give it to Rick Rubin."
He laughs. What an extraordinary character.