Chronicles - Bob Dylan [54]
Slowly driving around Nashville in his red Eldorado convertible, Johnston pointed out the sights. “There’s Eddy Arnold’s house.” He’d point to another one. “That house is where Waylon lives. That one over there is Tom T. Hall’s. That’s Faron Young’s.” He’d turn the corner and then signal somewhere else. “Porter Wagoner’s place is up that street.” I’d lean back in the big leather cushioned seat, gaze around from east to west. Johnston had fire in his eyes. He had that thing that some people call “momentum.” You could see it in his face and he shared that fire, that spirit. Columbia’s leading folk and country producer, he was born one hundred years too late. He should have been wearing a wide cape, a plumed hat and riding with his sword held high. Johnston disregarded any warning that might get in his way. His idea for producing a record was to keep the machines oiled, turn ’em on and let ’er rip…there was no telling who he’d bring to the studio and there was always heavy traffic, and yet he seemed to have a place for everybody. If a song wasn’t going right or things were fluttering, he’d come out into the studio and say stuff like, “Gentlemen, we just have too many men on the floor.” That was his way of sorting things out. Johnston lived on low country barbeque, and he was all charm — referred to one of his judge friends in Nashville as that “bob-tailed politician.” “You gotta meet him,” he said, “I gotta get you two together sometime.” Johnston was unreal. We wouldn’t be recording in Nashville this time, though. We were going to be recording in New York City and he was going to have to book the musicians and either bring them with him or else find them here.
I was wondering who he was going to bring to the sessions this time and was hoping he’d bring Charlie Daniels. He’d brought Charlie before, but he’d failed to bring him a few times, too. I felt I had a lot in common with Charlie. The kind of phrases he’d use, his sense of humor, his relationship to work, his tolerance for certain things. Felt like we had dreamed the same dream with all the same distant places. A lot of his recollections seemed to coincide with mine. Charlie would fiddle with stuff and make sense of it. I had no band at the time and relied on the A&R man or producer to throw one together. When Charlie was around, something good would usually come out of the sessions. Johnston had moved Daniels to Nashville from North Carolina to play guitar and be a side-man on other artists’ records. Charlie played fiddle, too, but Johnston didn’t allow him to play it when he was on my sessions. Years earlier Charlie had a band in his hometown called The Jaguars who had made a few surf rockabilly records, and although I hadn’t made any records in my hometown, I had a band, too, about the same time. I felt our early histories were somewhat similar. Charlie eventually struck it big. After hearing the Allman Brothers and the side-winding Lynyrd Skynyrd, he’d find his groove and prove himself with his own brand of dynamics, coming up with a new form of hillbilly boogie that was pure genius. Atomic fueled — with surrealistic double fiddle playing and great tunes like “Devil Went Down to Georgia.” For a time there, Charlie had it all.
Al Kooper, who had happened to discover Lynyrd Skynyrd, had played on some of my best records, so I asked Johnston to call him. That was my only suggestion to Johnston as to who to book. I thought Al might be in New York anyway. Kooper was from Brooklyn or Queens and had been in the teen group The Royal Teens growing up. The group had a big hit with a song called “Short Shorts.” Kooper played a variety of instruments and was good at them all. He had the right feel. He was a songwriter, too, out of the New York scene. Gene Pitney had recorded a song of his. Kooper put together groups like Blood, Sweat and Tears, The Blues