Free The Wrecking Crew by Kent Hartman

her) absolute domain. From the choosing of the musicians and the engineers to exactly how a song is recorded, the producer runs the show. An obviously powerful position, it also comes with its share of stress. Producers are usually put in place to make the best possible commercially viable recording. When things go right, the monetary rewards can be significant. And the acclaim can establish a career overnight. But when a record with high expectations fails to become a hit, it’s the producer who most often winds up being called on the carpet by unhappy label executives.
    In mid-1960, through a connection made while singing with the Teddy Bears, Phil Spector, with characteristic industriousness, landed a job as an apprentice producer in New York City with the famed songwriting team of Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller. The duo, composers of classic hits like “Hound Dog,” “Jailhouse Rock,” and “Stand by Me,” took the twenty-year-old Spector under their wing, where his producing prowess and fanatical devotion to his newly adopted craft soon became apparent.
    After a little over a year of tutelage, while manning the productions for major artists like Ruth Brown, LaVern Baker, and Ray Peterson (“Corinna, Corinna,” a number-nine hit in early 1961), Spector felt he had squeezed all he could out of his relationship with Leiber and Stoller. Spector had seen firsthand the methods they employed in creating important songs for important artists. How they used multiple percussionists. How they positioned the microphones just so. How they carefully mixed down all the competing sounds at the control board into a cohesive, unique, and compelling finished product. Nothing escaped Spector’s hawk-like vision and hearing. Now he just needed to put the second part of his plan into play.
    Traveling back to the West Coast, Spector quickly wheedled his way into a partnership with Lester Sill, the same guy who had recommended his services to Leiber and Stoller in the first place. Only this time around, instead of just producing, Spector had a grander vision. He now wanted to have his own record label, too. That way nobody could ever again tell him what to record or what to release. For Sill, the pairing made good sense as well. His forte was record promotion, an extremely important sales-related task for which Spector had shown little natural interest.
    Settling on the corporate moniker of Philles Records (the merging of their two first names), the two opened a small office in Hollywood and promptly set about looking to record some hits. One day, in the summer of 1962, while visiting Aaron Schroeder Music Publishing in New York City on a scouting mission to look for new song possibilities, Spector came across a demo recording that made his eyes light up. Written by the popular singer Gene Pitney, the hard-hitting tune, called “He’s a Rebel,” was all about teenage alienation, a traditionally relevant—and bankable—theme among young record buyers.
    From the moment the song started to play, Spector could feel a stirring in his gut. This was it: the surefire pop smash he had been looking for to put his new label on the map for good.
    He leaped to his feet.
    â€œI want an exclusive on that one!”
    *   *   *
    Racing back to Los Angeles with a copy of “He’s a Rebel” burning a hole in his briefcase, Phil Spector immediately booked time at Gold Star Recording Studios, the same place he had used for his big hit with the Teddy Bears. Spector loved the sound and vibe the studio provided, which he felt had directly contributed to his early success. He also knew he needed to work fast. Great songs don’t stay unrecorded for long. And an “exclusive” from a publisher often wasn’t worth the handshake it came with. Back in New York, Aaron Schroeder had let slip that another producer by the name of Snuff Garrett had recently shown interest in