January 30, 1969
I spent a lot of time that summer at Trident Studios, where I was booking sessions for Billy Preston, Mary Hopkin, James Taylor, the Iveys (who later changed their name to Badfinger), and other Apple artists. I’d sit on a sofa in front of the control board, watching the action through a big glass window overlooking the studio, listening through the speakers to the singing, playing, laughing, and chattering down below. I loved watching the song come alive as the backing track was laid down, the vocals and other solos were layered one by one on top, with bits and pieces expertly spliced together or cut away, and all the disparate parts slowly, amazingly, almost as if by magic became a whole. Watching from my perch up above, I felt as if I were part of the enchanting mystery of it all and at times I literally forgot to breathe.
Recording studios are a world of their own. Time stands still. Hours pass and you don’t know if you’ve been there for minutes or days. Day is night and night is day. There is sound and then there is silence, and the constant shifting between the two is lulling, almost hypnotic. Hearing is everything in the studio; all the other senses fade. Visually, it’s a whiteout with the stark high walls and absence of natural light. The room always seemed to smell of incense, pot, cigarettes, and alcohol. I listened to the sounds coming out of the speakers, a cacophony of instruments and voices, like a freight train roaring down the track, all smoke and noise. But with a few pushes and pulls of the buttons and levers on the control board, the discordant sounds blended into a harmonious whole.
I was in the studio on August 1, 1968, the night the Beatles put the final touches on “Hey Jude.” The master track had been recorded the day before, and they were adding overdubs, including backup vocals and the song’s long refrain played by a thirty-six-piece orchestra. The studio was packed full of musicians with their violins, violas, cellos, bassoons, trumpets, trombones, drums, cymbals, you name it.
As usual I was sitting on a couch just in front of the control board, nursing a drink (it was going to be a long night) and watching all the activity below, when Paul came bounding up the stairs.
“How’s it sound?” he asked George Martin, the producer. George always amazed me because he was twenty years older than most of us, classically trained, almost always dressed in a suit and tie. And yet no one understood the heart and soul of the Beatles music better than he did. I considered him a father figure, a patient, pragmatic, kind, and gentle man who was always ready with an endearing smile and a hearty chuckle.
“Yes, I really do think we’ve got what we were looking for here,” George said as he leaned back in his chair behind the console, arms above his head in a stretch.
“Okay, let’s get on with the vocals then,” Paul said as he headed out the door. Suddenly he turned around and motioned to me.
“Come on, Chris, you can help,” he said. “We need as many voices as we can get.”
Sing on a Beatles track? The thought sent a little thrill of fear through me. I couldn’t sing on key, or so I had convinced myself over the years, and the thought of being caught on tape and embarrassing myself in front of George Martin and all the Beatles unnerved me. I wanted to disappear into thin air and return a few hours later when it was all wrapped up and I could listen in peace to the playback. But I was caught. Paul had asked me to join in and he was the boss.
I stood at the microphones with the Beatles and perhaps thirty members of the orchestra, clapping my hands and singing along with the refrain.
Terrified that I’d sing out of tune and ruin the recording, I started off pretending to sing and just mouthing the words, but as we all clapped and swayed, our separate voices soon blending into one resounding chorus, my fears disappeared. With my eyes focused on Paul, the skilled conductor leading the troops, his hands swooping in circles, the look of joy on his face mirrored on the faces of all the rest of us, I sang my heart out.
In my time with the Beatles I had four major Magical Musical Moments (and many lesser, still awe-inspiring experiences). Singing in the chorus on “Hey Jude” was the first. The second—and the most magical—took place almost six months later on January 30, 1969.
“Are you going up?” Tony Richmond, the head cameraman, asked me that day as I was sitting in my office, despondent and depressed because, like all the other Apple staff members, I wasn’t allowed up on the roof for the Beatles’ final concert. The structure was too weak to hold all of us, we were told. I didn’t take it personally, but I did take it hard because even though I’d be able to hear the Beatles play, I wouldn’t be there. All week I’d had to endure the pounding and scraping in the hallways outside my office as workmen erected support poles to shore up the roof. With every nail that was hammered in, I was reminded that something huge and monumental was about to happen and I was going to miss it.
“I can’t,” I said miserably. “Only essential staff are allowed up there.”
“Well,” Tony smiled, walking over to my desk and reaching for my hand, “you’re coming along as my assistant then.”
“Are you serious? Do you think it will be okay?” I was afraid that someone—Mal? Peter Brown? one of the Beatles?—would realize I didn’t belong there and tell me to leave. If I got that close and then had to turn around and go back to my office, head hanging in shame because I wasn’t “essential,” the disappointment would be more than I could bear.
Tony just laughed as he pulled me out of my seat. I reached for my coat—it was a bitter-cold January day and the wind was blowing like crazy—and followed him up the rickety steps to the roof.
As Tony set up his camera equipment, I sat on a bench next to him. We were right next to the building’s chimney and just a few feet from the edge of the roof.
“Damn, it’s cold up here,” Ken Mansfield said as he sat next to me and pulled his thin white trench coat tight around him. Ken was the US manager of Apple Records and we’d become good friends, often partying together when he was in London. He gave me a big smile, but I noticed his teeth were chattering.
Paul was the first Beatle to appear, followed by Ringo and Maureen. Maureen took the seat next to Ken on the bench, huddling against the cold and keeping her eyes fixed on Ringo with barely a smile to acknowledge my presence. She was such an enigma to me because she always looked so tiny and vulnerable, yet she put up this protective wall that I felt I would never penetrate. John and Yoko arrived a few minutes later. Yoko sat on the far end of the bench next to Maureen, and within minutes, it seemed, the band started playing.
The chimney sheltered us slightly from the icy wind, but the Beatles weren’t so lucky. The wind kept blowing their hair into their faces. John’s nose was red, and Ringo looked plain miserable. George wore a red shirt, bright green pants, and a furry coat that he loved. Billy Preston, a musician loved by all the Beatles, sat on a chair by the roof door, playing keyboard, dressed in a black leather jacket, his shoulders hunched up into his neck as a defense against the cold. And Paul, unbelievably, wore nothing but a black suit jacket over a shirt. They all blew on their fingers and grumbled about how “bloody cold” it was. After every song, Maureen would clap and softly call out, “Yay!”
I can’t remember any other details except for my favorite moment of all, just before the police came onto the roof and ended the concert. I was sitting on the bench, curious about what was happening on the streets below as people heard the music and wondered where it was coming from. I stood up and peeked over the edge of the roof, peering at the crowd gathered on the street below. The music rained down on them from the gray sky above and the look of wonder on their faces was something to behold.
When Joe Cocker recorded “She Came In through the Bathroom Window” at Olympic Studios in April 1969, I was there. Paul McCartney and recording engineer Glyn Johns were down the hall in a larger studio working on “Two of Us.” That was my third Magical Moment.
I took a taxi to Olympic and slipped quietly into the control room, waving to my good friend Denny Cordell and taking a seat on the sofa. Denny was Joe’s manager and producer. He had stopped by my office earlier in the day to invite me to the studio.
“You’ve got to hear Joe sing this song,” Denny said. He didn’t have to ask me twice.
Before long the band took a break and trudged into the control room. They did not seem like a happy group. Joe slumped down on a chair and closed his eyes. He looked exhausted and he was definitely grumpy.
“Does anyone have any fucking drugs?” he said, sinking even farther into his chair, his head hanging down, chin almost touching his chest.
“I wish,” one of the band members sighed.
“Man, I can’t fucking get it together,” Joe said. “I gotta have a smoke.”
“I have some hash,” I said softly. I always kept a wad of hash wrapped in aluminum foil in my purse just in case someone (including me) wanted to get high. I always felt good whipping out my little silver packet and offering it up for a gigantic spliff.
Joe turned his head and looked at me, and I realized he was aware of my presence for the first time
“Joe, this is Chris O’Dell,” Denny said.
“Well, hullo, luv, it’s good to meet you,” Joe said, his droopy face suddenly lifting up, as if a puppeteer had yanked on some strings. He jumped off his chair, full of energy now, plopped down right next to me on the sofa, and reached out to shake my hand.
“You’re a savior,” he said as I reached into my purse and handed him the hash, which he mixed with tobacco and expertly rolled into a fat joint.
I looked over at Denny, who gave me an appreciative smile and winked. Joe took several deep drags on the joint and passed it around. The energy in the room picked up. Later I listened to the playback of “She Came In Through the Bathroom Window,” and I was blown away. Joe’s rendition of Paul’s song was so uniquely his own, so soulful and plaintive, that I knew Paul would want to hear it. After the playback ended, I ran down the hallway. Paul looked up as I walked into the studio and smiled at me in a welcoming way.
“Paul, can you take a break and listen to Joe Cocker’s version of ‘Bathroom Window’?” I said.
“Yeah, sure,” Paul said, putting his cup of tea on the table and telling Glyn he’d be right back. We listened to the playback over the huge speakers in the control room. Joe was a little unnerved by Paul’s presence, and we all sat there pensively, eyes downcast, waiting for Paul to voice his opinion about the recording. I watched Paul to see if I could read his reaction. He stood at the very back of the control room, foot tapping, head moving, a smile barely noticeable on his face. I knew by watching him that he approved.
“That’s great, just amazing,” Paul said, taking a few steps toward Joe and patting him on the back.
Well, Joe was “chuffed”—an English word I loved that conveys the sense of being puffed up with pleasure and pride—and after that night I was always welcome at his sessions. And I always brought hash, just in case.
In July 1969 my mother came to London for a two-week visit, and one afternoon I suggested that we go to a Hare Krishna session at Abbey Road Studios. Mom’s eyes got big. Perhaps she knew that this would be the treasured moment of all the wonderful experiences she’d had on her trip, the event she would detail and embellish for my father, my sister, and all her friends back home.
“So this is Chris’s mum,” George said when he walked into the control room a few minutes after we arrived. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” my mother said, very calmly. George introduced her to the Krishnas who had followed him into the control room, and I remember being impressed as my mother reached out to shake everyone’s hand, answering their polite questions about her trip with a real sense of aplomb.
Moments later, from our chairs in the control room, we watched George pacing back and forth in the studio, casually chatting with one of the Krishnas as he waited for the microphones to be set up. Perhaps a dozen Krishnas were in the studio that day, sitting on the floor or wandering around the studio, prayer beads in hand, chanting softly to themselves. We watched in almost prayerful silence, for it was such a beautiful sight in that small studio (studio 2 down the hallway was much bigger) with all the Krishna oranges and yellows mixed with the red and purple flowers they were holding and an overall feeling of peace and tranquility. I felt strangely serene just looking at them.
“Which one is Harry?” my mother said, pointing to the cluster of saffron robes.
I looked at her, confused by her question, and then burst out laughing. “Mom, there’s no one person called Harry. They all belong to what’s called the Hare Krishna religious movement.”
“Oooh,” she said with a nod, as if she knew all about them. At that moment Shyamasundar walked through the door connecting the studio and the control room, his beads swinging back and forth on his neck.
“Chris! Why don’t you come and sing with us, and bring your mother with you!” The Krishnas were always so inclusive, wanting everyone to join in and be part of whatever they were doing at the time.
I looked at my mother, who was shaking her head and waving her hands in front of her as if shooing him away.
“No no no no no, I can’t sing, I don’t know the words,” she said, a slightly panicked look on her face.
I laughed. “There aren’t that many words, Mom.” The more she protested, the more determined I was to coax her into the studio. I wanted her to have the experience I’d had singing in the chorus on “Hey Jude.” Imagine what everyone at home would say when Mom told the story about singing on a record that a Beatle produced—and singing with a crowd of Hare Krishnas, to top it off. This would be a story she could tell for the rest of her life.
“Mom,” I said, putting my arm reassuringly around her shoulder, “even if you just mouth the words, it will be fun. Nobody expects you to have a great voice.”
“Okay,” she said, capitulating almost instantly. At that moment I realized how profoundly my mother had influenced my life. She had taught me that you can jump off a cliff with your eyes closed and, with enough trust and faith, land on your feet. Following her example growing up, I learned how to say “yes” to life.
One of the Krishnas wrote down the words to the chant so my mother could follow along, and that little act of grace gave her the confidence to step into the circle gathered around several microphones. We all swayed to the beat, absorbing the energy from the music, warming up inside. Within minutes, it seemed, all the separate voices joined together into one. I opened my eyes at one point to look at my mother, who was chanting intently, looking at the words, making sure she didn’t mix them up. She smiled lovingly at me, and I felt a deep warmth and appreciation for her gentle but fiercely independent spirit. Young women don’t often get to have that kind of experience with their mothers, so it was a special moment as I saw the world I lived in through her awestruck eyes.
I looked up at George in the control room, his hair pulled back behind his ears, listening intently to the music, smiling and nodding to the beat. I get it, I thought as the voices of my mother and all the Krishnas enfolded me, this is why he chants. It was a new kind of high, being in that recording studio with all the colors and smiles and my mother swaying next to me, and George nodding his head and smiling on the other side of the glass.
I felt so warm inside. It was a feeling of peace, and I wondered at the fact that you can feel physically and spiritually changed just by repeating certain words. Chanting the words over and over again was almost hypnotic, and once we got past the idea of not being able to sing, there was a point of freedom where there was no effort at all, no criticism or judgment, just the sound generated from deep inside, like a flame that warmed us from the inside out.