One of the things I loved about Fred Myrow was his willingness to challenge the traditional operating systems in search of creative truth. Fred taught us so much about music and how it worked with film, but he also opened our eyes to many other aspects of creativity. He was always full of excitement and enthusiasm for creative endeavors and introduced us to a lot of his friends and collaborators who were doing really innovative things. We met Fred’s inventive musical collaborator, Marc Fleischer (son of director Richard Fleischer and grandson of animation pioneer Max Fleischer), who was assisting him with our score. He also brought us to meet with Francesco Lupica, who at that time was experimenting with an instrument he had created called the Cosmic Beam Experience. Imagine a huge electric guitar made from a steel girder strung with piano wire. This thing was immense, some twenty feet long, and the sounds Francesco and Fred got out of it were literally mind-bending.
At the same time Fred was also tight with many of the vocalists from the Roxy Theater musical hit then playing on Sunset Boulevard called The Rocky Horror Show. Fred got us backstage to meet the cast including Tim Curry, Meat Loaf, and Richard O’Brien, and this was well before they shot the classic movie version of it. Fred was a superb raconteur and had so many stories about people he had met or worked with that it was almost too hard for us to believe all of them. The funny thing about Fred was whether he overexaggerated his stories or not, they always seemed aimed at teaching us something or opening our minds to creative possibilities.
One story he kept returning to that Craig and I were pretty skeptical of was Fred’s collaboration with the great rock star Jim Morrison of the Doors. His story was just incredible to hear because the Doors were such a seminal rock and roll band that had an immense influence on me in my formative years. According to Fred he had met Jim Morrison in the late sixties working on a short film with him, and in 1970 they started collaborating on a musical. Fred told us that Jim was always over at Fred’s house, working late into the night on this musical. Then, one night Jim told Fred he had to fly off to Paris to meet his girlfriend Pamela, but promised that they would get back to work on the musical when he returned to the States. The sad truth is that Jim Morrison did go to Paris and died there tragically at age twenty-seven, never again to return to America. Obviously, Craig and I had a hard time believing this story, especially as it would be impossible to verify. We just chalked it up as a tall tale from Fred’s typical overexuberance about all things creative.
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Through Universal we had incredible access to all kinds of resources. One of the most remarkable was that Craig and I were given an open account in the name of Universal at a nearby Studio City record store. This was back in the days of vinyl. We were allowed to go in the place and select as many records as we wanted, for “soundtrack research,” and all we needed to do was to present the cashier with our film’s Universal accounting number and that was it. One of the reasons this was a somewhat legitimate expense is that early on we decided a song from a pop or rock artist would be a fantastic underscore for the opening credits of our film. Another great perk is that we were free to book screening rooms and watch any movie in the Universal vault on 35 mm, again for “research.” Pretty sweet!
In the beginning, the Universal music department was extremely helpful and put us in touch with several great talents. First up was Elliot Roberts, a well-known music manager. Elliot came over to the studio and watched our rough cut with the idea that maybe his client, singer-songwriter Joni Mitchell, might be interested in contributing a song. Elliot decided it wouldn’t be right for her, but said he would keep thinking about music options for us. A few weeks later Elliot was back at Universal with client Graham Nash of supergroup Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. It was exciting to meet Graham in person; CSN&Y was an extraordinary band and he was kind and generous with his praise, but our movie just wasn’t his cup of tea either.
Then, out of the blue, we heard that one of the Universal A&R executives, Artie Mogull, was having drinks in Las Vegas and ran into Elliot Roberts. Elliot said that it had finally come to him that a client he was involved with might be perfect to do the song. And we were asked if we knew of a band called America. Of course we knew America. A vocal group comprising three talented guitarists who had met as ex-pats in London when their fathers were stationed over there, yet they had an organic, roots-based, American folk rock sound. They had debuted with a gigantic hit record titled “A Horse with No Name.” America would be perfect! They were coming through LA soon and a screening date was set.
Craig and I were with Fred at the Universal screening room waiting for America to arrive. Their road manager, a chap named Bill Siddons, walked in first. He saw Fred and suddenly the two of them were locked in a tight bro-hug. Fred was so excited. “Guys, this is Bill. He was Jim’s road manager for the Doors.” Craig’s and my jaws dropped, literally. It wasn’t just a tall tale, Fred had been telling the truth! Bill was a friendly and nice guy and he and Fred proceeded to catch up on lost time.
Bill related how it had been his job to purchase the tombstone for Jim Morrison in the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris after his death. As Bill told it, as road manager the details and costs for everything fell to him. This was the first time he had ever had to make funeral arrangements for one of his artists and he took it very seriously. After Morrison’s funeral he had returned to the States but was always curious if the cemetery had installed the proper grave marker that he had ordered and paid for. So on the recent European tour with America, Bill insisted on visiting the grave in person and was stunned by what he saw. He described all the surrounding graves, defaced by fan graffiti, fans scrawling the word “JIM” everywhere. He consulted with the cemetery officials but none of them had a suitable solution for this problem. As they continued to talk Craig and I chuckled and promised never to doubt anything Fred told us ever again.
The band members—Dewey Bunnell, Gerry Beckley, and Dan Peek—arrived. They were friendly and down-to-earth and seemed enthusiastic about working with us on the film. Dan Peek seemed especially moved by our film and promised to give it some serious thought. We were ecstatic that finally artists of substance had responded to our film. But the next day Harry Garfield came back into the picture, and after a brief conversation with America’s management team, the deal was suddenly off. He told us that the price quoted, fifteen thousand dollars, was far too much money. Craig and I considered going to our traditional ace-in-the-hole “nuclear option,” which was to casually mention to the target Universal executive that “maybe we should talk to Sid about this.” But Harry was a tough guy, had survived at Universal for a very long time, and we ultimately decided that tactic might not work so well with him.
We had learned early on that whether cultivated by higher management or not, a culture of fear ruled at Universal and most everyone treaded very carefully around Sid Sheinberg and Lew Wasserman. It started with our best exec pal Peter, who, whenever we had an unsupervised visit with Sid, would pepper us with questions: “Did my name come up? Did Sid say anything about me?” I think the fact that we had this open line of communication to Sid really freaked out everyone at Universal that we worked with. Traditionally, everything moved up the chain of command and only the very top executives had direct contact with the President and Chairman. Yet here were these two young wild cards, who could talk directly to Sid Sheinberg. In fact, we did just that. Whenever we had a new story idea for the movie, we would go talk to Sid about it. Craig and I would just elevator up the Black Tower to the fifteenth floor and, unannounced, walk up to his secretary and ask if Sid was in. Frequently he would be sitting alone in his office on the phone negotiating with somebody and he would wave us right in. Thinking about it now I believe Craig and I were probably a pleasant and creative distraction from Sid’s high-pressure job. We were too naïve to be afraid of him and were completely happy to collaborate creatively with him. If Sid had a good idea, we would incorporate it into the movie, and if we didn’t like it, we were unafraid to tell him so. Unlike most of the people working at Universal we did not fear Sid Sheinberg … we liked him!
As the weeks went on, we heard nothing more from the Universal music department about America and a title song. Craig and I resigned ourselves to the fact that this song would now become Fred’s responsibility. We didn’t know it at the time but Fred was planning a killer score with a killer group of studio musicians. The first day of the recording sessions I met some of these acclaimed artists, which included core members of what were later to become known as the Wrecking Crew. The Wrecking Crew was a small group of immensely talented studio musicians who played on some of the greatest popular music recordings in the fifties and sixties. They were an infamous crew of studio backing players who started as the house band for producer Phil Spector and went on to collaborate on hits with talent as great as Sinatra, Elvis, and the Beach Boys. Not only would we have the great Hal Blaine on drums but Fred also managed to lure the legendary Carol Kaye on bass guitar.
We loved how Fred’s score turned out but still pined for a song to open the film with. It had been almost half a year since the screening for America, with complete radio silence about the topic out of the Universal music department. I decided to take things into my own hands and tracked down America’s new managers at Hartmann & Goodman. The manager in charge, Harlan Goodman, gave me some stunning news. He told me that Dan Peek had liked our film so much that after the screening he had gone home and written a title song. His bandmate Gerry Beckley had contributed a chorus and they had already recorded the song at the Record Plant up in Sausalito. The song had been produced by George Martin—yes, that George Martin, the guy who produced all those classic Beatles records! Their label, Warner Bros. Records, was releasing the new album, entitled Hearts, the following month. And yes, they had reached out to Universal several times and had never heard anything back!
Damn that Universal music department! Craig and I huddled immediately and decided it was time to unleash the nuclear option. I took a deep breath and rang up Sid. When he came on the line I expressed our exasperation with the music department and passionately made the case for how much this song would add to our film. Sid contemplated for a few moments while I waited for the worst. Then he told me the words I wanted to hear: “I’ll take care of this for you guys.” A few days later America’s title song, “The Story of a Teenager,” was mixed into our soundtrack.