8

River Deep, Mountain High

See you around, Phil. Take care.

—MICHEL RUBINI

During the late fall of 1945, just after the end of World War II, inside an expensive home located along the shimmering waters of the Pacific Ocean just north of Los Angeles, a precocious curly-haired toddler with large expressive eyes sat frozen in place, staring. Having pressed his young face between two narrow wooden stairway balusters high above his family’s elegantly appointed living room, the three-year-old watched intently from his secret perch as two men, who seemed to be very far below, made the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard.

One of those playing was the boy’s father, a world-famous classical violinist by the name of Jan Rubini; the other was his longtime piano accompanist. And as the two musicians diligently rehearsed for an upcoming concert tour, the only thing running through the young child’s mind was wondering how soon he could be just like them.

For some people, becoming a musician is a rational, well-planned vocational decision. Much like becoming a doctor or a firefighter or an accountant, it is a deliberate career choice that evolves through considerable thought and planning. For others, the desire to spend a life in the musical arts is a feeling unexpectedly thrust upon them by the vagaries of fate. Like choosing to become a guitarist after watching the Beatles’ first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show or suddenly realizing the ability to sing while sitting with friends around a campfire.

Though for a select few, however, the idea of becoming a musician is never viewed as some kind of occupational option. It is simply an automatic extension of who they are: the fortunate recipients of highly specific familial DNA. And so with a celebrated concert figure for a father and a principal with the Royal Conservatory of Music in London for a grandfather—not to mention many other similarly employed forebears—little Michel Rubini, late of Old Malibu Road, didn’t become a musician; he was born one.

But birthright or no, making the most out of an innate musical talent still takes practice. Plenty of practice. And it was no different for Rubini. His parents cut him no slack, requiring that he sit before the piano—his instrument of choice—for a minimum of one hour before and after school, every day. He faithfully did as he was told, too, even while he heard the other kids in the neighborhood through the open windows having the times of their lives playing baseball, riding bikes, and just generally goofing off.

From the works of Chopin, Mozart, and Schumann to every classical composer in between, Rubini quickly excelled at playing anything and everything put in front of him. So much so that by the age of fourteen he became his father’s regular piano accompanist during a string of prestigious performances around the country. An unheard-of experience for someone so young, and a career-making opportunity to be envied.

But Michel Rubini, for all his seeming good fortune, hated every single minute of it.

Sometime before, while running errands with his mother one day in nearby Santa Monica, Rubini had gone into the local record shop to buy a song he had heard on the radio, a new release called “Hearts of Stone” by the Jewels. He loved everything about the little R & B number. The simplicity. The power. And, especially, the feel. It was nothing like the usual vanilla-sounding stuff coming over the airwaves. Singers like Tony Bennett, Perry Como, and Eddie Fisher—the top stars of the day—were fine in small doses. But they sorely lacked any kind of soul. On the other hand, “Hearts of Stone” stirred more emotion inside of Rubini than ten piano concertos stacked on top of each other. It was also the perfect example of the kind of music his father despised most.

“Don’t let your dad know you bought that,” his mother warned as they drove northward on the Pacific Coast Highway toward home.

However, within days, Rubini’s father did find out about the record and soon thereafter, many more just like it. He tried his best to put an end to what he perceived to be his son’s wayward musical ways, but it was too late. Michel Rubini was completely, hopelessly hooked. The kid had stumbled onto a kind of music that spoke to him. And he wasn’t going back. He began to realize that he no longer wanted to become a concert pianist, either.

By the time Rubini began attending Hollywood High School in 1956, his parents, after years of marital discord, finally called it quits. He at first lived with his mother in Studio City, but her subsequent decision to relocate to New Jersey pushed him into moving over to his father’s Beverly Hills home instead. It wasn’t that he liked him better. Mostly Rubini just didn’t want to live on the East Coast. It seemed so desperately far removed from where the real action was. He wanted to stay near the thriving popular music scene in Los Angeles, hoping that somehow, someday, he might find a way to become a part of it.

In what evolved into a shockingly unsupervised and lonely existence for someone so young, Rubini largely ended up living solo in the lavish Beverly Hills mansion, answering to no one. Meanwhile, his virtuoso father spent the bulk of his time either on tour, staying with various lady friends, or living separately in his Malibu beach pad.

On several occasions, when the elder Rubini chose to rent out the house, Michel was forced to live in the maid’s sleeping quarters over the garage at the back of the property. Other times, whenever the latest set of tenants didn’t want the landlord’s son hanging around, Rubini would glumly gather his belongings and move down to an old trailer his father kept in a mobile home park near the corner of Washington and La Cienega Boulevards. Not the kind of glamorous life most would imagine for a child of apparent privilege. Michel Rubini was essentially a Fifties version of a latchkey kid, except in his case it was a 24/7 proposition. A circumstance about which the California Department of Social Services, had they known, surely would have investigated.

To compound matters, Rubini was also on the receiving end of a daily barrage of schoolyard bullying. With his curly hair, girl-like first name, and prominent piano-playing skills, he became an easy mark among the more Neanderthal members of the student body. The taunts often turned physical, too, with Rubini gamely fighting back, ably inflicting his fair share of return punishment. Usually outnumbered, however, most of the time he just plain got the snot kicked out of him, his nose being broken too many times to even bother counting. With little incentive to continue showing up for his regularly scheduled beat-down sessions, Rubini’s school attendance suffered accordingly.

With him having no family, no friends, no rules, and a gigantic target of ridicule pasted squarely on his back, Michel Rubini’s young life was in a fast-moving downward spiral. Something had to give. He was inches from turning into a juvenile delinquent, maybe worse. Just about the only thing the troubled teenage pianist hadn’t experienced was spending any time in jail—yet.

*   *   *

Walking down the street one afternoon in a residential area of Beverly Hills with his eleven-year-old brother in tow (who had come for a visit), Rubini started to feel an old familiar itch. It had been a while, but the high school sophomore-to-be knew the sensation all too well. He had first experienced it while briefly living with his mother and little brother over in the Valley before the two of them moved back east. And, unfortunately, there was no ointment or other medication Rubini could take as a remedy.

No, the only way to successfully scratch this particular kind of itch was to steal a car.

In the heart of the Fifties, the small city of Beverly Hills represented to many the epitome of immense wealth and genteel living. From movie, TV, and music stars to captains of industry, the well-heeled inhabitants enjoyed not only an idyllic, sequestered existence but also one of surprising innocence. So innocent, in fact, that many trusting locals routinely left their expensive automobiles unlocked in the driveway or on the street, some with the key still in the ignition.

For anyone with the nerve and the inclination, a smorgasbord of alluring, luxurious theft opportunities awaited. Let’s see, shall it be a Jaguar today? Or perhaps a Bentley? How about a Cadillac Eldorado convertible? With no hot-wiring required, it was as simple as turning over the engine and then driving off. Almost.

With Michel Rubini eventually spying an unattended ride that was to his youthful liking—a brand-new, top-of-the-line, bright red Chrysler Imperial Crown (“The brilliant Chrysler … for those accustomed to the finest!”)—he swung into action. Time to scratch that itch.

Stopping along the sidewalk next to the parked vehicle, Rubini first casually glanced up and down the block. No need to have some angry owner start chasing after him. That would be bad.

With nobody in sight, however, the boy quickly stepped toward the curb, bent down, and peered through the passenger side window. Just as he had hoped: a set of keys, glinting in the sun, sat dangling from the ignition. Exhibiting the confident air of someone who had done it all before, Rubini then strode around to the driver’s side and opened the unlocked door. So far, so good.

Swiftly sliding behind the wheel, with one quick turn of his wrist Rubini brought the mighty 392-cubic-inch FirePower V8 hemi engine roaring to life. Pulling the PowerFlite automatic transmission into gear, he then reached across the front seat to shove open the other door for his brother, and the two siblings sailed off down the street.

But under the watchful eye of the no-nonsense Beverly Hills police chief, Clinton H. Anderson, successful car thievery was a little more problematic than it might have appeared to the average practitioner. Or at least to Michel Rubini.

With keeping crime to a minimum being a particular point of pride in their squeaky-clean jurisdiction, the cops in Beverly Hills were constantly on the lookout for anything suspicious. And the Chrysler being driven by Rubini definitely qualified. As it zoomed by a parked patrol unit, the officer inside did a double take. To his amazement, all he saw flying past his window were two very small heads in one very big car. He flipped on his lights.

After being arrested and taken to police headquarters inside City Hall on Rexford Drive, Rubini half-expected to spend time in jail. Underage though he was, he had been caught red-handed and he knew it. But instead of being shown to a cell, the teenager to his surprise ended up in an interrogation room sitting across a table from, of all people, Chief Anderson.

“Mr. Rubini, I know that you’re on probation for stealing cars in North Hollywood,” he began sternly. “And if I were to tell them that you had now done the same thing here in Beverly Hills, you’d be going to prison camp.”

Rubini swallowed hard. Having heard the stories, he wanted no part of something like that.

“But I talked to the owner of the car and he’s not going to press charges against you. He’s a friend of mine.”

The chief paused, looking straight at the boy.

“So, this is what I’m going to do,” he continued. “I’m putting you on probation here in Beverly Hills. And you’re going to write me a letter once a week—every week—for the next two years, telling me everything that you’re doing. And if it does not coincide with the reports I get from my officers, then you will be going to jail.”

Rising from his chair, Anderson then leaned in close to Rubini’s face, making sure his message came through loud and clear.

“If you do anything—anything—I will know about it,” he intoned. “You now have two strikes against you. Don’t get a third.”

*   *   *

In what at first seemed to be yet one more desperate act by an unhappy kid who was on his way to almost certain incarceration, being busted by the Beverly Hills police turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to Michel Rubini. Thanks to a decent cop who scared the daylights out of him, Rubini learned his lesson. Just as he had been instructed, he faithfully wrote a letter every week for two years regarding his whereabouts. And he privately vowed to funnel his boundless energy and talent into creating a professional music career. It was the one thing he knew for sure that he could do. His brief crime spree was dead and buried, a function of silly youthful indiscretion.

By 1961, having finally graduated from the awful torment of high school, Rubini began taking a series of weekly piano lessons from a legendary jazzer named Harry Fields. Rubini also started frequenting some of LA’s black jazz venues, places like the Black Orchid and the It Club. With an eye toward one day possibly joining their ranks, he wanted to watch the best of the best do their thing. In particular, keyboardists like Les McCann (piano) and Richard “Groove” Holmes (organ) could alternately make Rubini cry and blow his mind with the depth and beauty of their playing.

Over the next couple of years, while still occasionally working as his father’s accompanist, Rubini spent many hours a day honing his technique on the piano. He wanted to start building a name for himself in the clubs, just like so many of his bebop heroes had done. Even with the notoriously poor pay, he figured that jazz was the milieu for him.

But life had other plans for Michel Rubini.

One night, after impulsively stepping in to play the Hammond organ onstage for a shorthanded surf band in a small club on the Sunset Strip, Rubini surprised himself afterward by agreeing to become their regular tour organist. He had no rock-and-roll experience, of course, but the simple three-chord music was hardly a challenge. And with time on his hands and looking to make some quick cash, he thought it would be a lark. How long could it last, anyway?

Produced by a guy named Joe Saraceno, the group was called the Marketts, and they were constructed exactly like the Champs and the Beach Boys before them: one version stayed out on the road, while studio pros—namely, the Wrecking Crew—cut all the records back home. For Saraceno, like so many other producers, it was all about expediency and keeping costs to a minimum. Already successful with releases by various phantom bands he had produced, including the Routers (“Let’s Go” and “Sting Ray”), the shrewd Saraceno had his lucrative formula down to a science.

But with word soon being passed along from the road about the organ-playing Rubini’s even more out-of-this-world abilities on piano, Saraceno decided to give the kid a listen for himself. He was always on the lookout for strong keyboard talent to bolster his various studio projects.

After meeting with Saraceno and providing him with the requested run-through of his skills, an astounded Rubini was offered a job on the spot.

“Listen,” said Saraceno. “If you want to, you can come in and play on a recording session we’ve got coming up. I’ll let you play on one of the sides.”

“Yes, sir, that’d be great,” Rubini enthusiastically responded.

Saraceno clearly wanted to take him on a test drive before committing to anything further. But that was okay. Rubini felt he could play alongside anybody, and he had also heard that studio work, reportedly tough to get, paid well, too. The whole thing sounded like a gas.

But from the moment of his first official recording date for Saraceno, when Rubini sat down inside Liberty Records’ in-house recording studio next to the imposing likes of Glen Campbell, Carol Kaye, Hal Blaine, and several other Wrecking Crew heavyweights, the twenty-one-year-old knew he had found his calling. He loved it. And the producer loved him back.

Rubini could sight-read like nobody’s business. He could play by ear. And he could improvise when needed, playing any kind of style. He was also fast and usually flawless. Rubini had everything in his musical toolbox a rock-and-roll producer could want.

Saraceno soon began using Rubini on just about everything he cut, including the Markett’s Top 5 instrumental smash, “Out of Limits.” Big-time arrangers like Ernie Freeman and Gene Page, along with a rising young producer named Jimmy Bowen, also brought Michel Rubini in. He was quickly becoming the hot new must-hire inside the cloistered world of LA recording studios, an important addition to the Wrecking Crew’s hit-making ranks.

And that’s why Phil Spector had to have him, too.

By early 1966, with his last bankable Philles act, the Righteous Brothers, having recently made a very public (and litigious) jump over to MGM/Verve Records, the once-dominant Phil Spector was suddenly left with no one important to produce. With his previously unrivaled position in the music industry’s fickle pecking order rapidly slipping away, Spector was desperate to regain his former glory. He decided that his only option was to go for broke. He would need to pull out all the stops and create the masterpiece of all masterpieces. Something so monumental that it would instantly reestablish his status as the biggest producer of them all. And he thought he knew just who should sing it for him: Tina Turner.

With a frenetic, charismatic stage presence and arguably the most powerful set of female pipes in the business, Tina Turner was a musical force of nature. As the lead singer next to her guitar-playing husband in the Ike and Tina Turner Revue, a gospel-tinged funk and soul act, she was the estrogen-fueled R & B equivalent of James Brown—and then some. Particularly when it came to her ability to squeeze every gut-wrenching ounce of pathos and believability out of a set of lyrics, the undeniably potent Turner didn’t so much sing a song; she became it.

Figuring the marriage of Tina Turner’s voice and his Wall of Sound production technique (with the Wrecking Crew playing the instruments, of course) to be the ultimate musical union, Spector poured every bit of his ingenuity and creativity into staging what he hoped would be his finest three minutes plus of vinyl. He even co-wrote a power ballad called “River Deep, Mountain High” specifically for the project with his longtime collaborators Ellie Greenwich and Jeff Barry. It seemed like the halcyon days of the early Sixties were on the verge of a triumphant return. The pieces were nicely lining up.

After Spector somehow shoehorned a handpicked throng of over twenty top musicians into Gold Star’s tiny Studio A, and with Turner laying down a magnificent, fevered vocal performance, the final mix of “River Deep, Mountain High” had all the apparent makings of a huge success, perhaps the most significant symphonic statement of his career.

But it was not to be.

KRLA, which had been given the local exclusive, was lukewarm about it from the start. Other important radio stations, like WMCA in New York and WDRC in Hartford, flatly deemed the overwrought production to be way too much, a bunch of noise. It sounded out-of-synch with anything else on the air. Top 40 radio was an ever-changing animal, just like Sonny Bono had tried to explain to Spector, back when he still worked for him.

Even several of those in the Wrecking Crew who had listened afterward to the tape playback were disappointed. Turner’s raw, goosebump-inducing performance, practically a sexual experience for them to be a part of when they cut the song live with her, now sounded washed out with the excessive amount of echo Spector had slathered all over it in the booth.

But the esteemed producer thought he knew better than everyone else, and now he had a flamingly public failure on his hands to show for it. The song, meant to be his crowning achievement, instead barely crept its way into the Hot 100, lodged at an anemic number eighty-eight for just one week, and then dropped off altogether.

By the early summer of 1966, around the time that “River Deep, Mountain High” finally sank beneath the waves, Michel Rubini retrieved a message one day from Arlyn’s Answering Service (the telephone exchange most of the musicians used) saying that Phil Spector wanted him to play on an upcoming studio date. Having become one of the producer’s favorites, Rubini gave the call little thought, other than to log the day and time into his schedule book. He knew that the big, ill-fated single on which he had played hadn’t done well. And he knew that Spector had been counting on its success. But more releases than not failed to make it. That was just a fact of life in the music business.

When Rubini entered Gold Star for the recording session a few days later, it seemed like business as usual to him. The same batch of Wrecking Crew players, with whom he was now firmly entrenched, were all there, as was the usual engineer, Larry Levine.

After Spector’s arranger, Jack Nitzsche, gave everyone their chord charts and told them basically what was needed, they began rehearsing the song. As always, the collective members of the Wrecking Crew expected the mercurial producer to interrupt them countless times along the way as the more complex layers of the material began to fully take shape in his mind.

But on this night, nothing. Not a peep. No words were spoken to them for almost three straight hours, practically the entire length of the session. The silence was eerie, not to mention unprecedented. And none of what they had been working on had been recorded, either. Committing everything to tape, listening to the playback, and then repeating the process ad infinitum was the Spector way. His only way. Something was clearly wrong.

As the session neared its end, the mystified musicians finally heard a voice over the speaker say, “Okay, thanks everybody. That’s it for tonight. The session’s over.”

Over? They hadn’t even done one complete take yet. But, as usual, there was no time to sit around and chat about the strangeness of the evening or about anything else. For many of them, if not most, another session at another studio immediately awaited.

As the musicians all began to file out, Rubini lagged behind. He had become a friend of the producer’s and was frankly worried. The absolute lack of communication was way out of character, even by the enigmatic Spector’s standards.

Happening to notice the producer through the control booth glass sitting alone in a corner, Rubini decided he had better check things out.

“Phil, is everything okay? What happened?” Rubini gently inquired as he stepped inside the small room.

Spector made no answer. Instead, he just stared blankly into space in the general direction of the studio’s oversized set of playback monitors.

“Phil? Phil?”

Still no answer.

Finally, without shifting his heavy-lidded, trance-like gaze, Spector faintly mumbled, “Uh, yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.”

But everything wasn’t fine. Rubini could see that. He had never witnessed anyone, let alone Spector, in such a weirdly catatonic state. And it wasn’t drugs, either. Rubini had seen enough of that in the clubs to know the difference.

As the pianist debated about what to do next, the door opened again. It was Larry Levine, back from taking down some of the expensive mics out in the studio.

“Larry, what’s going on?” Rubini whispered, now genuinely alarmed.

“Something’s not right. Phil’s having a problem, that’s all. Don’t worry about it,” Levine quietly replied. “We’ll take care of him. You go on home.”

Like the fictional actress Norma Desmond’s sad, misguided attempt at a comeback in the classic film Sunset Boulevard, Spector’s time also had passed. He hadn’t made the Top 40 charts in more than half a year, an eternity in his world. Having hidden behind a well-practiced façade of indifference for some time, the man who had given life to the Wrecking Crew so long before now seemed to Rubini to have finally had some kind of breakdown, very possibly relating to the “River Deep” failure. And he felt genuine sympathy for the producer. Growing up with a famous musician for a father had provided the young pianist with a front-row seat to what the unrelenting pressures of trying to keep a toehold in the business could do to a person. Especially someone as gifted and sensitive as Spector.

As Michel Rubini headed for the door, he stopped for a moment, turned, and softly said, “See you around, Phil. Take care.”