Paul Simon And The Dixie Hummingbirds, Remaking Music.
By Daniel Rubin's
The Dixie Hummingbirds drag in with broken wings. "A very inopportune time to have a cold," says Carl Davis, his marvelously deep voice turned shallow.
The gospel quartet is booked into Philadelphia's Sigma Sound studio to remake "Loves Me Like a Rock" with Paul Simon, and everyone's sick -- they picked something up at a festival in Long Beach, Calif. Only William Bright, sometime 'Bird, sometime supermarket owner at 29th and Diamond, is in good voice.
"I'm from the old school," he says. "Castor oil. I put it in my eyes. I put it in my nose. A teaspoon every other day. Cleans your body real good."
It's noon Friday and raining. The young members of a gospel horn section straggle in, their instruments drenched. Producer John Snyder, hired to pull together the 'Birds' 70th album, a tribute record to mark the Philadelphia group's 70th year, walks around darkly. The horn players are upset about the money. And Simon, too, has a cold, and won't be singing, Snyder says, "if he shows."
But a few minutes later, at 12:30 p.m., Simon does show, graying hair under a red Cuban Sugar Kings baseball cap, rust sportcoat over a black T-shirt and blue jeans.
"I don't want to disturb you," he tells the older men in ballcaps and headphones, who are warming up behind a glass partition. "I'll be right in."
Howard Carroll, the group's guitarist, sits in the main room, joined by a hired bassist and organist. The session drummer is isolated. While the seven horn players hang in the lobby, it's time for gospel's most influential granddaddies to see what's there.
A blast of the Leslie organ, a half chord from Carroll's old-timey guitar and the 'Birds take off, the harmonies intricate, the young rhythm section nailing it all down.
"When I was a little boy. . . ."
Snyder walks into the control room: "So what do you think, Mr. Simon?"
"We've got a ways to go," Simon says.
"Change the arrangement?"
"I don't want to change the arrangement. No, I'm going to make the route easier for them. Maybe a little better introduction. It would be nice to hear a little tambourine on the back beat. Basically, if we get a good rhythm track, we can cut and paste the singing."
For the next seven hours, they will reconstitute this one track, a hit Simon wrote with the 'Birds in mind and included on his 1973 album, There Goes Rhymin' Simon, his second solo effort after breaking up with Art Garfunkel three years before. Stevie Wonder will add a verse in a few days. And Isaac Hayes will record a precede to the CD that puts the longest-running gospel quartet in perspective:
"Before rock and roll and before there was rap, hip-hop, disco, funk, punk, metal, soul, Motown, rockabilly, country and western, before bebop, doowop and big-band swing, there were the Dixie Hummingbirds . . . the personification of perseverance, talent and dedication."
On this day, they will need patience as well.
The drums are the first problem. Too loud, says Simon. The organ might not be right either. He has this idea. He calls for an acoustic guitar and the studio staffers produce an Ovation. He strums the song's two-chord introduction, over and over. Then he calls over the drummer, who hands Simon his brushes.
The singer starts hitting the guitar case, giving the song an impromptu, street-corner sound. This becomes the drum kit.
Now the lead-in. Simon huddles with lead vocalist Ira Tucker Sr., whose celebrated voice is cracked and wavering -- it's still a couple of days from soaring. Davis, Bright and another 'Bird, Paul Owens, confer. In a few moments, they've cobbled together a slow a cappella opening. "Is this the sort of introduction you do?" Simon asks the quartet, whose anniversary year is filled with TV appearances, concerts and benefits.
No, someone answers, but the 'Birds are game.
Playing his high E string, Simon shows the bassist what he has in mind -- a jauntier line. The organist joins in and Simon holds up his palm, stopping the keyboardist in his tracks.
The 'Birds are starting to spread their wings. Their harmonies fit tightly in formation -- only they keep trading positions, leaping from tenor to baritone to bass and back. Tucker sits, saving his voice for a few days later.
"That sounded good!" Simon says. He moves the singers from four mikes to two, shows Carroll how he strummed the song on the original version, then explains why he's begging out of the day's recording session. "I don't have my voice," he says, tugging at his Adam's apple. His 3-year-old daughter gave him a wicked cold that's lasted for weeks.
While the 'Birds break, Simon returns to the booth and asks Carroll to play. He hits a few half chords as Simon turns to engineer Joe Newbold, wondering about the nondescript building at 12th and Vine where they're recording.
"Whose studio is this?" Simon asks.
"Sigma Sound is Joe Tarsia," the engineer replies. "They recorded all the Philly hits of the '60s and '70s."
"It has a vibe," Simon says.
They talk about the studio's history while Carroll keeps playing, now joined by the bass player in a country blues jam.
It's 3 p.m. Roll tape.
"Take it from the top," Simon says. "A cappella. No drums." A few seconds later, he's back with the 'Birds. "You remember the Moonglows? Harvey and the Moonglows?"
They do, and soon their harmonies are less complicated, punchier. "This sounds good," Simon says.
Back in the booth, Jerry Zolten, a Penn State musicologist writing a book on the Dixie Hummingbirds, nods his head.
"I know what he's doing," he says. "He's borrowed the opening of 'The Ten Commandments of Love' and tagged it on."
There's more. Simon asks if the engineer can double the voices to add some depth. "That's a nice little thing," Simon says.
At 3:30 p.m., it's time to put it all together. Simon grabs a microphone, and delivers a loose lounge version of the song he'll do for real in a week or so.
As they pull in close, Simon starts to hum the song they've worked on all day, and soon everyone in the studio is singing -- the performers, the men in the booth and the horn guys, who are singing the lines they would have played. It's now a full choral piece, swaying back and forth. "A magic moment," Ira Tucker Jr. says. "Wish we got it on tape."