Goodnight, L.A. by Kent Hartman

Author:Kent Hartman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Da Capo Press
Published: 2017-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

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FOOTLOOSE AND FANCY-FREE

I just want a picture of me face.

—ROD STEWART

IN LATE NOVEMBER OF 1976, AS WADDY WACHTEL BUSIED HIMSELF with unpacking his suitcase and sorting through a pile of mail, he heard his phone ring. Having just returned that day from a tour of England with Linda Ronstadt in support of her recently released Hasten Down the Wind album, Wachtel not only had a case of jet lag but also a million things on his mind as he picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Waddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s Jackson Browne.”

On the heels of such FM favorites as “Doctor My Eyes,” “Rock Me on the Water,” and “Fountain of Sorrow” during the early to mid-seventies, the folk-rock singing-and-playing Browne was a rising star in the music world. With his latest album, The Pretender, having just hit stores, Browne was about to go on tour in support of both it and its soon-to-be-released lead single, “Here Come Those Tears Again.”

But first things first. Browne wanted to help out a mutual friend, an unknown (outside of the music business) singer-songwriter by the name of Warren Zevon, and Browne figured Wachtel might be just the guy to assist him.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” a surprised Wachtel said, taking a seat. “I literally just walked in the door a few minutes ago from being on tour with Linda in Europe.”

“I know,” Browne replied. “That’s why I’m calling.”

Though Wachtel and Browne were acquainted, with Wachtel having played guitar on The Pretender and also on an earlier Browne-produced Warren Zevon album that went nowhere, they were hardly close friends.

“I read your interview,” Browne continued. “You know, the one where you said I had my hands full and didn’t really know what I was doing as the producer on Warren’s last record.”

Wachtel swallowed.

Oh, that interview, he thought—the one he had recently done with some British magazine where, as usual, he had spoken without a filter.

“Sorry about that, man,” Wachtel said, half-chuckling in embarrassment.

Browne stopped him in midapology.

“No—you were absolutely right,” he said. “That’s why you’re going to coproduce Warren’s next album with me.”

Wachtel wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.

“What? Wait a minute—you don’t even know me,” he blurted in his typically blunt Brooklyn-ese.

“Not only do I know you,” Browne countered, “but I know exactly where I stand with you.”

Browne then added the clincher.

“More important, I need you,” he said, sounding concerned. “Warren won’t listen to me anymore. But he’ll listen to you.”

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