Following on from my Previous Post: CHECK OUT CHARLES SHAAR MURRAY I have promoted three gigs with the man himself (two with his band Crosstown Lightnin’). His great biography of John Lee Hooker has just been republished by Canongate.
His collected journalism in Shots From The Hip (currently out of print but copies are available on the net) I particularly enjoyed because the pieces conjure up for me that period of the NME when I was working for the paper.
One of the stories I enjoyed most was about the legendary producer/dj Guy Stevens and Charlie was good enough to grant me permission to reprint it here. So for your reading pleasure:
Guy Stevens: 'There are only two Phil Spectors in the world and I am one of them’
NME, 22 December 1979
‘THEY rushed down the street together, digging everything in the early way they had, which later became so much sadder and perceptive and blank. But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centrelight pop and everybody goes 'Awwwwwww. . .’
Jack Kerouac - On The Road
‘He's in love with rock and roll, WOOAAHHHRLD! He's in love with getting stoned, WOOOAAAHHHRLD!’
The Clash - 'Janie Jones'
‘With Guy Stevens it was very, very special, because if it hadn't been for him seeing that glimmer of whatever that I certainly wasn't aware of, I'd still be workin' in the factory right now.’
‘Guy Stevens? Forget him. He's had it.’
A Music Industry Figure
Guy Stevens back with Nigel Waymouth and Michael English, the two designers behind Hapshash and the Coloured Coat. Stevens produced their eponymous album, a cult classic
Source: The Look
Take a deep breath and you could recount the Guy Stevens story in one sentence.
Kingpin mod deejay at the Scene Club in '64, Our Man In London for Sue Records, the legendary soul label, first house producer for Island Records where he signed and produced Free and Spooky Tooth as well as inventing Mott The Hoople, discoverer of The Clash after a long time in hibernation and now finally producer of their new album 'London Calling', the man who got Chuck Berry out of jail in 1964, the man who supplied The Who with the compilation tape that gave them most of their early pre-original material repertoire, the man who introduced Keith Reid to Procol Harum and generated 'Whiter Shade Of Pale' only to fail to get them signed up and then had to stand by and watch them sell 90,000,000 copies for someone else, the man who smashed up every piece of furniture in a recording studio to get the performance he wanted out of the group he was recording, the man who Mick Jones of The Clash still thinks is responsible for getting him fired from his first real band, the man who heard Phil Spector rant about how it was him, Phil Spector, who first discovered The Beatles, the man who . . .
Guy Stevens, with the rolling, popping, bulging eyes of a veteran form speedfreak, the boozer's lurch and slur, smashing through or falling over every obstacle between him and the perfect rock and roll record, the ultimate rock and roll record, the final rock and roll record, the next rock and roll record ... be that obstacle human or inanimate, himself or something else. Staggering, screaming, crying, flailing, laughing, Guy Stevens arouses pity, terror, admiration, revulsion, contempt.
In 1971 they wrote him off as a hopeless loser, a man too far gone into the depths of alcoholics' perdition to be of any use to himself or anyone else again.
And now, in the closing weeks of 1979, Guy Stevens is back in the charts. It is — as they say — a mighty long way down rock and roll. The inevitable corollary is that it's an even longer way back up again. Guy Stevens has been to hell and back.
'What happened was I was living in a one-room no-water flat in Leicester Square and playing records for Ronan O'Rahilly — later of Radio Caroline — down at the Scene Club. I had an R&B night every Monday, and a lot of people like The Stones and Animals used to come down ...'
Guy Stevens is ensconced in a taxi heading for a friend's flat, where our interview is scheduled to take place. He had arrived at the NME offices half an hour late and roaring drunk, his hand lacerated and bleeding following some sort of incident with a glass door. Apparently, the prospect of being interviewed — at once exhilarating and terrifying — had sent him down to the pub as soon as it opened. He is fifteen years away in time, back when Mod really was mod, back when Guy Stevens had a direct line to R&B central.
'I got all my records mail-order. You sent 'em the money and got the records back within seven days from Stan's Record Store in Shreveport, Louisiana, USA, and it's right down deep in Tennessee . . .'
Wait a second, Guy. How can it be in Tennessee if it's in Louisiana?
'Well, it's somewhere around there. It all started for me when I was eleven years old and the first record I ever heard was "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" by Jerry Lee Lewis and that was the end of my school career. What I did was to start this thing at school where every boy in the school had to pay me a shilling a week — that's 5p — to be a member of my rock and roll club, and I chose the records. We had "Peggy Sue", "That'll Be The Day", Larry Williams' "Bony Maronie", all the hits of the time, Jerry Lee Lewis' "Great Balls Of Fire" . . . and I got expelled for it eventually.
'So I was expelled at fourteen, and I went to work for Lloyd's, the insurance brokers. They thought I was kinda funny. By '63 I had all these records that I'd imported from Stan's Record Store in Shreveport, Louisiana, right? . . . And Peter Meaden came round one night. He was the bloke who formed The Who, and he arranged to bring them round one day with their manager, Kit Lambert.
'And they were really weird. They just stood there. My wife, who I was then living with - we're seperated now - made a cup of tea for each one of them and they still stood still. I played 'em "Rumble" by Link Wray and put it on a tape for them - because by then I'd built up this enormous collection and Steve Marriott and everybody used to come round to get material.
'So The Who were there with Kit Lambert, and he offered me a fiver to make a two-and-a-half-hour tape for them, because Townshend hadn't started writing and they had no material to play on stage. So I played 'em all James Brown stuff, "Pleeeeeeeeeease Pleeeaaase Pleeease" . . .' Hair flying, right there in the cab, Stevens becomes James Brown. 'And I played 'em "Rumble" by Link Wray, which was the classic Pete Townshend record, which he'd never heard before.'
Stevens' mouth begins to emit gigantic, grinding guitar chords and odd flecks of spittle. Demonic possession by a guitar.
'So Townshend, Daltrey, Entwistle and Moon sat there for three hours drinking tea looking like little schoolboys and my poor wife was going, "Would you like another cup of tea" and they're saying, "Uh . . . well ... um ... ah ... dunno," and I'm playing the records going, "Jesus Christl WAKE UP!" I was going through my cabinet where I had all my singles, I had every Motown single, every Stax ... I went to Stax in Memphis in 1963 and they said, "It's just a record shop." I said no, no, you've got a studio and they say, "We're just a record shop." So I went behind the shop and there was the studio where Booker T made "Green Onions". The whole lot, Rufus Thomas . . . and it was the size of this taxi we're sitting in now.'
One visualizes a younger Stevens, mod suit, hair cropped short, ranting and screaming at the bemused counter assistant at Stax, or a young, shy Who clutching cooling teacups while this maniac jumps up and down, hitting them with soul music and screaming ...
'And at Stax I said to them in 1963, "Don't you understand the importance of what you're doing?" I can't tell you enough . . . they were nuts! They thought the record shop was more important than the studio!'
The whole industry thinks shops are more important than studios, though.
'Well, if they think filing cabinets are gonna sell records, then they'd better start selling them now. Records sell because they are made by dedicated people who love to sing and love to play, and that's what it's about. The record companies are full of people who are either secretaries, hangers-on or people who don't know anything about music all thinking, "Well, it's better than working in a bank."'
The cover of a 2004 CD release by Ace Records
From deejaying, scene-making and propagandizing blues, soul and rock and roll, Stevens moved to operating Sue Records as part of the then fledgling Island label. From living off what he made from selling Scene Club tickets at Piccadilly Circus tube station, he graduated to a £15 a week salary from Island. From label administration to production was only one band away.
'What happened was that these guys came down from Carlisle in a van in '65. They were called the VIPs, later to be known as Spooky Tooth, and they were all nutters, all complete maniacs, and they ambushed Island Records at the same time as I did. I was always at total war with Chris Blackwell [then — as now — Island's headman] and ... I can't put him down in a nice way, really. He was always a millionaire dilettante: he had a million anyway so he didn't need to bother, but I never knew this. I had just started the Sue label, and I got Charlie & Inez Foxx, I got James Brown, I got a hell of a lot.
'Sue was formed by a guy called Juggy Murray in New York, and he started the label with Charlie & Inez Foxx's "Mockingbird"; that was Sue 301. I went over to get a record called "The Love Of My Man", which nobody has covered, and I hope Elkie Brooks isn't listening. "The Love Of My Man" by Viola Kilgore. Unbelievable. Un-be-liev-able. Blitzkrieg, out the window, number one, easy. He owned the copyright. Chris went over and offered him $500. Juggy wanted half a million. It got to three in the
American charts; if you check back you'll find it. One of the greatest records I've ever heard in my life.
'I wanted it to be on Sue. The main thing was that I wanted everything good to be on Sue. I wanted Bob Dylan to be on Sue. That was why I started importing records for Island with David Betteridge [now a CBS high-up] and Chris. And it nearly bankrupted Island.'
By now we're established in a luxurious flat belonging to a friend of Guy's. We're drinking coffee and brandy, except that Kosmo Vinyl - acting as Guy's part-time minder on behalf of The Clash — is surreptitiously filching Guy's brandy glass every time it's refilled and drinking it himself. Guy doesn't appear to notice, since every so often he is allowed to take a sip.
We're in '67 now, discussing the first Traffic album 'Dear Mr Fantasy', the getting-it-together-in-a-cottage-in-the-country one with the ghost on the cover. 'I did that cover! I went down to the cottage in Berkshire with them, I did the cover, I did everything!. It sounds terrible to say all this . . . maybe I should say nothing. What do you want me to say?'
'Tell 'im the facts, Guy,' interjects Kosmo from across the room.
'Steve Winwood asked me to come down, said, "I want you to produce Traffic and live with us." So I went down there and it was a bit fairytale, a bit weird. There were some very weird things going on. They were smoking a hell of a lot, and each one of them would come out and say to me,' "Oh God, I can't go on with life" and all this. That was Jim Capaldi. Then Steve Winwood would come out with, "I can't cope! It's all gone too far! It's all too much! We've had a hit single! Oh God!" And then Chris Wood started going, "Oh God! I've had enough!"
'I said, "Hang on, I've just heard this from three people! What is this? Have you all learned it off parrot fashion or what?" I was down there with all my belongings, all my records and everything thinking "Jesus Christ, they're all going mad!” And what they were all going mad over was Steve's girlfriend, but that's definitely another story ...
'But the worst thing that happened between me and Blackwell was the "Whiter Shade Of Pale" incident. He had it on his desk for a week! What happened was this boy I knew called Keith Reid came into the office with these words he'd written. He worked in a solicitors' office for £4.50 a week, and he brought in these words which were vaguely Dylanish, and I told him the words were great and suggested that he got himself to a good songwriter.'
Reid ended up with Gary Brooker and Procol Harum. Chris Blackwell turned the result down, and when it was finally issued elsewhere, it made number one in two weeks flat, became one of the biggest records of '67 and still sells astronomical quantities whenever it's reissued. Guy Stevens had a nervous breakdown.
At the same time, Guy's massive record collection was stolen from his mother's house in 1967, and - to add insult to injury -the thief sold them all off for ninepence each (that's old money. In contemporary currency that would be 3.75p each. Weep!).
'The guy didn't know what he was selling. I had every Miracles record. Every Muddy Waters record. I had every Chess record from 001. Listen! I was at a session with Phil Chess in 1964 with Chuck Berry when he was doing "Promised Land" and "Nadine". I was at the session! I was taking photographs! I got Chuck Berry out of prison! I put tremendous pressure on Pye Records, who had Chess and Checker over here, and the head of the company at the time was Ian Ralfini.
'I put pressure on him to get "Memphis Tennessee" released as a single. It was out as a B-side, with "Let It Rock". They taped all the Chuck Berry tracks off my records! Not from master tapes but from my records! I mean, I may have spat on them or something. You never know what happens, do you? Now you'll know that if your old Chuck Berry records jump or something, it's probably me spitting on them.
'The first thing I actually produced was with Spooky Tooth. It was called "In A Dream" and it built up. All my records build up. Have you noticed that? Now, what I've done with the new Clash album is I've made 'em actually play a bit. I hope that's no offence to anyone . . . they haven't turned into Andy Williams or anything. Actually, I could do a really good Andy Williams. You wanna hear an Andy Williams impression?'
Guy lurches to his feet, something like a slow-motion film of somebody falling over projected in reverse. He approaches the white piano in the corner of the room, punches out a horribly discordant introduction to 'Moon River', saunters to the centre of the room and collapses into a paroxysm of mock sobbing. He chokes out an anguished monologue about Claudine Longet and the death of the ski instructor and then returns cautiously to the sofa.
'That's it. Ask me another question. Now the thing is that these blokes - Spooky Tooth — came down from Carlisle in a van, and they were incredibly heavy, both physically and because they were all taking about 500 blues a week. I loved them. I thought they were incredible and I took Blackwell along to see them. "Spooky Two" was the album. The mixing on that was incredible: that was my engineer Andy Johns. I don't know what happened to him. He's still alive, but he's in America.
'Andy — if you're listening — please come home.' Stevens lurches closer to the cassette microphone and raises his voice. 'You can work with anyone here at any time, but' - confidentially now - 'don't get messed up like you did before.'
And then came Mott The Hoople, and that story starts 'in Wormwood Scrubs. I was doing eight months for possession of drugs and I read this book called Mott The Hoople by Willard Manus.
I wrote to my wife and said, "Keep the title secret." She was my ex-wife, or separated wife, I don't know what they call them, and she wrote back, "Are you joking? Mott The Hoople? That's ridiculous!" Anyway, when I came out of prison Island re-employed me at £20 a week — I went up a fiver — and I've got to admit that Mr Betteridge came and picked me up from the gates of Wormwood Scrubs.
'And then I wanted to have a pee, and he said, "Fuck that, have a pee if you want one, but I'll be two miles down the road." I said, "Wait a minute, I just got out of prisonl Show some sensitivity, for fuck's sake! I don't even know what roads look like any more." So I went for a pee and he drove off, and then finally he said, "Oh, I didn't know you were following us." I only found them because my wife was waving her arms out of the window and yelling…’
Memories cascade out of Stevens, virtually unchecked. He is obviously pissed and ranting, but there is something eerie about his conversation: he appears more medium than raconteur. His voice undergoes startling changes; one moment almost precise, the next moment so alien that it seems as if he is maintaining his grip on the art of speech only by a conscious effort.
He recalls Janis Joplin telling him at the Albert Hall that she was going to overdose within a year. 'She was the kind of girl who would walk into a bar and just take over the whole bar. She'd walk up and . . . "Awwwwwl raht! A-whoooooo's gonna bah me a drank? A-whooooooo's gonna bah me 'nother drank? Whooo's gonna bah me 'nother double drank?"
'Janis Joplin I loved. I loved her music and since her death I've felt funny and tortured about it. If I'd tried . . . when I get really sad I cry at home and play that second track off "I Got Dem 01' Kozmic Blues Again Mama".'
He also remembers a pre-Yardbirds Eric Clapton, dragged up to Guy's den and finding Freddie King albums blaring out at him while Guy banged a hammer on the floor and screamed 'Play, Eric! Play!' while the young fellow tried to hide in a corner.
He moves on to chaotic Mott The Hoople sessions where studios were reduced to rubble.
'I never hit a microphone. Everything else I destroyed. Why? ANGER! I'm just a very angry person. When a group's been sitting there for two weeks without getting anything done, you've got to ... lemme tell you about Hunter. The first time ... I love the fact that he came from a wife and three kids in Archway — changing buses twice — to get to what he thought was some dodgy demo session. He didn't know what it was going to be. The guy at Regent Sound just told him that there was some bloke rambling on about Jerry Lee Lewis and Bob Dylan.
'Ian had a cold and a headache, but he came down and he played "Like A Rolling Stone" and I stopped him and said, "That's it. You're hired. Come by the office tomorrow and pick up your fifteen quid with the rest of the band." He asked what the band was called and I told him Mott The Hoople. He went, "Whaaaaat? Mott The What?"
'He came in the next morning and got his fifteen quid, and then he finally believed. I'd organized everything, set it all up. There was no embarrassment. The only thing I'd like to say on my behalf is that I think David Bowie scored most of the credit rather than me. I'd chosen the name, found the band - because they had to be right, I'd auditioned over seventy bands in a year.
'I knew they had to be right, have the right attitude. Then I saw these blokes lugging an organ up the stairs, and they were really lugging this fucking great organ up the stairs. It was enormous, a Hammond C3 the size of a piano, and I thought, "I don't care what they sound like. They've done it. They got the organ up the stairs."
'What happened was that I made five great albums for Island with Mott and luckily David Bowie picked up on them. That was great. I was really pleased. He saved their lives.
'The actual incident that happened . . . you know "Ballad Of Mott The Hoople"? Well, they disbanded in Zurich, they just said, "Well, see ya when we get off the train." Bowie had heard about this, and he'd based most of his rock thing on Mott, all his rock artistry and all his rock vision. I think if he'd been Ian Hunter, he'd have loved it.
'The real trouble with Ian, though, is that he takes himself so seriously. He takes himself much too seriously.'
Today, Guy Stevens says, 'I never really recovered from Mott The Hoople.' Ask him about the period between 'Brain Capers' (his last Mott album) and 'London Calling' and his reply is simply, 'You're asking about a very mixed-up period of my life.'
He refocuses. 'I never really got over working with Ian Hunter. You've got to realize that ... I think Chrysalis Records are doing a great job, signing him up and . . . the trouble with Ian is really . . .
'HE-E-ELLLLP!' A comic wail of distress masks the real one effectively enough for the conversation not to be derailed.
'Listen, The Clash are really great to work with. I found 'em in '76. I produced demos of the first album, "White Riot" an' all that. This character called Bernie Rhodes who owned a garage in Camden Town and happened to live opposite where they rehearsed ... I was living near there at the time and I wandered in. They were doing "White Riot".'
He launches into his own impromptu performance of the song, spittle flying, hair bouncing, eyes bulging. '"WHITE RIOT!! WANNA RIOT! WHITE RIOT! A RIOT OF MY 0WWWW-WWN!" And I just thought "Right! RIOT! RIGHT! RIOT! Let's goooooooh!"
And then Bernard got very tricky.7
The conversation then saunters into the minefield of The Clash's financial history, a topic over which a discreet veil should be drawn. Suffice it to say that anyone thinking that The Clash's popularity and influence has created a proportionate bulge in their bank accounts is suffering from severe delusions. If anyone's 'turning rebellion into money', it certainly ain't The Clash.
Paul Simonon smashing his bass on the stage of The Palladium in New York City on September 21, 1979 during "The Clash Take the Fifth" US tour. Photo by the legendary Pennie Smith
Which is why we find The Clash in a room in a West London office building winding down after a business meeting. The previous day the 'London Calling' video had been shot in the Battersea drizzle, and an evening's rehearsals have just had to be cancelled because their equipment is still waterlogged and as such unfit for immediate use.
Their single is out and warmly received. Everyone who's heard the album thus far thinks it's marvellous, so everyone's telling their Guy Stevens stories.
Joe Strummer looks like a Ted on his way from a building site to an oldies shop hot on the trail of Jerry Lee Lewis out-takes. Paul Simonon looks like The King Of All The Rudies. Topper Headon looks like a punk rockaaaahhh. Mick Jones looks like Al Pacino in The Godfather.
'I well remember searching through all the pubs in Oxford Street looking for him,' Strummer recalls. 'I found a row of blokes sitting slumped over the bar staring in their beer. I looked down this row and I spotted him because of his woolly hat. I went up to him and tapped him on the shoulder, he looked round and it was like son-finding-father in one of those corny films. He looked up at me and said, "Have a drink."'
'He had a few rucks during the sessions,' Mick Jones chips in. 'He had one with Mister Oberstein [Maurice Oberstein, big boss man at CBS] where he lay in front of Mister Oberstein's Rolls Royce. He had fights with Bill [Price, engineer of That Ilk] . . . why'd he have a fight with you?' he calls over to roadie Baker Glare.
'He threw something of mine across the room,' elucidates Baker.
'We highly recommend him to anybody who wants to make a record,' announces Strummer.
'There was this big pile of chairs,' reminisces Jones, 'all stacked up on top of each other like at school and he rushed out during a take and grabbed for the top chair and they all started to come over, so he pushed them back, then went for the top one, pulled it down and smaaaassssshhl Then he says, "I'm Guy Stevens and this is what I do ... especially when I'm thinking about my mother" and then he starts behaving . . . eccentrically.'
During the sessions, Guy would periodically phone Ian Hunter in the States for pep talks. Guy was telling Hunter that he couldn't go on, and Hunter would tell him to stop pissing about and get on with it. He would hang off the hallway phone for hours while The Clash worked in the studio.
'We paid for the calls. We paid for his minicabs as well. He brought in about a year's worth of minicab slips - every minicab he'd taken since the fifties. We'd told him he could have minicabs in and out, so he brought all these other ones in. One day he hired a bodyguard . . .'
The bodyguard eventually turned out to be a cab-driver who'd come in to get paid when Guy didn't have the cash. He ended up staying at the session for eighteen hours.
The Clash received considerable opposition from CBS when they proposed to use Guy Stevens. 'They hate his guts! They said they wouldn't use him again until he was bankable. We plan to use him again, and we're going to get all of CBS's acts to use him. We're gonna make him their house producer.
'It gives me heart when Guy tells us about his business history,' continues Strummer. 'At least there's someone around who's as bad as us if not worse. All the dreadful, life-wrecking things that've happened to him . . .'
Jones: 'His presence in a studio definitely makes all the difference. It's like all the mess goes to him like Dorian Gray's portrait or whatever. All the messy sound goes and it becomes him, and what's left on the tape is ... clarity.'
Strummer: 'People tend to be afraid of him because he's off the wall, to put it mildly. And they should be. There's a little bit of an act in there, but it's not entirely an act. It puts a lot of people off. They just think, "Christ, get this man home."'
Jones: 'But even when he's unconscious he can still recite his address.'
Apart from applying time-honoured Guy Stevens production techniques such as the Mott furniture-smashing standby . . .
Strummer: 'He invented some new ones for us. Like pouring beer into the piano to make it sound better . . .'
Jones: 'Like blowing the desk up. Like hitting the guitarist with a ladder. All these I could take, but not pouring beer into the piano. I nearly killed him.
Jones: 'He's obsessed with Liam Brady and Arsenal. He always wears his scarf and on the way to every session he goes and stands in the middle of Arsenal football ground and pays the cab to wait for him. And nobody in the group supports Arsenal.'
The Clash unhesitatingly recommend Guy Stevens. Strummer pronounces him 'the ultimate cure for musical constipation'. How would they react to the dictum — oft-voiced by such worthies as PiL and The Stranglers — to the effect that all record producers are parasites.
Strummer grins broadly. 'They should try him. They've never met a parasite like this one before!' And the room explodes into laughter.
It has been ten days since the first interview session with Guy Stevens. Then he had arrived at NME blind drunk and bleeding. Now, he turns up punctual and sober. The shilling-sized flakes of dandruff in his hair have been washed away. He is wearing new sneakers. Suddenly, he's a hero. Suddenly, everyone loves him. He is in ecstasy.
'I'm buying some new jeans as well! I was tremendously unpopular at CBS until this record went in the charts. Now it's "Hel-lo, Guy!" They've all cooled out!
'It's been tremendously refreshing working with The Clash. They've changed a lot since I first knew them in '76. Joe is great, because he always puts you straight if you're out of order. The whole thing happened very naturally. It just worked.'
Throughout his entire involvement with rock and roll, right from that first Jerry Lee Lewis flash more than twenty years ago, Guy Stevens has been lurching and screaming after one thing, one great blinding, deafening rock and roll epiphany.
'Well, the best way of explaining that would be ... there's a quote from Jack Kerouac's On the Road, quite early on — about~ page seven or so — something like "All my life I've been chasing after people who are mad, mad to talk, mad to play .. ." People who want to. And I suppose that applies to rock and roll. I was eleven when I heard"Whole Lotta Shakin'” and I was never the same again. That intensity of feeling. I've seen performances by Jerry Lee Lewis that were just unbelievable. It was when he was at his most unpopular, 200 people in a 2,000-seater, and he played his heart out, and that's always stayed with me.
'That electricity, that manic intensity. It's a kind of madness, not a "mad" madness . . . but like Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise. Chasing, chasing. I've always felt that way about making records. Making a record is an event. Big letters: AN EVENT. It's not just "another session": I hate people with that attitude. It's electricity. It's got to be.
'It may be hard for a company like CBS to accept a concept like this, but I could quite well die while making a record. It's that important. That's why — if it came to it — I could produce anybody.'
Right now, Guy Stevens is out of the dumper with a vengeance. The plan now is to get rid of the booze problem and take advantage of his redeemed credibility to make a lot more records.
'I can't very well afford to take out a small ad in the classifieds, so ... you couldn't print my phone number so that people can get hold of me, could you? It's 699-4999. Ask for Guy.
'Record production a speciality.'