I received a phone call from Denise Mills, who was Chris Blackwell's personal assistant at Island Records and also looked after Steve Winwood and Bob Marley. "I want to know if you'll do a couple of days with Winwood," she said. "I've no idea what he is up to, but evidently he would like to record a track called 'Walk Me to the Lilies' with a friend of his called Mark Miller-Mundy, a neighbor I think. It's Mark who has suggested this song - he describes it as an 'old country song'. Mark will be there himself, by the way, to help out."
Denise knew Steve Winwood well. He had not worked on his own material for the past three years and she was worried that he might not even show up. "But I'm not paying you those Robert Palmer rates you know" she continued. "I'm not even paying you a daily rate, because I don't know how long this idea might last. I'll pay you by the hour - let's say £6.50 an hour."
I turned up at the Fallout Shelter as instructed on Monday the 11th of October at about 2 pm. Steve and Mark arrived and we set up - piano, Hammond, a guitar amp, and a basic rhythm box. Steve then played around with the song, mainly on piano, for about 8 hours and we packed up at about 11 pm. That accounted for the first day, during which Steve had hardly said a word. I was used to some sessions taking a while to get going and was not surprised at Steve's seeming lack of enthusiasm. The next day passed in more or less the same way, although we did get as far as putting a couple of ideas to tape, and Mark had some comments to make. Mark seemed pleasant enough and had that over-politeness and English camp of the born rich. He asked many questions about the desk and studio equipment and was friendly and flattering. By contrast Steve was very quiet - perhaps he didn't want to be in London, didn't like the studio or was not keen on the song, but he never said. He was, as usual, very shy. Steve tried out Mark's ideas, exhibiting very little personal opinion, and again we finished at about 11 pm. We took a day off, meeting at 3 pm on the 14th to continue. We spent another day trying different arrangements and approaches to "Walk Me to the Lilies" but nothing special appeared and by 11:30 pm the session had ground to a halt. Maybe Denise had been right.
Just before leaving for the night, Steve said quietly, "'Walk Me to the Lilies' isn't really for me, but I do have a bunch of ideas that I've been working on. How do you feel like moving out to my home studio, or to the studio at Chipping Norton to try them out?" Mark and I nodded in agreement with this suggestion and, after a short discussion, decided to use Chipping Norton Studios which, as a residential studio, could provide everything necessary to accommodate any other musicians that might become involved. I had worked there before and liked the layout and sound.
Two weeks later, on the 27th, we were in Chipping Norton, working five-day weeks from 2 pm to 3 am each day with a congenial band consisting of John Susswell on drums, Alan Spenner on bass, Brother James on percussion and Junior Marvin (soon to join Bob Marley) on guitar. I was still being paid by Denise at Island, on an hourly basis. The studio was built in an old school house and had a large rectangular studio area which gave a good live sound. Above, and built parallel to the live room, was a small compact control room and various small rooms and offices. There was a maze of corridors that ran the full length of the building and connected two stairwells and, ultimately, the studio to the control room. At the far end of the building there was a large kitchen where the band and staff would eat in the evenings. Outside there was a group of buildings that had been converted into apartments. These, along with the bedrooms in the main building, could accommodate about ten people. We were well looked after by the friendly studio staff and it was an easy and relaxed place to work.
As the band started to run through Steve's songs and ideas, the ambience was good and at times quite magical. While we were recording, Steve said little to anyone and just played, hunched over the Hammond, Fender Rhodes or piano, often wearing a dark blue duffel coat with the hood up. This seemed to accentuate his isolation and made it difficult for the musicians to make any eye contact with him. I had known Steve for almost ten years and we had, during that time, worked on many sessions together including Traffic, Amazing Blondel and more recently Stomu Yamash'ta's GO project. I had become used to Steve's withdrawn and shy manner (although this time he appeared to be more so than usual) and always enjoyed working with him. I regarded him as a very talented musician and singer, and for a long time he had been a hero of mine.
Steve had invited me to stay, while we were working on these sessions, at his imposing stone manor house in the hamlet of Turkdean, about twenty miles away. The main living room of the house was a 30' by 30' old-style stone hall. There was also a cozy sitting room, a small study, a well- equipped kitchen, bathroom, two utility areas and a large access hall. On the first floor, there were four or five bedrooms, some en-suite. During my time here, I only saw two bedrooms and the main stone room. The house was large and had apartments for live-in staff. Outside, in the extensive grounds, there were a collection of timber buildings, including sheds and greenhouses, and two large barns. In one of the barns an impressive home studio had been built, while the other housed Steve's splendid collection of cars - a 1930's Fleetwood Cadillac, two Ferraris, four French sports cars from the '60s, a Mercedes saloon and a Lancia fastback.
Each day Steve would roll out his valuable but delicate Ferrari Dino and after coaxing it to start in the damp and misty Gloucestershire mornings, we would drive the half-hour to Chipping Norton. We traveled down narrow country lanes, barely four inches off the ground, at speeds of over 100 mph. I was sure I was going to die, but my ego consoled me with the thought that at least I would be remembered as the engineer who crashed with Steve Winwood. We never spoke on these journeys, which was hardly surprising. When we arrived I always needed a cup of tea and a joint with Alan Spenner before I felt calm and ready for work.
At night, after sessions and an equally scary drive home, Steve and I would sit in the vast stone room at Turkdean Manor with a blazing fire, until 5 or 6 in the morning, smoking ourselves into a stupor. The room was built from large stone blocks and incorporated massive 7' high leaded windows, heavy oak doors, a carved ingle-nook fireplace and twelve-foot-high ceiling. Fanning out from the fireplace were three large armchairs, a dining table (capable of seating 10) an old sofa and a couple of wooden pews. The wood fire appeared to be going continuously and by the time we arrived home each night it would be stacked with wood and giving off maximum heat. There were four or five large wall hangings and portraits on the walls, and several rugs on the stone floor, to try to make it feel warm and cozy. This had worked to some degree, but near to the outside walls, or by the windows, the room could still feel cold and damp.
We would slump into the vast armchairs with cups of tea and vaguely discuss the day's events, with Steve fading to an inaudible mumbling after about 30 minutes. Steve's appearance was that of an 18th century street urchin, in faded, creased, camel- colored trousers, thick shirt and pullover. Although we spoke very little on these occasions this did not feel awkward or embarrassing - just very laid back and surprisingly comfortable. The only light in the room came from the fire and a candle or two. There was always a strong smell of wood smoke. We would sit quietly, taking it in turns to roll joints and feed the fire, in almost total silence - no music, radio or TV - only the occasional noise from the Gloucestershire wildlife to interrupt a fleeting train of thought.
Back at the studio in Chipping Norton we ran through songs and ideas and the atmosphere was, on the whole, calm, friendly and relaxed. I had worked with most of the musicians before and we had always got on well; Brother James - humorous and friendly, John Susswell - efficient and sharp-edged, Junior Marvin - cool and in control, and Spenner - amusing, mellow, on form and easy going. In contrast, Mark Miller-Mundy could be quite trying in the control room with his constant stream of questions and he tested my patience on many occasions. He had a bizarre way of describing sounds or giving directions to the musicians and came out with a few wonderful requests. On the evening of the 31st October, while recording the song "Vacant Chair" (with its chorus of "Oku U Suku Nuku" - African for "only the dead weep for the dead") he had, in all seriousness, asked me to make the tom toms sound like blancmange.
A few years later I was working with Marianne Faithful, also at Chipping Norton, with Mark Miller- Mundy producing. During the previous weeks recording, Mark had confused the band with his inane comments and contradictory requests. One evening, while the band took a break, Mark had inexplicably re- tuned the drums and fiddled with equipment, causing anger and chaos within the band. Morale was low. Late the following night, after another day of mayhem, Marianne and I spent a couple of hours discussing Mark - what he was like to work with, his attitude and unusual approach. I thought Mark was nervous and self indulgent, Marianne thought he was an arsehole. She had known and worked with him for far longer than I had, and I took her word for it. "You know" she said, "last week he asked the band to play like lemmings falling over a cliff. Where's that at?"
By the 12th of November 1976, Steve Winwood had ten tracks recorded. Some, like "Vacant Chair" and "Time is Running Out" were almost complete, while others, including "Hotel Blues" and "Luck's In" remained as unfinished ideas. There was easily enough material for an album, and many of the songs had that fragile, "Traffic" feel to them. Then one morning we got a call from Denise. "Hi Phill, Chris Blackwell's in town - he just got in from the States. He wants to come out and listen to what you're doing. Can we arrange it for later today?"
I ran off some rough stereo mixes in the afternoon, and that evening, after a supper of pasta, a few bottles of red wine and mountains of garlic bread, we had a playback for Chris in the control room. Some of the band, along with Steve, Mark and myself, now squeezed into this small room, and giving CB the only comfortable chair and "the best audio position in the house", we played the results of our two or three weeks' work. At the end of the playback, the band members left for "last orders" at the pub. This left just Steve, Mark, Chris, and me in a haze of blue cigarette smoke that the air-conditioning was frantically trying to deal with. Chris turned to Steve and said "I think it's great. You should re-record it with Andy Newmark and Willy Weeks."
"How do you mean?" asked Steve defensively.
"Well, you know" said Chris, pushing forward as usual, "the songs are really good and I think that the rhythm section of Willy Weeks and Andy Newmark would be excellent – Just what the tracks need."
"Oh..., well.... Okay..." said Steve, with surprising lack of emotion. "We can give it a try."
As usual very little was discussed about the situation, although later that evening, after Chris had left, someone did remark "If it's so great, why do we have to do it all again?" I for one felt a little fazed, but this feeling of slight resentment soon faded and we all accepted the idea. Chris had a good feel for music and his ideas were usually successful and, after all, he was the boss. Chris had seemed genuinely pleased that Steve was working on his own material again.
We packed up at Chipping Norton and headed home, taking a few weeks off to allow Denise time to arrange the new sessions.
Next issue, Steve and Phill finish the album... eventually.
Phill's amazing studio memoir, Are We Still Rolling?, has stories about recording Hendrix, the Stones, Zeppelin, and countless other icons.
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