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Summary
Summary
The hitmakers behind Elvis Presley's "Hound Dog" and "Jailhouse Rock" recount their rise to songwriting stardom while authoring the classic American R&B sound of countless chart-topping singles.
In 1950 a couple of rhythm and blues-loving teenagers named Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller met for the first time. They discovered their mutual affection for R&B and, as Jerry and Mike put it in this fascinating autobiography, began an argument that has been going on for over fifty years with no resolution in sight.
Leiber and Stoller were still in their teens when they started working with some of the pioneers of rock and roll, writing such hits as "Hound Dog," which eventually became a #1 record for Elvis Presley. Jerry and Mike became the King's favorite songwriters, giving him "Jailhouse Rock" and other #1 songs. Their string of hits with the Coasters, including "Yakety Yak," "Poison Ivy," and "Charlie Brown," is a part of rock 'n' roll history. They founded their own music label and introduced novel instrumentation into their hits for the Drifters and Ben E. King, including "On Broadway" and "Stand by Me." They worked with everyone from Phil Spector to Burt Bacharach and Peggy Lee. Their smash musical Smokey Joe's Café became the longest-running musical revue in Broadway history.
Lively, colorful, and irreverent, Hound Dog describes how two youngsters with an insatiable love of good old American R&B created the soundtrack for a generation.
Author Notes
Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller first met in Los Angeles in 1950, moved to New York in 1957, and returned to L.A. in 1989, where they each still reside. They were inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1985 and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1987.
David Ritz has written books with, among others, Marvin Gaye, Ray Charles, Aretha franklin, B.B. King, Smokey Robinson, Etta James, Grandmaster Flash, and Paul Shaffer. He also co-wrote the song "Sexual Healing" with Marvin Gaye and Odell Brown.
Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
The golden days of rock 'n' roll flit by in this sprightly memoir by the celebrated songwriting duo. A couple of Jewish kids with a passion for black music, Leiber and Stoller started out as teenagers writing blues ballads, penned such early, genre-defining rock classics as "Hound Dog" and "Stand by Me," then conceived a midlife obsession with aging chanteuse Peggy Lee, for whom they wrote and produced an album of ruminative torch songs. Along the way, they went through iconic music-biz rites of passage: hanging with Elvis; working at the Brill Building; getting into financial disputes with Phil Spector, Atlantic Records and the Mafia. As arranged by collaborator Ritz, the authors harmonize well in their alternating reminiscences; Stoller is the more reflective one, while the best anecdotes belong to the brash Leiber, who was challenged to a drag race by James Dean, choked by Norman Mailer and forced to trade his car for a pair of shoes. There's not a lot of deep insight into the creative process-the authors seem to have written most of their songs on 15 minutes' notice-just vignettes from pop music's giddy youth, short and sweet and catchy. Photos. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
The snappy, oral-history-style dual autobiography of Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, who brought Brill Building patter and production values to R&B chart supremacy in the early 1950s, probably owes much of its zing to longtime celebrity biographer and with author David Ritz. Their story appears in alternating blocks headed Leiber or Stoller, which can't help suggesting the call-and-response structure of two of their hits for the Coasters, Charlie Brown and Yakety Yak, songs that lightheartedly sketched urban teen predicaments. Leiber and Stoller scored as big commercially as songwriters could at the time through their association with Elvis (they penned Jailhouse Rock and Hound Dog ), but their arguably best songs were hits for black performers, including Ben E. King ( Stand by Me ), the Drifters ( There Goes My Baby ), and Big Mama Thornton ( Hound Dog before Elvis whitened it up). Celebrated today mostly as R&B and rock hitmakers, in their extended heyday, they also wrote for MOR pop stars, jazz artists (Peggy Lee's Is That All There Is? ), and anybody who needed a well-crafted song.--Tribby, Mike Copyright 2009 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
FOR much of their career, Jerry Leiber (words) and Mike Stoller (music) specialized in coming up with songs that sounded almost unwritten, as if they had popped into being straight out of the oral blues tradition. This is the illusion they managed to pull off with "Searchin'," "Ruby Baby," "Kansas City" and many others. From an early age they loved the blues, and their main goal was to create what they considered to be authentic black music. In "Hound Dog: The Leiber and Stoller Autobiography," Leiber bluntly describes their mind-set: "We were two guys looking to write songs for black artists with black feelings rendered in black vernacular." In the 1950s and '60s, they wrote hits for black artists like Willie Mae (Big Mama) Thornton, the Coasters, the Drifters and Ben E. King, but their songs also did the job for white performers like Elvis Presley and Dion. Considered disposable when they first came out, Leiber-Stoller songs have proved hardy, having been recorded or performed by a variety of singers and groups, including James Brown, Perry Como, the Beatles, Little Richard, Peggy Lee, Hank Snow, Frank Sinatra, Joni Mitchell, Danzig, Loudon Wainwright III, Donna Summer and Bjork. "Hound Dog" tells the Leiber-Stoller story in a straightforward, conversational manner. The third co-author is David Ritz, who has collaborated on memoirs with Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin and Don Rickles, among others. In what may be the best thing he has written, "Divided Soul: The Life of Marvin Gaye," Ritz didn't have to worry about pleasing his subject: the book started out as a collaborative venture, only to end up an unauthorized biography after Gaye was shot dead by his own father. "Hound Dog" is a coupla white guys swapping stories, with Leiber and Stoller serving as dual narrators. In the first pages, Leiber is a kid from a Yiddish-speaking household in Baltimore. At the age of 9 he smokes Old Golds. Neighborhood toughs pick a fight with him, shouting, "Jewboy, get that Jewboy!" as police officers look on, doing nothing. Stoller spends his childhood in Sunnyside, Queens. He rides the subway and bus to take piano lessons from the boogiewoogie great James P. Johnson. In the mid-to-late '40s, the families of both budding songwriters move to Los Angeles. Jerry Leiber, left, and Mike Stoller, 1988. I love autobiographies that chart a slow, difficult rise. This isn't one of them. The boys score a songwriting contract soon after meeting each other at 17, and the book chugs through encounters with Elvis Presley, the wreck of the Andrea Doria (Stoller was a passenger) and a night when Norman Mailer puts Leiber in a chokehold at Elaine's restaurant on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Here and there I found myself arguing with the text, suspicious of the narrators' reliability. It's 1952, and Leiber and Stoller are rising hotshots in the Los Angeles scene. The bandleader Johnny Otis asks them to come up with something for his singer, Big Mama Thornton. Here is how Leiber describes the writing of "Hound Dog": "We ran back to Mike's house on Norton - he was still living with his folks - and knocked out a song in a matter of minutes. It happened like lightning. We knew, as they say in the South, that this dog would hunt." For the song that gives the book its title, all we get is a string of clichés. The story goes on to chronicle the recording session, during which Leiber objects to Thornton's vocal approach. She's crooning, he says, rather than belting it out. They have a testy exchange, and he sings the song himself, to show her how it's done. At this point Stoller takes over the narrative: "Big Mama heard how Jerry was singing the thing. She heard the rough-and-tough of the song and, just as important, the implicit sexual humor. In short, she got it." Thornton's account is much different. In an interview included on the album "Leavin' Chicago," she says she did "Hound Dog" in one take and credits the guitarist Pete Lewis for establishing the feel. In another interview, with the music writer Ralph Gleason, she said: "They were just a couple of kids then. . . . I started to sing the words and join in some of my own. All that talkin' and hollerin' - that's my own." "Hound Dog" doesn't mention Thornton's account, but it does take issue with Otis, who was listed as the third writer of "Hound Dog" in its first pressings. Stoller goes out of his way to state that Otis was "not a writer of the song," italics his. Otis made the case for his "Hound Dog" contribution in a 2000 interview: "Parts of it weren't really acceptable. I didn't like that reference to chicken and watermelon, said, 'Let's get that . . . out of there.' . . . Then Elvis Presley made it a megahit, and they got greedy. They sued me in court. They won, they beat me out of it." The alleged presence of "chicken" and "watermelon" in the original lyric, as well as other complications, goes unmentioned in "Hound Dog." A huge song on the Leiber-Stoller résumé is Ben E. King's "Stand by Me," which hit No. 4 on the Billboard pop charts during its initial 1961 release and reached No. 9 on its 1986 rerelease, timed to the Rob Reiner movie of the same name. Its writers are listed as King-Glick, with Glick standing for "Elmo Glick," a Leiber-Stoller pseudonym. In the "Hound Dog" version of how "Stand by Me" came about, Stoller recalls "arriving at our office as Jerry and Ben were working on lyrics for a new song." His own contribution to "Stand by Me," he remembers, was the bass line. But Stoller's version doesn't line up with two earlier accounts of the song's genesis. In "Always Magic in the Air," Ken Emerson's well-reported history of the New York-based songwriters of the early '60s, the author reports that King sat at the piano and played "Stand by Me" at the end of a session, after Leiber and Stoller asked him if he had another song. Not taking a side on the issue of credit, Emerson writes that King drew on old gospel music "to compose" the song, but he also refers to "Stand by Me" as "Leiber, Stoller and King's." In another recent book, "1001 Songs: The Great Songs of All Time and the Artists, Stories and Secrets Behind Them," by Toby Creswell, King, quoted at length, describes having written "Stand by Me" before the session. "The song more or less wrote itself," King said, adding that he had rehearsed it with the Drifters and that "they liked it very much." In "Hound Dog," Leiber gives short shrift to King's contribution and elevates his partner's role: "The lyrics are good, King's vocal is great. But Mike's bass line pushed the song into the land of immortality. Believe me - it's the bass line." It's worth noting that one-third of "Stand by Me" is a valuable thing. BMI reports that it was the fourth-most-played song on American radio and TV in the 20th century. Collaboration is a messy business. So is autobiography. But it shouldn't be forgotten that Leiber and Stoller were among the pioneers who helped bring black and white musical forms together. It has been a historically fraught process, but the collision of cultures is probably what has given such energy and tension to American music. "Hound Dog" is an important part of that story. 'We were two guys looking to write songs for black artists with black feelings rendered in black vernacular.' Jim Windolf is a contributing editor at Vanity Fair.
Kirkus Review
A revealing, accessible career overview of two of rock 'n' roll's primary architects. With conversational prose as rhythmic as the music and language in their well-known compositions, Leiber and Stoller continue their creative partnership in this collaborative autobiography. The songwriting giants behind hits like "Hound Dog" "Poison Ivy," "Yakety Yak" and "Love Potion No. 9" trade remembrances and anecdotes in a call-and-response reflection on their professional and, to a lesser extent, personal lives. Born in Baltimore and Queens, N.Y., respectively, Leiber and Stoller discovered an abiding love for black rhythm-and-blues music as youngsters. Stoller learned structure from legendary pianist James P. Johnson, and Leiber absorbed the street language of the Puerto Rican and African-American kids on his block. The pair met in Los Angeles in 1950 and sold their first song as teenagers. Soon they were writing hits for the Drifters, the Coasters and Ben E. King, among others. In 1952 they penned the multimillion-selling "Hound Dog," originally recorded by Big Mama Thornton and then popularized by Elvis. Yet the book makes it clear that Leiber and Stoller were never great businessmen. In fact, they don't seem to mind that they were bilked out of $18,000 by the notoriously crooked Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records. The authors also recount forgettable experiences with the likes of Colonel Tom Parker and a young, arrogant Phil Spector. As the nature of the industry changed in the mid-'60s, Leiber and Stoller's attempts to adapt to the new musical climate met with limited success. They reluctantly pay lip service to the world-changing onslaught of Beatlemaniathe Fab Four weren't "funky" enough for Leiberbut they never hit upon why their currency was waning: The biggest rock acts of the dayDylan, the Beatles and the Stones, to name a fewwere self-sufficient hit makers. The reign of the Leiber-and-Stollerstyle Brill Building songwriter was all but over by the late '60s. Informative and opinionateda treasure trove for fans of rock music. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
In a conversational style, first Leiber and then Stoller (with Ritz, who has cowritten books with Etta James, Don Rickles, Ray Charles, and others) narrate their long collaborative history. They met in Los Angeles as teenagers and became a songwriting team for Charles Brown; Willie Mae "Big Mama" Thornton, who first recorded "Hound Dog"; Elvis Presley (who altered the lyrics to "Hound Dog" to Leiber and Stoller's irritation); the Coasters; the Drifters; and Peggy Lee; among others. The musicians wrote over 75 top 100 songs, including "Is That All There Is?," "Jailhouse Rock," "Kansas City," and "Spanish Harlem." The book includes lyrics and appendixes on the songs and productions. Verdict: A fun read that will engross fans of pop-music songwriters and 20th-century pop, jazz, or rock music in general. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 2/15/09.]-Bruce R. Schueneman, Texas A&M Univ. Lib., Kingsville (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
11 In the King's Court Stoller I guess it must have been in April of '57 that we met Colonel Parker for the first time. It happened over dinner at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Jean Aberbach was the conduit. "The Colonel wants to see you in person before you meet Elvis," said Jean. "Is this an audition?" I asked. "The Colonel is very careful about who he lets into Elvis's circle." "I'm very careful about who I have dinner with," said Jerry. Jean didn't laugh. "Just be on your best behavior," he told us both. Leiber Of course, the Colonel wasn't really a colonel. He was Thomas A. Parker, whose former job as a carnival barker defined his personality. He had a definite shtick ("Pick a number from one to ten"). He told dozens of canned jokes. I can't remember any of them except that they weren't funny. But it didn't matter that we didn't laugh, because the Colonel wasn't really conscious of us. Of course, he knew we were the songwriters of "Hound Dog" and the new songs for Jailhouse Rock . He knew more hit songs for Elvis meant more money for him. Beyond that, though, he was more interested in putting on his own show than getting to know us. He had his long cigar and his confected Southern accent. He was fat and smart and a nonstop talker whose ego was always on parade. He told us in great detail all he had done for Elvis -- and all he intended to do. "Elvis," he said, "is going to be bigger than the president, bigger than the pope." Naturally we agreed. Stoller The Colonel had the kind of energy that sucked all the air out of the room, even the dining room at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I had little interest in the man. Elvis was the guy we were eager to meet. The session was due to start later that week. Leiber My heterosexual credits have long been established, so I can comfortably say that the first thing that hit me when I walked into the recording studio and found myself standing next to Elvis Presley was his physical beauty. Far more than his pictures, his actual presence was riveting. He had a shy smile and quiet manner that were disarming. All this happened at Radio Recorders Annex, the same studio where Big Mama had recorded "Hound Dog" back in August of 1952. Elvis wanted us there to produce the songs for the soundtrack we'd written for him. Stoller It's important to remember that on the day we met Elvis, he was twenty-two and we were twenty-four. We were contemporaries. Remember, too, that Jerry and I shared the uppity view that he and I were among the few white guys who knew about the blues. In the first five minutes of conversation with Elvis, we learned we were dead wrong. Elvis knew the blues. He was a Ray Charles fanatic and even knew that Ray had sung our song "The Snow Is Falling." In fact, he knew virtually all of our songs. There wasn't any R&B he didn't know. He could quote from Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup, B.B. King, and Big Bill Broonzy. Leiber When it came to the blues, Elvis knew his stuff. He may not have been conversant about politics or world history, but his blues knowledge was almost encyclopedic. Mike and I were blown away. In fact, the conversation got so enthusiastic that Mike and Elvis sat down at the piano and started playing four-handed blues. He definitely felt our passion for the real roots material and shared that passion with all his heart. Just like that, we fell in love with the guy. "Let's get started," Elvis said. "Let's cut some records." We jumped right into "Jailhouse Rock." The initial idea was just to show up at the studio to meet Elvis. But, as naturally as the winter turns to spring, we found ourselves in charge of the session. We were producing the guy. Mike worked out the arrangement with Elvis's band -- Bill Black on upright bass, Scotty Moore on guitar, D.J. Fontana on drums, and Dudley Brooks on piano. As far as the vocals went, I was amazed to see that Elvis was happy to hear me sing the song with what I considered the right attitude. He was following my vocal cues. Stoller Elvis was completely open and never acted like a diva. When it was time to do the actual recording, Jerry was in the control booth and I stayed on the floor. I played piano on one cut, and Jerry, with his unique style of body language, conducted Elvis's vocals. The other thing that amazed us was that no one was rushing us to get through. During a recording session, Jerry and I were used to watching the clock. The musicians' union allowed four songs in three hours or you got into the dreaded overtime. On Elvis's sessions, though, those restrictions were lifted. The Jordanaires (Elvis's backup vocal quartet), the guys in the band and Elvis's paid companions (the so-called Memphis Mafia) would order lunch -- peanut butter sandwiches and orange pop -- while the clock kept ticking. Sometimes we'd do two or three takes on a song; sometimes up to twenty-five. And yet, even in this relaxed atmosphere, by evening time we'd cut three songs. At the end of the day, Elvis was as high on the music as Jerry and I. That was a Wednesday. Elvis didn't show up at the studio on Thursday, but he was back on Friday to do the fourth song, "(You're So Square) Baby I Don't Care." Leiber The fourth song was the most fun because by then Elvis was deep into our producing style. Our style wasn't anything more than being loose and having fun. Elvis's initial shyness had totally melted away and he was completely in the spirit of the music. He actually picked up an electric bass and kicked off the intro to "Baby I Don't Care." It also pleased me no end that even when I thought we had a perfect vocal take, Elvis would want to do another -- and then another. Each one would be better. He was digging deep and coming up with great new ammunition. On our final day at Radio Recorders, when we had all gotten friendly and were listening to the playbacks, Elvis was slapping us on the back and telling us we were the baddest cats in town. A couple of the guys from MGM dropped by and listened as well. Elvis was singing our praises when one of the men -- he might have been the casting director -- looked at me and said, "He looks like a piano player." "He's not," said Elvis. "That's Leiber. Leiber writes the lyrics." "Well, he still looks like a piano player," the casting director repeated. "The piano player's over there," said Elvis, pointing to Mike. "He writes the music." "How 'bout if we get Leiber to play the part of the piano player in the movie?" asked the casting director. "All he has to do is run his fingers over the keys. Any fool can do that." "Thank you," I said, "for the vote of confidence. But Mike 's the piano player." "No, you go ahead, Jerry," said Mike in his customarily generous manner. "This is your big break. I don't want to deny you your screen debut." So it was set: Jailhouse Rock , starring Elvis Presley and introducing Jerry Leiber. Stoller On the morning that filming was to begin, Jerry called me. "I got a problem. I can't make it," he said. "Why?" I asked. "I'm dying." "Well, dying is definitely a problem. What's wrong, Jer?" "A toothache from hell. You gotta replace me." "But they want you ," I reminded him. "They'll never know the difference." When I got to MGM Studios, they told me to shave off my goatee. "It's a scene stealer," they said. I showed up on the soundstage, went to wardrobe, where they put me in a Hawaiian shirt. I ended up in all the scenes where Elvis sang with the band. I never uttered a word. I wasn't allowed to. Because I wasn't in the Screen Actors Guild, I couldn't talk on screen. Naturally, Elvis was the focus of attention. You couldn't help but notice his naturalness and ease as an actor. Yet, on at least one occasion, I noticed something else: his underlying insecurity. It happened when Elvis walked through an area where the extras and bit-part players were sitting around. As he passed by, someone told a joke and everyone began to laugh. Elvis wheeled around and angrily said, "I bet you think you're really hot." He had thought they were laughing at him. They weren't. I know; I was there. Elvis walked away, mumbling. One day he approached me as we were leaving the set. "Mike," he said, "I want you to write me a real pretty ballad." "I'll get right on it." That was on a Friday. Saturday morning, Jerry and I got together and wrote "Don't." On Sunday, we got Young Jessie of the Flairs to sing the demo in an Elvis-like mode. (Jessie had recently substituted for Leon Hughes on the Coasters' recordings of "Searchin'" and "Young Blood.") I brought "Don't" to Elvis on the set that Monday. He liked it, recorded it, and by January of the following year -- 1958 -- it hit #1, only three months after "Jailhouse Rock" had also gone to the top. You'd think we'd be heroes. But in the court of the King, it didn't work that way. Leiber I get a call from Freddy Bienstock. "What is your partner doing giving a song to Elvis Presley?" he asks. Freddy sounds enraged. "Has Elvis decided to stop singing?" I ask. "No, that's not the point." Now Freddy's yelling. "Freddy," I say, "what's the problem, man? Did Elvis hate the song?" "No, the problem is that he likes it." "That's a problem?" I ask. "It is when we don't have a contract. Nothing's written down. You just don't hand a song to Elvis without a contract. In fact, you don't hand a song to Elvis at all. You hand a song to me or to Jean Aberbach. Then we get the business straight first." "Well, when Mike and I wrote the song, we presumed the business would be the same as all business with Elvis. The Colonel is going to demand that Elvis and the Aberbachs own the publishing rights, right?" "Right." "And we'll give them the publishing rights, just like before. So again I ask the question: what's the problem?" "It's a question of procedure. The Colonel hates it when anyone goes behind his back." "Mike didn't go behind his back. Mike 's a straight shooter. Mike 's the original straight shooter. Elvis asked him to write a ballad for him and we did. Beginning and end of story." "You still don't get it." "Maybe I don't want to get it, Freddy. But it really doesn't matter because Elvis has the ballad he asked for. And he'll have another hit. And all's well that ends well." "If only it were that easy." "It is, man," I say. "Believe me, it is." Stoller Another critical Colonel moment came during the shooting of Jailhouse Rock . After a long day on the soundstage, Elvis invited me back to the Beverly Wilshire, where he was staying. He'd had a pool table set up in his suite. "Wanna shoot a game?" Elvis asked me. "Sure," I said. This was after he'd recorded our four songs for the soundtrack and after I'd given him "Don't." At this point Elvis was a big Leiber and Stoller fan and was telling everyone we were his "good luck charms." "Whenever I record," he said, "I want you guys in the studio. You're the guys who make the magic." Music to my ears. Elvis's companions, the Memphis Mafia, were all there. They were drinking Cokes and waiting for their turn at the pool table. On the radio, the DJ was playing "Ruby Baby," a song we'd written for the Drifters. Elvis was actually singing along with the record: I've got a gal and Ruby is her name Ruby Ruby Ruby Baby She don't love me, but I love her just the same Ruby Ruby Ruby Baby Ruby Ruby how I want ya Like a ghost I'm gonna haunt ya Ruby Ruby, when will you be mine "Hey, Mike," said Elvis, "how do you guys write all these great songs?" "Well, Elvis," I said, "we just kinda sit down and jam." "It's amazing to me. I guess I just ain't much of a writer." "You don't have to write songs. You're Elvis." With that, Elvis gave me one of those gosh-darn expressions. At that point in his career, he was still humble. As our game went on, I was taking careful aim at the nine ball, trying to sink it and not scratch. I looked up for a second and suddenly there was no one in the room but me. Where the hell had everyone gone? A couple of minutes went by. When Elvis returned, his head was down and his demeanor totally changed. "I'm really sorry, Mike," he said, "but you're gonna have to leave. The Colonel came in and he doesn't want anyone here but me and the guys." "Okay," I said, not wanting to make any more trouble. And with that, I left. The next day at the shoot I mentioned the incident to one of Elvis's Memphis buddies. "Don't take it personally, Mike," he said. "It's just that the Colonel doesn't want Elvis to develop a friendship with anyone but us." Leiber A couple of months after Jailhouse Rock wrapped, Mike and I were still living in LA when we got a frantic call from Freddy Bienstock. "Elvis is cutting a Christmas album," he said, "and they're a song short. He wants you guys to write something for him." "When?" "Today." Next thing I know, Mike and I are driving over to Radio Recorders on Santa Monica Boulevard. When we walk in, Elvis is all smiles. "My good luck charms are back!" He 's beaming. The Colonel is scowling. "You got the song?" the Colonel wants to know. "We just got the call," I say. "Write me something good," says Elvis. "Write it right now," says the Colonel. Mike and I go into a mixing room where there 's an upright piano in the corner. "You know what, Mike," I say. "Let's not screw around with anything overly inventive. Let's write this guy a straight-up, no-nonsense twelve-bar blues with a Christmas lyric. What do you say?" "Okay by me." I start singing: Hang up your pretty stockings And turn off the light 'Cause Santa Claus is coming down your chimney tonight It takes us about fifteen minutes. When we come back into the studio, I say, "Okay, we got it." "What took you so long?" the Colonel asks. "Writer's block," I say. The Colonel doesn't laugh and the Colonel doesn't smile when we run down the song for Elvis. I know the Colonel thinks it's too bluesy and too black, but just before he can say anything, the King speaks out. "Now that's what I call a goddamn great Christmas song!" he tells the Colonel. "I told you these guys would come through." And with that, Elvis proceeds to sing the shit out of it. He does it in just a couple of takes. When he's through, he puts his arms around me and Mike and says, "Whenever I record, you guys are gonna be with me." For me, "Santa Claus Is Back in Town" lives on as one of Elvis's great blues performances. It took him back to his Beale Street roots, a place where he was always comfortable. Stoller Given Elvis's enthusiasm for our work, I wasn't surprised that we got a call from Jean Aberbach inviting us to his LA office, which was housed in a big home on Hollywood Boulevard. "The Colonel wants to manage you," he said. "We 're unmanageable," Jerry was quick to retort. "Everyone knows that." "This isn't a joke," Aberbach insisted. "I wasn't joking," said Jerry. "We don't need management." "Is that how you feel, Mike?" asked Aberbach. "Absolutely." "The Colonel feels he can do great things for your career," said Aberbach, "and he'd like you to sign these contracts." He handed us blank pieces of paper with only a signature line. "Are you kidding?" we asked. "No," Jean answered. "The Colonel said we can fill it in later, but basically it's a matter of mutual trust." The Colonel got over our rejection of his offer. We knew that because we got a call late in 1957 that Elvis wanted more Leiber and Stoller songs. By then Jerry and I had made a permanent move to New York -- more on that shortly -- and went back to the Coast for a series of meetings. The first was with Ben Hecht, the great Hollywood screenwriter, who had written, among many important works, Notorious for Alfred Hitchcock and The Front Page . Hecht had been in touch with us about an idea of Jerry's, a musical based on Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves . Despite the week we spent with him at his beach home in Oceanside, California, the project never materialized. Welcome to Hollywood. The second reason we had returned to LA was Elvis. He wanted us to write songs for his new movie, King Creole . It was based on Harold Robbins's novel A Stone for Danny Fisher , and the screenplay suggested some real substance. We submitted four songs -- "King Creole," "Trouble," "Steadfast, Loyal and True," and "Dirty Dirty Feeling." Elvis liked all four. ("Dirty Dirty Feeling" was dropped from the score, but two years later, when Elvis got out of the army, he remembered the tune and recorded it.) We worked in the studio with Elvis and, just like the Jailhouse Rock sessions, the rapport was good and the atmosphere relaxed. The Colonel may have been resentful that we turned down his offer for management, but when Elvis was happy -- and whenever we were around, he seemed happy -- the Colonel wasn't about to complain. Leiber I was in New York. It was a rainy winter night and I found myself in a little cabaret. Cy Coleman, a wonderful pianist and classy composer -- he wrote "Witchcraft" for Sinatra and Broadway shows like Sweet Charity -- had hipped me to the place. The crowd was showbizzy with a jazzlike edge. The chick singer that night also had an edge. I ordered a double Maker's Mark and found a small table by the bandstand. When she sang Cole Porter's "Let's Do It," I couldn't help but take it personally. She was looking right at me -- and real good. After her set she joined me. "I know who you are," she said. "How?" "I like the Coasters, I like Ruth Brown. And I love Big Mama Thornton. I look at the labels and notice the writers. Plus, Cy Coleman is crazy about you. He pointed you out last week." "I'm flattered." "I'm flattered that you stayed to hear me sing." "It was a pleasure." "Well, Jerry, it would give me pleasure if you hung around for another set and then let me take you to a very hot party over on the East Side. There 'll be all sorts of people there." "I like all sorts of people," I said. "Then we're on." "We sure as hell are." As she sang her last set, I was in heaven. Nothing is more exciting than knowing -- or at least believing -- that you're going to get laid. Especially when you don't have to work for it. And on this stormy night, this gal was doing all the work. After her last song was sung, she came to my table, took me by the arm, led me to the hatcheck girl, where she got my overcoat and Borsalino, slipped into her mink jacket, led the way to the street and hailed a cab. When we arrived at a swanky address on Sixty-second Street on the Upper East Side, she paid for the cab. Another bonus. A white-gloved doorman directed us to the party in the penthouse. When the elevator door opened, I was about a foot away from Gary Cooper. The singer winked at me. "Welcome to the party," she whispered. "Have yourself a ball." She was the kind of cool chick who could handle herself in such a glamorous setting. She wandered off her way and I wandered off mine. I tried not to gawk at Cary Grant and Claudette Colbert standing with drinks in their hands in front of a floor-to-ceiling window and chatting intimately, the neon city blazing below. If that was Marlene Dietrich on a loveseat in the living room, well, so be it. I went to the bar and got another double bourbon. I examined the Cubist paintings on the walls. "Jerry," said the singer who had found me. "I'd like you to meet Charlie Feldman." Charlie Feldman was a big-time film producer. "Glad to meet you, Leiber," he said. "I admire the work you and Stoller have done with Elvis." "Thanks." "In fact, I've been looking for you guys. It's providential that we're meeting here. Do you know Nelson Algren's A Walk on the Wild Side ?" "I think Algren's a great writer." "Well, I think the book would make a great movie. I just bought the film rights. My idea is this -- Elia Kazan directs, Budd Schulberg writes the adaptation, Elvis stars, and Leiber and Stoller write the score. What do you think?" "I love it." "Will you bring it to Elvis?" "Gladly." When I turned around to thank the singer for introducing me to Feldman, she was gone. I looked around. I caught a glimpse of her just leaving the party with Dietrich. She waved to me and said, "I hope it works out, Jerry." "For you too, baby!" And with that, I blew her a kiss. Stoller When Jerry came back with the idea about Elvis in A Walk on the Wild Side , I flipped. It was a natural, a perfect vehicle for Elvis to expand his acting chops and a great opportunity for us to write a really hip score. We set an appointment with Jean Aberbach and his brother Julian at their office in the Brill Building. We just knew how excited they'd be. Jerry pitched the idea. "We 're talking about a Kazan-Schulberg collaboration," he said, "the same team that did On the Waterfront for Brando. This is exactly the career move that will take Elvis to another level. He's a natural. He just needs brilliant material, a great director, and some real training." "I'll have to speak to the Colonel about this, of course," said Jean. "I'll call him right away. Would you boys mind waiting outside for a few minutes?" We waited for what seemed an eternity. We wondered what sort of reward or praise would be showered upon us for bringing in this fabulous prize. Finally, we were summoned back into the office. Jean was stern when he said, "The Colonel has asked me to inform you that if you two ever try to interfere in the career of Elvis Presley again, you'll never work in Hollywood, New York, or anywhere else." And with that, the project was over before it started. The Colonel had no interest in gambling on anything arty. His golden goose was going to lay the same egg, over and over. Don't mess with a proven formula. Leiber Despite our attempts to upgrade Elvis's film career, we were not banished. In fact, every time Elvis went into the studio we'd get a call from Bienstock or Jean Aberbach saying that the King wanted us there. Even though we always wanted to work with Elvis, there came a time when it wasn't possible. I was walking down MacDougal Street in the Village when suddenly I passed out. A good Samaritan cab driver scooped me up off the street and tried to get me into a hospital, but five different ones turned him down until he finally found a place in Harlem willing to give me a bed. I was there for over a week. Turned out I had walking pneumonia. I was too weak to tell anyone what had happened. But as far as Mike knew, I had fallen off the face of the earth. When I finally got back to my apartment on Washington Place, a pile of Western Union telegrams was waiting for me. All of them said, "Jerry, Elvis is going to record. You and Mike must fly to LA immediately. The Colonel." I called Tom Parker and explained that I had just gotten out of the hospital. The Colonel said, "Some California sunshine is just what the doctor ordered." "Well, Tom, I'd like to be there. I'll call my doctor and call you right back." "Okay," said the Colonel, "I'll give you fifteen minutes." I reached my doctor, who said, "Are you crazy? You can't leave your apartment for at least three weeks, and maybe not even then." When I told this to Tom, he replied, "You know, Jerry, these doctors are full of shit. They treat us like babies. Look, I know you're going to be fine. Get on that plane, have a shot of bourbon, and get your ass out here. Hey, Mike's not sick, is he? Tell him to start packing." I was thinking, We're writing songs for the biggest star in the country, maybe the world, and they're begging us to write him more tunes and hang out in the studio with him. We could have hit after hit with Elvis. It was like an annuity, like hitting the jackpot every time. Should we screw it up and blow the whole deal? I called Mike and told him everything. "Look, Mike," I said, "the doctor says I'm too weak to fly, but I hate to screw this deal up for us. The Colonel wants us to leave tonight. The Colonel is adamant. What should I tell him?" Mike thought for a few minutes and then said, "Tell him to go fuck himself." Stoller The Colonel wrote us off, but Elvis didn't. He went on to cover many of our songs -- "Girls, Girls, Girls" and "Little Egypt," which we wrote and produced for the Coasters; "Fools Fall in Love," first done by the Drifters; "Bossa Nova Baby," written for the Clovers; and "Saved," which LaVern Baker had recorded. Other than these covers, Elvis sang only one new song of ours, "She's Not You," which we wrote with Doc Pomus. That happened in 1962. Our soul brother, Doc, had started out singing blues with jazz bands -- another Jewish boy immersed in black culture. His partner, Mort Shuman, was twelve years younger. Mort was tall and thin, Doc short and wide. They were a gifted team and wrote dozens of hits, including "Viva Las Vegas" for Elvis. Eventually Mort became restless in New York and traveled to Mexico and Japan to expand his horizons. He wound up in Paris, where he became so fluent in French that the Parisians assumed he was a native. There he became an intimate of the great Belgian singer-songwriter Jacques Brel. He wrote English lyrics for a number of Brel's songs. He also co-produced and co-starred in Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris . Mort's relocation left Doc alone. That's how Doc happened to call Jerry and me one day to propose that the three of us write something for Elvis. The result was "She's Not You" which, due to Doc's good relationship with the Aberbachs and the Colonel, Elvis recorded. Meanwhile, back in the late fifties, Jerry and I started our first wholly-owned publishing company. As permanent residents of New York City, we were also part of the rhythm & blues and rock and roll revolution. Everything was changing, and we found ourselves, by sheer coincidence or exceptionally good fortune, smack dab in the middle of the action. Copyright (c) 2009 by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller Excerpted from Hound Dog: The Leiber and Stoller Autobiography by Jerry Leiber, Mike Stoller, David Ritz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
| 1 East Coast Roots | p. 1 |
| 2 West Coast Convergence | p. 15 |
| 3 Makin' the Scene | p. 45 |
| 4 Coastin' | p. 53 |
| 5 Absolute Harmony | p. 57 |
| 6 Hound Dog | p. 61 |
| 7 Spark | p. 67 |
| 8 Hard Times | p. 77 |
| 9 New Times | p. 91 |
| 10 Searchin' | p. 101 |
| 11 In the King's Court | p. 109 |
| 12 Girdles | p. 133 |
| 13 What's My Line? | p. 143 |
| 14 Driftin' the City | p. 145 |
| 15 There Goes My Baby | p. 157 |
| 16 The Brill Building | p. 163 |
| 17 He Wore His Ambition Like a Topcoat | p. 169 |
| 18 Tigers and Daisies | p. 187 |
| 19 Al and Dick's | p. 197 |
| 20 The Bird Flies | p. 205 |
| 21 The Magnificent Merger That Never Happened | p. 209 |
| 22 The Bird Dies | p. 217 |
| 23 Happenings | p. 221 |
| 24 A New Era | p. 233 |
| 25 Take 36 | p. 243 |
| 26 Romance and Finance | p. 249 |
| 27 Mirrors | p. 255 |
| 28 The Last Clean Shirt | p. 265 |
| 29 Life and Art | p. 271 |
| 30 Smokey Joe's | p. 277 |
| Appendix A The Songs | p. 291 |
| Appendix B The Productions | p. 299 |
| Acknowledgments | p. 303 |
| Credits | p. 305 |
| Photo Credits | p. 309 |
| Index | p. 311 |
