George Benson
When You’re On Top, You’re ‘Breezin’!’ But Did Benson Sacrifice His Art?
Originally published in The Aquarian Weekly March 1977. Used by permission.
PHOTO: George Benson by Tom Pich
The stylish homes of Englewood Cliffs, near the George Washington Bridge in Bergen County, make for a pleasant background as photographer Bob Sorce and I make our way to the beautiful home of Mr. George Benson, guitarist, singer, family man. We’re greeted warmly at the door and told that we’re just in time for some home movies. Walking downstairs, into what you might call his trophy room, we see George tinkering with a huge projector.
Introductions ensue and I check out the various artifacts of a long and suddenly super-successful career: a platinum record for Breezin’, pictures, downbeat awards, and various other mementos. I take a quick seat as the man starts his movies. Taken from the 20th floor of a Hilton Hotel, juxtaposed with highway and landscape scenes, these are no ordinary home movies. As the film roles—shot in 16 millimeter with sound and color—George is beaming as his two sons answer questions in the hotel room. Movie-time apparently over, we move into the game room to settle down with some beers. There’s a pool table, a pinball machine, an air-hockey table and a few other games I never heard of. While photographer Sorce snaps away, I turn on my tape recorder.
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Mike Greenblatt: I heard you’ve been playing since you were eight years old.
George Benson: Seven, actually. First on a ukulele, because my hands were too small for guitar, then guitar at nine. My step-father taught me.
MG: And your first paying gig?
GB: At 10 in an after-hours club—that was ultimately closed down by the cops—in my original hometown of Pittsburgh where I was born and raised. RCA even recorded me at 11. Then my manager at the time wanted to take me out west to California “where the opportunities were,” he said, but my parents said no. They were strict in demanding that school be my priority at age 12. So my career stalled. But at 15, I caught a break playing guitar with my cousin’s vocal group. They were very popular locally. At the time, organ trios were very popular so I took a job singing, not even playing guitar.
MG: So when did you concentrate on guitar?
GB: In my late teens. That’s when I realized you just can’t sing every night from 9:30 to 2:00 in the morning. Once rock’n’roll took over, I had plenty of offers as a guitarist. But I liked jazz better. I wound up accepting an offer to join the band of hard bop organist Brother Jack McDuff [1926-2001]. That’s when I left Pittsburgh. He was the one who gave me my real start in this business, both in the studio and on the road.
MG: How long did you stay with him?
GB: Almost three years. Columbia Records offered me a solo deal. My first album came out in 1964. I was barely 20. Had no control whatsoever. The tunes, the arrangements, were all picked for me. The band was McDuff’s. It’s funny but a label signs an artist due to their talent yet the artist, at least in my case, gets no say on anything that goes down in the studio. They want me to sell records, sure, but they make the record, not me. I just add guitar licks.
MG: Had to have been frustrating, no?
GB: I thought I knew it all. I wanted to branch out in so many directions at once. I had played funk, experimented with rock, settled into jazz, played behind soul singers, and performed R’n’B covers for years. The jazz thing was jacked up because I was friends with some real heavyweights: I’m talkin’ Kenny Burell, Jim Hall, Tal Farlow, Wes Montgomery, the biggest and the best. They were all friends of mine. Wes, especially, was selling a ton. The label knew my potential and wanted me to make pop albums.
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“You’ve got to remember that the jazz musicians are faced with a hell of a dilemma. Here are some of the greatest musicians in the world, and they’re starving to death. You’ve got guys in New York City who can play rings around just about anybody yet they can’t feed their families.”
MG: So they smothered you with strings?
GB: Well, uh, let’s just say they added extra elements so my records would get on the radio and sell in the stores. Unfortunately, there was never enough of ME on those records. But I did get to finally settle into a good groove with another label, CTI, and that string of albums I’m really proud of. Especially a little thing called Bad Benson.
MG: I loved that record! Creed Taylor produced it. It had a sizzling version of Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.”
GB: That’s when they finally listened to me to cut down the damn string section. But only temporarily. Creed had this arranger that he respected so much that he still always kept the strings in a position of prominence, and my guitar got buried in the mix. Creed never really produced me the way I wanted.
MG: But then came ‘Breezin’.
GB: Fortunately, when we did Breezin’, we had an arranger who was adept at keeping the artist in the forefront. I think Breezin’ is different because although the strings are there, they’re more felt than heard, iike a scent in the air.
MG: How did you come to include Leon Russell’s “This Masquerade”?
GB: Producer Tommy Lipuma was very up on what was going on in those days. He had sent me a ton of songs to consider.
MG: What were some of the other ones?
GB: He also sent me “50 Ways To Leave Your Lover.” He knew it would be a smash even before Paul Simon picked it as a single.
MG: So your version would’ve predated Simon’s!
GB: Yeah, my mistake. But he also sent me a tune by soul singer Bobby Womack called “Breezin’.”
MG: The Rolling Stones covered Womack’s “It’s All Over Now” in 1964 and it became their first #1.
GB: I had no idea of that. I had heard Gabor Szabo’s version of “Breezin’” and didn’t like it. I didn’t want to record it. In fact, when pressed, I flatly refused. I just didn’t feel I could add anything to it. It has very limited changes and I knew I’d just have to keep repeating myself.
MG: Why didn’t you ever record the Paul Simon song?
GB: I didn’t think it was the type of song that a Black man would be believable doing. The Leon Russell song had some really intricate changes. Leon has that knack. He writes with real strong melody lines and his stories are just so, so…real.
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“The whole thing about being a leader is that it’s very hard to concentrate on what you’re doing yourself because you’re always concerned about what the other guys are doing. It’s a big responsibility. You’re like a father because you’re responsible for everyone around you.”
MG: I’m a huge Leon Russell fan. I’d love to hear what you would’ve done with “A Song For You.”
GB: I wasn’t sent that one. But when I heard Leon sing “This Masquerade,” it really resonated with me. I always like when an artist sings his own tune. It’s more believable. Ray Charles is the sole exception. Ray has this thing where he can pour out his soul no matter who wrote the song. Like, to me, nobody can sing a McCartney tune like Paul himself, and he’s one of the most covered artists in the world. I’ve heard ten million singers sing “Yesterday” but nobody can sing it like him because it’s just so real when he does it. That’s the way I feel about all songs. The original is always best. It’s the master cut. Everything else is but a mere quote.
MG: Yeah but now “This Masquerade” is yours. You done stole it. People are going to think of you, not the author of the song, when they hear it for years to come.
GB: Well, I’m just glad that I was the one who woke people up to what a great song it is. I’m sure when they hear his original, they’ll realize where it came from.
MG: No they won’t. They’ll just think he’s doing your song.
GB: [laughing] I know, I know. People are funny like that. I’m talking about the people who are awake.
MG: Not too many. They only know what radio feeds them.
GB: I heard a great version by Sergio Mendez. It was so good, I remember thinking, “there goes my hit.”
MG: Not a chance. So here you are, in this beautiful house, with a beautiful family, and a career that most would kill for. I’m more interested, though, in when times were not so good for you.
GB: Just before I came to New York City to start my own band, I had made up my mind that I needed a little bit more experience playing with some hip musicians. There was a cat who invited me to jam with him at a club called The Front Room on Broad Street downtown Newark. I drove all the way from Pittsburgh to Newark with my wife and the last bit of money we had. My old raggedy car was one truck-stop away from breaking down and I knew it. But I white-knuckled it and kept on driving. When I got there, I saw he had another guitarist on the bandstand. He forgot he even offered me the gig! That was when I went underground. Took a year off. Made plans for my own damn band. Got my chops together.
PHOTO: George Benson 1986 Montreux
MG: But what did you do that night when you saw this other motherfucker on the stage?
GB: Called a friend in Manhattan and went to stay with him. Put my wife on a bus back home. She was really tore up about it. Cried her eyes out. She kept asking, “how could something like this happen?” But it was the catalyst for me to finally take the plunge and form a band. I mean, I’ve always been a leader in the sense that, I think I know how to put things together. The whole thing about being a leader is that it’s very hard to concentrate on what you’re doing yourself because you’re always concerned about what the other guys are doing. It’s a big responsibility. You’re like a father because you’re responsible for everyone around you.
MG: I just saw you on ‘Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert.’ How was it taping that TV show?
GB: They have a very professional crew. It’s a studio console with multiple tracks. That’s why it sounds so good. Much better than other shows.
MG: I’ve always felt that music on TV is sort of self-defeating because no matter how good the musician is, the sound is still coming through those six-inch speakers on my television. And mono to boot! So how good could it possibly be? What other shows did you do?
GB: Midnight Special.
MG: Aren’t those shows real fast, y’know, 1, 2, 3 get on, get off.
GB: Sure. For the audience at those shows, it isn’t too good. Most of the time they have to sit while you do things over and over until it comes out just right for television. So once I got hip to that, I told them to turn on the tape and not to stop. Don Kirshner let me do that. I mean, we had to stop at the start of “This Masquerade” because I couldn’t hear the monitor. But that was it. They told me it was the first time they did it like that. Kirshner had to split to do an errand and by the time he got back, we were done. I got to listen to the crew telling him how good it went. Those guys thought they’d be there for another three hours.
MG: There’s still a whole untapped market out there for you: all those old ladies who watch Merv Griffin and Mike Douglas.
GB: And don’t think I don’t know that. I would really like to get on their shows, perform, then talk on their couches. That’s when people really get to know what you’re all about.
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“I don’t exist to increase the status of any one particular genre. I’m here like everyone else, man, just trying to make it in this crazy world.”
MG: What would you say to the critics who charge you with selling out? You used to make jazz records. Now you make big-bucks easy-listening pop-soul records. For instance, vibraphonist Roy Ayers is putting out real garbage now. So are keyboardists George Duke and Gene Harris who used to be good and now they’re terrible, playing little disco riffs with repetitive themes, synthesized chants, bells and whistles. You have yet to do that but still, you ain’t playing jazz no more and you’re so much better than this pop-soul bag you’re in that doesn’t let you solo so magnificently like you used to.
GB: I know exactly what you’re saying. Eminent jazz critic Leonard Feather just wrote something to the effect of he knows what the industry is all about but he gave me a pass for, in effect, keeping my integrity intact and not going far down that path. That said, I maintain that a sense of fun is still required to sell in big numbers. I didn’t, in any way, shape or form, try to restrict the cats who played on Breezin’. We kept the solos in. Songs were done in first takes to keep the spontaneity of jazz alive. I learned that from Miles Davis. Let the musicians do their thing. Even though it’s my album, I’ve got all kinds of guys, guys from classical backgrounds, some funk cats, plus, of course, straight bebop jazzers. I got me a keys guy that dabbles in all sorts of electronics. I got a bass player who’s gonna be funky for the rest of his life. He didn’t play on the title track so I got one of the finest bassists alive, Phil Upchurch. I let Ronnie Foster write and he was so psyched I recorded his song. Upchurch had a riff we turned into “Six To Four.” I admit it was a direct attempt to woo that particular demographic. I had to do that. It was almost like saying, “ok, we did this, now let’s get down and really play!” Plus I made sure to showcase my own playing. You’ve got to remember that the jazz musicians are faced with a hell of a dilemma. Here are some of the greatest musicians in the world, and they’re starving to death. You’ve got guys in New York City who can play rings around just about anybody yet they can’t feed their families.
MG: Sam Rivers comes to mind. He steadfastly refuses to go pop. His genius is way above the average listener’s head, so much so that only a few adventurous ears can wrap their brains around what he’s doing. Yet he continues to do it. He’s been trying to establish what the press has dubbed “the loft scene” where like-minded musicians can jam and people can witness it for just a few bucks.
GB: Funny you should mention him. He was the guy who forgot he asked me to join his band and had another guitarist onstage with him by the time I got there.
MG: Oh wow, damn. Yeah, he won’t budge. He’d rather starve than give in to commercialism.
GB: There will always be those kinds of guys. They’re necessary to the art. If it weren’t for those kinds of guys, the creative musicians wouldn’t progress because people would keep pulling them back. It’s like we would say, “here’s something new,” and they would say, “we don’t want anything new, we just want to boogaloo.” I’m too invested in making people happy so you can criticize me all you want. I could construct monumental solos for myself in my home studio and I do but my records are for sale.
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MG: Village Voice critic Gary Giddins recently eviscerated you in print saying, in effect, now that you got them where you want them, isn’t it time to make a groundbreaking jazz album instead of ‘Breezin’ Part 2.’
GB: Yeah, and I told him no, it isn’t. And that headline made me look like the biggest of the sell-outs. He was very negative to begin with. I told him that I wouldn’t take the chance of cutting an all-jazz album now because I’m not here to prove anything. I don’t exist to increase the status of any one particular genre. I’m here like everyone else, man, just trying to make it in this crazy world. I told him please don’t put that kind of weight on my shoulders. Truthfully? Sure, I understood his point. I just didn’t like the pressure he was putting on me. He was trying to get me to say something that would damage all I’ve built up in the last few years. Look, if I was a new artist, and I saw a person like myself with what Breezin’ did for my career, if I was on the outside looking in, I’d say, “hey, now’s my chance!” There’s a thousand guys who want to do what I’m doing but they’re afraid. But if you don’t take that first step forward, how are you going to get anywhere? The blues guys are in the same boat. Hell, give them some money, they won’t be blue anymore. Look at BB King. A lot of people don’t like BB King anymore simply because he’s super-successful.
MG: I saw Louisiana Red at a dive on the lower east side. There were three people in the audience: me, my wife and the bartender. And he played his ass off for us.
GB: That’s a damn shame.
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After discussing the relative merits of art versus commerce, we adjourn to another room so George can play us an advance of his new album, In Flight, the follow-up to Breezin’. I hate it. But I keep mum. All I say is, “You’re not taking any chances on this one, are you? This is pretty sure-fire stuff.” Looking me right in the eye, and no doubt knowing what I think, he says, “look Mike, I don’t want someone coming up to my kids 20 years from now and saying, “isn’t your dad the dude who made that one big album?”
MG: I guess you want to have four or five big-selling platinum albums before you get really creative again, huh?
GB: It’s time for me to make my move.
MG: By doing a lounge version of Nat King Cole’s 1948 “Nature Boy”?
GB: Did you like my cover of War’s “The World Is A Ghetto”?
MG: I liked it when it first came out five years ago.
An awkward silence ensues. I get up to scan the contents of his voluminous record collection: John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, Art Tatum, Wes Montgomery, Gladys Knight & The Pips, Redd Foxx. Then on to his book shelves: The Autobiography Of Malcolm X, the Koran, and dozens of tech books on sound systems. At this point, George says, “I don’t mean to rush you but we’re expecting DJ Murray The K for my next interview and he should be here any minute.” That’s when the doorbell rings and in strides perhaps America’s most famous radio personality. He has a whole crew with him. Looking like a Mafia Don, he saunters into the room with elegant style, clothed in an expensive overcoat and puffing on a cigarette, wig firmly planted on his head and emanating tough-guy vibes. An impressive figure to be sure. I had listened to his “Swinging Soirees” for most of my life. Some even called him “The Fifth Beatle.” Here he was, right in front of me, and I was shaking his hand. Then I made him wait. I had to finish listening to the new album. At that, he started dancing around! As we said our goodbyes and trudged off into the deep freeze of winter, I couldn’t get that picture out of my mind of everybody’s favorite disc jockey dancing around, looking so sophisticated, even as he did the Funky Monkey.
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