Ted Templeman: A Platinum Producer's Life In Music , livre ebook

Ecw Press - Gregg Renoff

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

259 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

This autobiography (as told to Greg Renoff) recounts Templeman's remarkable life from child jazz phenom in Santa Cruz, California, in the 1950s to Grammy-winning music executive during the '70s and '80s. Along the way, Ted details his late '60s stint as an unlikely star with the sunshine pop outfit Harpers Bizarre and his grind-it-out days as a Warner Bros. tape listener, including the life-altering moment that launched his career as a producer: his discovery of the Doobie Brothers. Ted Templeman: A Platinum Producer's Life in Music takes us into the studio sessions of No. 1 hits like 'Black Water' by the Doobie Brothers and 'Jump' by Van Halen, as Ted recounts memories and the behind-the-scene dramas that engulfed both massively successful acts. Throughout, Ted also reveals the inner workings of his professional and personal relationships with some of the most talented and successful recording artists in history, including Steven Tyler and Joe Perry of Aerosmith, Eric Clapton, Lowell

Informations

Publié par	Ecw Press
Date de parution	07 mai 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781773054797
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	4 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0550€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Ted Templeman
A Platinum Producer’s Life in Music
Ted Templeman as told to Greg Renoff

Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1 Pacific
Chapter 2 Jazzbo
Chapter 3 Feelin’ Groovy
Chapter 4 The Other Side of the Glass
Chapter 5 Wild Night
Chapter 6 Listen to the Music
Chapter 7 Takin’ It to the Streets
Chapter 8 Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love
Chapter 9 Lotta Love
Chapter 10 What a Fool Believes
Chapter 11 And the Cradle Will Rock . . .
Chapter 12 Jump
Chapter 13 Split
Chapter 14 Back to 5150
Chapter 15 It Keeps You Runnin’
Chapter 16 Brothers
Afterword
About the Authors
Copyright

The members of Van Halen and I receive gold record awards for Van Halen II in the office of Warner Bros. Records’ head Mo Ostin, summer 1979 (from left to right): Michael Anthony, David Lee Roth, me, Edward Van Halen, Mo Ostin, and Alex Van Halen.
Rhino Entertainment Company, a Warner Music Group company.

Dedication
For my children, Teddy and McCormick Templeman

Acknowledgments
Many people helped bring this book to fruition. Donn Landee generously shared his memories and his unpublished photographs. Dick Scoppettone and Ed James, Ted’s bandmates in Harpers Bizarre, clarified a number of obscure points in the band’s history. Mike Wilson and his archival staff at WEA uncovered many key images and documents related to Ted’s career. Vain Eudes conjured up a beautiful cover concept, Shane Brown snapped a great headshot of me, and Jeremy Steffen color corrected and repaired many of the images that appear in this book. For their unwavering support of this project, thank you to Jeffrey Curran, Bob Diforio, Andy Harris, Jeff Hausman of the Van Halen News Desk, Rob Heinrich, Jeff Hendrickson, Brian Kehew, Jan Velasco Kosharek, Chris McLernon, David Schnittger, Gita Varaprasathan, Matt Wake, and Matt Wardlaw. Ted and I also appreciate the efforts of the ECW Press team, particularly Jessica Albert, Susannah Ames, Jack David, Michael Holmes, and Laura Pastore. Lastly, thank you to Ted’s colleagues at WEA and to all the engineers, session musicians, and artists who worked alongside Ted in the studio so everyone else could listen to the music.
Greg Renoff

Chapter 1 Pacific
Lots of people are named after relatives, but it’s a funny thing when your parents aren’t sure if that person is living or dead when you’re born. You see, my parents, Robert and Evelyn, named me after my father’s younger brother, Edward J. “Ted” Templeman. As I grew up, my parents explained to me how I became his namesake. And in turn, my uncle Ted would give me glimpses into the hellish ordeal he experienced during the Second World War.
Like me, my uncle Ted was a Santa Cruz boy. He was the youngest of three brothers. His oldest brother, Ken; my dad, Robert; and Ted all were really close, and they all joined the military during the war years. Ted, in fact, quit school in the eleventh grade and enlisted in the Navy on Independence Day, 1940. I think the three of them felt inspired to serve their country because they’d emigrated from Canada just a few years earlier.
After my uncle Ted completed boot camp in September 1940, he’d serve on a heavy cruiser, the USS Houston , which, in late 1941, was stationed in the Philippines.
When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, Navy brass ordered the Houston to sail for the Dutch East Indies. Good thing too, because the Japanese almost immediately launched an overwhelming air assault on the Philippines.
After holding her own in some smaller engagements, the Houston ’s luck ran out in late February 1942. During the Battle of Sunda Strait, a larger Japanese naval force attacked her and a number of other Allied ships in the waters just north of Java.
My uncle and his crewmates fought like hell but their ship was torpedoed and set aflame by naval gunfire. The Houston proceeded to keel over and sink. My uncle didn’t like talking about his wartime experiences, but he told me what haunted him for the rest of his days was watching, helplessly, as scores of his shipmates burned to death. More than half the crew died when the Houston sank in the early morning of March 1.
My uncle Ted, along with eighteen other survivors, huddled in the darkness, hanging onto wreckage and each other in the rolling seas. Shortly after daybreak, a Japanese barge happened upon them; its crew then pulled them from the water. After having them strip-searched, the ranking Japanese officer had second thoughts about taking them prisoner. He suddenly ordered them back into the sea at gunpoint. Most of the guys didn’t even have time to grab their life jackets. But the Japanese did show some mercy, giving them a small raft to transport the guys too injured to keep swimming. My uncle was one of the men who treaded water and hung onto the raft.
Adrift again, a few hours later the group encountered a sailboat manned by local fishermen sympathetic to the Allied cause. They threw the exhausted sailors a line and towed them to the Java shoreline.
After resting on the beach, my uncle and his party plunged into the jungle, hoping to link up with the Dutch forces that they knew were operating on the island. That plan came to grief when a group of armed Javanese allied with the enemy captured them and handed them over to the Japanese. My uncle Ted was a prisoner of war. He was nineteen years old.

My uncle, Edward J. Templeman, 1941. He spent almost all of World War Two as a prisoner of war after he survived the March 1942 sinking of the USS Houston .
Greg Renoff Collection.
About two weeks after the battle, the terrible news about the Houston ’s fate reached the States. Around the same time, the Navy sent Ted’s parents (my grandparents), Earl and Minnie, a telegram telling them that their son, along with every other member of the ship’s crew, was now considered missing in action. His parents, my mother (who was already pregnant with me) and father, and the rest of the extended family prayed for a miracle but feared the worst.
Much happier news came on October 24, 1942, when I was born in Santa Cruz. (Years later, Carl Scott, who managed my band Harpers Bizarre, changed my birthdate and those of my bandmates to later years because he wanted us to appear younger to our fans, so websites like Wikipedia often give my birthday as 1944.) Like my uncle, I would be called Ted, despite the name Edward J. Templeman II appearing on my birth certificate. My mom and dad later told me they named me after him because deep in their hearts they thought he was dead.
In later years my uncle would tell me about what he endured in captivity. For the first few weeks he and the other Houston survivors were held in camps in Java. The Japanese didn’t tend to their wounds and underfed them. He told me beatings were a daily occurrence.
In October 1942 the Japanese moved him and a number of other Americans to Singapore and then eventually to Burma. The Japanese forced prisoners at my uncle’s camp to work on the infamous Burma Railway project, laying railroad line through the jungle. Before dawn each day their guards would herd them along a path from their camp to construction sites, where they’d toil until night fell. They’d then stagger back, dead tired, to their camp, with their guards forcing the feeblest of the prisoners to keep pace with the others. My uncle confided in me about one event during those marches that particularly traumatized him. A little girl came alongside the line of prisoners and started walking near him. Out of sympathy she handed a piece of bread to the man in line in front of my uncle. A guard, without flinching, then shot her in the head.
In the Burma camp, they lived on moldy rice and consumed starvation rations. My uncle said the guards would throw these little crumbs of rice on the ground and they’d all scramble to pick them up and eat them. They gave them fetid fish pulsing with maggots. So they had to fend for themselves to get sufficient calories to survive. They’d eat the snakes that would coil up in the rafters of their huts and whatever other living things they could get their hands on. He told me that one time he was so ravenous that he ate a live spider. The prisoners eventually got hold of a monkey that came to serve as their food tester. They’d cut a piece off of a snake and feed it, raw, to the monkey. If the monkey didn’t die, they’d eat the snake meat too.
He said the Korean guards, who worked in the camp for the Japanese, were the worst aspect of his captivity. They were huge and mean and treated the prisoners worse than the Japanese did. He said there was a big, stinking latrine pit in the camp. To punish the prisoners, the guards would submerge their heads in the raw sewage, sometimes until they died. My uncle told me they did this for their own amusement. Other times they’d simply kick men to death. Guys got sick and died of everything from diseases like dysentery to infected wounds that went untreated. Many were killed while doing the dangerous construction work. All of it was awful, unspeakable stuff that he rarely wanted to discuss. I do recall, however, that one time he did raise the subject was in connection with the 1957 movie The Bridge on the River Kwai , which dramatized the plight of Allied prisoners held by the Japanese. He thought it romanticized the horrors he and his compatriots endured while building the “Death Railway” for the Japanese.
In late December 1943, my family’s prayers were answered. A postcard, written in what appeared to be my uncle’s handwriting, arrived at his parents’ home in Santa Cruz all the way from Moulmein, Burma. It contained the sentence, “Let me know about the family and Evelyn.” Since the note used my mother’s name,