Leo Sayer

Could 1,000 Nurses Be Wrong?

Leo Sayer

by

Patrick Goldstein

In ancient times soothsayers were held in great esteem by kings and peasants alike for their mysterious, often downright bizarre prophesies. Today, in the more mundane realm of the music biz, record company execs are captivated, indeed obsessed, with the new coterie of electronic wizards who can—SHAZAM SHAZAM— pick hit singles.

Now I make no bones about .my inability to predict AM future. My last successful prognostication was “Rock ‘N Roll Heaven” by the Righteous Brothers (the more dead bodies mentioned the better—ask Dion). However, an old crony, Ed the Bed, now a leading Balitmore gynecologist, can filter the Top 40 wheat from the chaff with a prescience unequaled since the salad days of Tiresias. So when the mad doctor of rock ‘n’ roll phoned late one night, banging hiS special D&C coathanger against the receiver, I knew we had a live one.

“Who’s this Leo Saydr character?” The Bed inquired excitedly. I began a typically windy explanation, filling him in on how rock’s homegrown Pierrot began as a commercial illustrator and graduated to a lengthy (and quite undistinguished) apprenticeship as an itinerant harmonica player. He roamed the South of England after a brief nervous breakdown, gigging with the usual crew of lame Anglo folk blues frauds.

I was getting to the interesting parthow Leo was “discovered” at a beachside resort talent contest by England’s former great white Elvis hope, Adam Faith (yet another of England’s seemingly inexhaustible breed of shrewd managerial types; Andrew Loog Oldham was probably taking the cure at Dover) and commissioned to write an album full of sappy ballads for Roger Daltrey’s solo album—when labored breathing and lewd, muff-diver type moans filled the receiver. Cripes, whatta short attention span. 1 «

Finally Bed got back on the horn. “Sorry for the interruption,” he growled, “I got bored hearing the guy’s family tree. But I’ll tell ya this: the song, ‘You Make Me Feel Like Dancing’ is a definite hit single. Can’t miss. All the nurses are wild about it.” I was puzzled. “Is that how you tell—by the nurses?” “Of course, schmuck,” Ed said. “Remember, we’re talking about AM radio—who could be a better low common denominator?” ’

Mr. Sayer, who arrived in Chicago in time for Thanksgiving dinner with CR£EM’s own Bruno Stein (a mixed blessing I can assure you) got a laugh out of this narrative. “So the nurses are after me again,” he joked, sipping hot tea. “I did that tune, especially the falsetto part, as a lark. Richard [Perry] was alert enough to preserve it for posterity. I’d almost forgot about the tune by the time we finished the record.”

What about this Perry character, Leo? His Martha Reeves album was a wildly extravagant dud; after “You’re So Vain”, Carly Simon’s career lumbered steadily downhill, while his Manhattan Transfer project, “Coming Out,” suffered from terminal overproduction. (One disgruntled Perry protege sniffed, “His studio’s got all the ambience of a dentist’s office”.)

The brash LA producer' tends to operate under a paraphrase of Alfred Hitchcock’s famous dictum: “All singers are cattle”. Happily, Sayer and Perry’s interest coincided perfectly on Leo’s Endless Flight outing. They both share a fascination with Motown’s hitfactory assembly line; Leo with the Temptations trio of silky-throated vocal gymnasts, Richard with Motown’s lavish, sophisticated and yet utterly contrived aural constructions.

Leo’s sessions with Perry bear this out. “When Richard and I first met,” the cheery little creature explained, “We immediately set to choosing Motown cover versions. Richard picked Tears of a Clown’ and ‘Dancing in the Streets.’ I went fpr ‘Reflections.’ I won handily.”

Sayer, who had never properly reconciled his spunky, music-hall stage persona with his saccharine, cloying songwriting labors, was clearly in awe • of Perry’s huge reserve of musical talent and resolver “It’s sad that people make him out to be an ogre,” Leo said. “We , got on like a house on fire. Working with him is like an actor getting to work under a great director . He gets something out of an artist that no one else can.

“He’d stop me in the middle of a song and say—‘Leo, ya got to act out the tune!’ That’s good. The producer should be as demanding as an audience at a live gig. I found myself singing to him.”

Sayer owes much of his current chart success to an odd combination of pluck, charm and an unerring ability to be in the right place at the right time. His career is dotted with lucky breaks, ranging from Adam Faith’s suggestion that Leo don clown make-up for his Silverbird album jacket (“He said I needed something to hide behind,” Leo remembers. “Half of you is gushing out and half is holding back.”), to a publicist’s choice of Roger Daltrey’s private studio for Sayer’s first solo album rehearsals.

His debut, bolstered with songs cowritten, with David Courtney, could hardly be characterized as an overnight success. A single “Living in America”, was released, selling all of 50 copies (“Me mum probably bought 49 of em” Leo noted). “We figured to follow up on this achievement with an album,, hoping to break 100 copies.”

Fortunately Sayer’s luck held. Manager Adam Faith, retired from rock, was starring in “Budgie,” a popular TV show featuring an irascible Cockney sporting clogs (a Faith trademark). To escape his mentor’s rabid admirers, Sayer and company adjourned to Daltrey’s secluded Sussex hideway where (shades of Summer Stock) the Who vocalist insisted on using Leo’s repertoire for his forthcoming solo project.

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“We didn’t even write new tunes,” Leo said. “Roger just took stuff Courtney and I had left over. He really identified with ‘One Man Band’ and ‘Hard Life.’ He was full of advice, too. He showed me how to walk on stage, how to move, which mikes to use. He even lent me a PA.

“In fact, he used to come out and work the PA for our early gigs. I’d try to move a speaker and Roger’d say ‘Hey shortie, put that down! Yo(u’re too small to move it Lemme!’

“Keith Moon came by, too. First just to give advice and rearrange the drums. Finally he said ‘Listen, if I fix this snare, can I play?’ Our drummer wasn’t any great shakes, so I said sure. So Keith Moon played on my first single.” Leo giggles uproariously. “The one that sold 50 copies.”