![]() ![]() And he wanted to find love-true, true love: Ah, well. He set out to make millions and millions of dollars and music that was good and important enough to last forever: He did. Spector claimed to be creating “little symphonies for the kids”: He was. Wee fatherless Jewboy outta the Bronx via Fairfax in Los Angeles shook thunder from the heavens. Then-schooled on jazz and Wagner, all brain, balls, and hustle-came Phillip. Chuck Berry was in lockdown in Indiana on a trumped-up charge, Colonel Tom Parker had long since dealt po’ Elvis, pecker and soul, to RCA Victor, and the Beatles hadn’t yet replaced Pete Best with Ringo.ĭoing the story always was a long shot-he’s nearly as famous for being shy as he is for the music he made. Rock music pre-Spector was Sun Studio in Memphis, doo-wop’s death rattle, and clean-cut Caucasian cats insipidly covering the work of black R&B acts whose “race records” rarely got play on the radio or bought by whites. Because Phil Spector changed my life before I ever knew his name, blew open my ears and touched my soul. Doing the story always was a long shot-he’s nearly as famous for being shy as he is for the music he made-but I was thrilled merely to have met and thanked him. In 1999, he did a brief thing with Esquire via e-mail after that, we kept in touch-e-mails, his post-Hall of Fame induction parties in New York, visits to his home when I was in L.A. I’ve been dogging Spector for years, hoping to write his story. ![]() He’s all right with VIP lollygagging: If the client has four grand an hour, young Bayar has the wide-open sky, a topped-off fuel tank, and the whole starry night ahead. He’s got the Huck Finn freckled grin and the Billy Budd blue eyes, and the grin doesn’t lose luster and the eyes never blink when I say, Oh, yeah, we might be waiting some. I know different: This baby goes nowhere until Phil Spector boards.Ĭaptain Bayar, fit, fresh faced, and apple-cheeked, happy as a clam, asks if I think we might have long to wait. ![]() that’s what the e-mail that came this morning said. The chartered Gulfstream, sleek and dark, all bone-white leather, burled walnut, and spotless, mirrored bulkheads sits alone on the tarmac. The moon’s a thin smile on a cloudless spring night in Los Angeles. You can find every Esquire story ever published at Esquire Classic. It contains outdated and potentially offensive descriptions of sex, ethnicity, and class. This article originally appeared in the July 2003 issue of Esquire. ![]()
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