In the history of Rock 'n Roll, Spector deserves a place near the top. He was his own Brill Building. He was the first rock producer millionaire before he was 21. But there was always a shadow. His first hit record was the epitaph from his father's tombstone.
He expanded the universe of Rock by compressing the sound stage, creating the wall of sound. He went from a nebbish to a Pop Music God, and it was not an smooth metamorphosis. Like a lot of teens who have fame thrust upon them, he stopped growing emotionally. His life shrank behind walled estates, CCTV, gates and guns. He was an evil, controlling Svengali in his relationships with women. He justified his own behavior in a song He hit me and it felt like a kiss. '
An anthem for every abusive boyfriend.He hit me
And it felt like a kiss.
He hit me
But it didn't hurt me.
He couldn't stand to hear me say
That I'd been with someone new,
And when I told him I had been untrue
He hit me
And it felt like a kiss.
He hit me
And I knew he loved me.
He had been Imprisoned since 2009 for the murder of Lana Clarkson, a hostess he picked up at a Sunset Boulevard night club. Depending on the news source, he died of complications due to Covid-19 or natural causes.
So why am I marking the passing of this strange and sad man? I'll begin with a maxim:
Adults think.
Childeren feel.
Teenagers secrete.
Throughout the time Phil Spector was at the height of his creative powers, I was pimple-popping, raging soup of teenage hormones. From the agony of the Righteous Brothers You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin', to the backseat ectasy promised by Ronnie Spector in Be My Baby, Phil Spector understood.
He wasn't a Tin Pan Alley Producer trying to figure out 'what the kids want these days'. He was that kid. His wife sang Be My Baby. He made it okay for kids to produce the music kids want.
He flamed out early. There was not a great deal of progression in his musical style. By the time he got to the Beatles Let it Be, his orchestration felt like a Long and Winding Road. The Beatles later released an the album Let it Be Naked, stripped of Spector's baroque accompanyment. Back to Mono is the best Spector Anthology. Out of print, natch. There's always Spotify.
Goodbye Phil. You'll always be in my heart, next to a used-up tube of Clearasil.