pdf, with thanks to the original sharer
They
were all sales clerks at Sam Goody’s, the record store. At one point, Larry
Kessler came up to me and said, “Well, we’re going to record tomorrow night.” “We?”
“Yes,” he said, “we call ourselves the Godz.” I had no idea until that moment
that they had any such aspirations. I said, “Where are you going to record?” He
said, “Herb Abramson’s,” which was a studio we used. I said, “Do you want me to
hear you?” “Oh, yes. We’re rehearsing in Natasha’s apartment tonight to prepare
for the session.”
On
a hot August night, I visited her apartment. It was humid. We turned off the
lights, so we wouldn’t have heat from the bulbs. As we sat on the floor in the
dark, the guys started to do a song. They imitated the sounds of a passel of
cats on the back fence during mating time, doing this like a choir. I decided we
would call it “White Cat Heat.” I allowed the session to go forward, and it was
clear that I was going to subsidize it, no big deal. At seven o’clock the
following evening, the session began. I decided that my presence might
intimidate them, so I waited about forty-five minutes. At a quarter to eight, I
entered the studio. It was on West 56th Street, and it had been the original
studio of Atlantic Records. I found them sitting around. Paul Thornton,
realizing that I was a little taken aback, greeted me. “Would you like to hear
it? We just finished it. We’re editing it now.” I said, “You finished it in
forty-five minutes?” He said, “Yeah, we just ran with it.” Promoting them was
an impossible challenge. They would try to perform, but they would get in fights;
it was total chaos. I rented them a concert hall in the
Times Square area and sent out flyers — they showed up but no one else did.