Carol Kaye

Which of these terms best describes your relationship to Los Angeles: point of origin, detour, or destination?

It’s a place where I raised my kids and worked.

What year does your relationship with Los Angeles begin?

We moved from Everett, Washington, in December, 1941, a few days after Pearl Harbor. I grew up in Wilmington, more or less. It was a little town close to Long Beach. Down there, you're not a part of the scene in L.A. or Hollywood.

Can you describe your first house or apartment of significance in Los Angeles? What was the street? Who were the neighbors?

1026 E Court in the Dana Strand Projects. They were brand new and we were one of the first families to move in. There were about 10 small two-bedroom units, upstairs and downstairs. They were slapped up real fast to house people working in the shipyard. My dad got a job as a foreman and could walk to work.

It was a mixture of races. Our next door neighborhoods were the Leibowitz family. A Mexican family moved in after that. I walked to middle school with a girlfriend who was Syrian. It was a beautiful place with big trees and big sidewalks where kids like me could rollerskate. I remember when they planted the lawn. Everyone had a clothesline in front. You could smell the ocean. And Hawaiian Avenue School was just a few steps away.

Because it was so nice there in the projects, I think it helped us get through some tough times. The neighborhood changed after the war when a lot of the families moved away. By 1951, when I finally moved out to Long Beach, it was real bad.

Did Wilmington feel industrial back then the way it does now?

No, Wilmington then was a sleepy town. Wilmington was where you took the boat to Catalina. But because of the war, they had a huge amount of work in the shipyards. It changed everything. In a town loaded with sailors, you had to be cautious walking around as a teenage girls. In downtown Wilmington, you'd see the pachucos cat calling with the baggy dress pants and dangling gold chains and big fedoras. You had to watch some girls at the Banning High School football games. Root for the wrong team and those knives strapped to their legs came out. I was always scared that we were gonna get invaded. I remember when the Texaco refinery blew up in 1944. I could see it out the window because it's about a half mile from Dana Strand. Everyone thought it was sabotage.

Where did you purchase your first instrument?

In 1948, an itinerant salesman went door to door at Dana Strand selling a lap steel along with a few lessons. I was a pre-teen singing in glee clubs at school and around the house. My mom had saved up 10 dollars penny by penny and she used it all to buy me the little lap steel guitar. I think I was driving her a little nuts with all the singing I was doing but she understood that music was important to me and we couldn't afford a piano. I listened to KRKD broadcast Bob Wills and Texas Playboys from the Venice Pier. Thanks to the radio, I was a die-hard country-western music fan so steel guitar seemed right to learn music on.

When the city was new to you, where did you go for fun? What were your rituals?

During the war, my older sister Peggy taught me to jitterbug to Louis Jordan records like “Choo Choo Ch-Boogie" and “Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Chickens.” She started working on the line at Doak Aircraft Company in Torrance when she was 16 and she sang some little gigs on the weekends so she had some money for records. I learned about music from her.

When I was nine, I starting working with my mother, mopping floors, cleaning apartments, and babysitting after school. I’d save the pennies and ride the PE Car up to L.A. to see matinee shows at the Million Dollar Theater. I was 12 sitting in the front row watching the great Count Basie Orchestra. I saw Duke Ellington with Al Hibbler. I was probably the only little white kid in the packed theater. It was a wonderful feeling sitting in the front row, drinking in all that great music. Then I'd be back in Wilmington by early evening.

What song or piece of music do you associate with the neighborhood where you grew up?

"April Showers." When I saw The Al Jolson Story at the Granada Theater in Wilmington, it was an awakening. I loved Jolson, the way he sung, his performance. After my dad left us, my mom and I were eking out an existence in the Dana Strand projects. I didn’t mind the two-mile walk to Fries Avenue School singing that kind of music all the way.

When you first ventured into the city beyond your immediate environs, what were the places that made an impression? Who showed you these places?

When I was 13, I started taking guitar lessons from Horace Hatchett, a locally famous guitar teacher in Long Beach. He taught me chordal theory and the down-up picking style which became so important to my bass playing later on. Hatch changed my life.

He worked in a little studio above Morey’s Music, the main music store in downtown Long Beach, right on the southeast corner of Fourth and Pine. Hatch wasn’t a fantastic player but he was the primo teacher on the West Coast. Irving Ashby (who played with the Nat King Cole Trio), Ruben Quintero, Jimmy Wyble, Ray Pohlman and others all dropped in to say hello to him. And Howard Roberts. Even though Howard was famous in 1949-1950, he was so genuine, never phony. Later when he and I worked together in the studios in the 1960s he was a familiar friend, like a brother.

What were you doing for Hatch at that time?

At first, I helped him transcribe music from 78 records in exchange for guitar lessons and a little bit of pay. Then I started helping him teach students on guitar. I worked for him every afternoon after school, taking the bus between Wilmington and Long Beach. He taught me all kinds of simple jazz licks and jazz chords, how they moved, with chord note arpeggios to practice. I learned the comping chords to "Blue Skies," "Rose Room," and I could play the Charlie Christian riffs and solo from “Air Mail Special" and the lead to “Flying Home.” I loved Wednesday nights, when all the guitar students got together to jam on those standards in the second floor rehearsal hall next to Hatch’s studio. I was overjoyed. I didn’t have to think of myself as a stutterer, someone to be ignored or teased. I loved music, loved my teacher, loved to play guitar. It all felt so natural. To a 14-year-old with one one pair of shoes, scratching out some extra money by babysitting and cleaning apartments and mowing grass, this was by far a better world.

What were some places in L.A. that Hatch shared with you?

Sometimes Hatch gave lessons at Fife & Nichols, which was the big music store in downtown L.A. on Ninth and Broadway. I played along to the Charlie Christian/Benny Goodman Sextet records in their store window and they piped the sounds to the street outside. People riding past on the red car were amazed to see this little white chick with the blonde hair playing guitar to those hot records.

I also got to sit in on guitar with Spade Cooley’s band at the Aragon Ballroom on the pier in Santa Monica. Spade Cooley had a lot of fine jazz musicians in his band at that time, including Maynard Ferguson, who was only 16 at the time, the same age as me. He played these super high notes on trumpet and people went wild.

Who are the L.A. characters you encountered during that time that stick with you after all these years?

Milt Owen was the guitar repair man at Fife & Nichols. He had been in the Navy during World War II and was a beautiful person. He could take a guitar and refret it instantly. Everybody in the studios brought their guitars to him.

I remember Les Paul coming into Fife & Nichols when I was playing in the window. He had a prototype for this new guitar he had designed. Hatch knew him very well and they would talk about Les’s sound-on-sound recordings because Hatch also owned a Webcor tape recorder and a Presto acetate cutting recorder. I had played in the store window quite a few times by then and they put this Les Paul guitar in my lap to play. It seemed so heavy for a small guitar and it took a few minutes to get used to it. It was one of the first Les Paul guitars and he was proud of it. He was a very unpretentious and nice man who spoke to me like an adult even though I was pretty young and new to everything.

Hatch also taught at the newer Fife & Nichols in Hollywood across the street from Woolworth on Hollywood Blvd. That's where I met Eden Ahbez, who wrote "Nature Boy" for Nat King Cole. Even though he had money from royalties, he was dressed in long clothes, almost like rags, with a long beard. He told me about his reclusive life in a tree house somewhere out in Palm Springs. I could tell he hadn’t had a bath lately but that didn’t take away from his charm. I enjoyed listening to his long conversation with Howard Roberts. Ahbez seemed so wise and knowledgeable. He had that peaceful, gentle demeanor way before the hippies.

When radio mattered in Los Angeles, what program, DJ, or announcer did you love?

Around 1958, I used to listen to Dick Whittinghill on KMPC to wake up in the morning. I was working as a secretary at Northrup during the day and playing jazz gigs at night. I'd get done at a club, then to drive home to El Segundo then after a few hours of sleep, I'd have to drive back to work. Whittinghill opened his show with "The Kid From Red Bank." That song always got me going. Later, Whittinghill was the first to play "Tequila" by the Champs. By then I had done quite a few sessions but wasn't totally satisfied with the music I was playing. When I heard "Tequila" on KMPC it was like a beacon, a call to arms to pursue studio work. It was happy music, it was commercial, and it swung. So I quit my day job shortly thereafter and moved up to L.A. from El Segundo.

What was your first studio gig?

I was playing guitar with the Teddy Edwards band at the Beverly Cavern on Beverly Blvd. Billy Higgins was on drums, Curtis Counce on bass, and sometimes Ornette Coleman would sit in with us. A record producer named Bumps Blackwell came in and liked my playing. He asked me to do a record date for him, playing guitar on a recording of "Summertime" by Sam Cooke. I was skeptical at first but the rest of the musicians trusted him so I went along to Radio Recorders on Santa Monica Boulevard. The music was fun and easy, just two or three tries of different fills on guitar, and it paid well! Bumps was happy and wanted me to do more dates. So I moved my family into an apartment in North Hollywood to be closer to the work and that started my life as a studio musician.

Describe your first, favorite or most memorable car.

When I was starting, H.B. Barnum would drive me to gigs in his Cadillac. I wouldn't get back home until late because H.B. had girls and businesses to check on. I could sleep in the backseat. Later, when I had money, I got a Cadillac but only drove it for three months. It just wasn't fun. I traded it for a white ’66 Mustang, which is what I drove to sessions in the '60s. That was a fun car. By then I just played Fender bass so I didn't need room in the trunk. I never bought jewelry. I didn't go for fur coats. I didn't have a house to brag about or anything like that, but you gotta have a good car. That’s what L.A.'s about, is the car. And let's face it, the way that cars were designed in the Fifties and the Sixties, those were beauties. You can't drive weight around like that anymore.

Describe the restaurant in which you've spent the most hours.

You barely had time for restaurants in those days but I remember the Formosa Cafe because it was right next door to the old Goldwyn Lot. That was an old, old lot and by the ‘60s it was only being used to record film scores. Across the street was a little train car that they changed into a restaurant. It was a cute little place and everybody felt comfortable there. So if you were doing film scores at Goldwyn, you'd eat there. I think later they added to it to try to make it a tourist thing but back then it was just a railroad car. It was comfortable, and the food was good, and the prices were decent. That would be the spot, if you had an hour. Usually you didn’t.

What outdoor space have you spent the most time?

I took my kids fishing on Santa Monica Pier. We'd catch sand-dabs with drop lines and eat them for dinner. And I have one picture of us on Big Bear Lake taken by my second husband. But being a musician, I’ve lived almost all my life inside. I’m an indoor cat.

Whether or not you swam, what beach or pool lingers in your memory?

I was afraid of the water. When I was a kid in Wilmington, my dad threw me in the ocean one time. He was trying to make me swim and I couldn't swim. So me and water don’t mix. But I made sure that my kids could swim real good.

What is your favorite bar or nightclub that no longer exists?

Donte's on Lankershim Boulevard in North Hollywood, right near Universal. It was the only real jazz club in the Valley. It was a great hangout for all us studio musicians because it was close to the studios, so you didn't have far to go. We went there to wash the rock and roll out of our ears. We needed to hear our music for a change! You got so frustrated having to dumb down for years to play for money. I didn't hate it all. Some of it was good but that simple music just drove you nuts after a while. You had to go to a jazz club to hear some good music and to talk to your fellow musicians. That was Donte's. It became rarer and rarer to find a place that had jazz seven nights a week. Many tried after that but none lasted long and none could rival Donte's.

What movie theater would you bring back from the dead?

The Granada Theater on Avalon Boulevard in Wilmington. It’s closed but the theater is still there. In 1947, when it was just my mom and myself, I’d sometimes get a few cents together from my part-time work to go down to the local theater and see the musicals or the cowboy films. Lowell Thomas and his Movietone Newsreel would be featured with the war news before cartoons, coming attractions, and two great features, all for 11 or 12 cents. I loved hearing Roy Rogers sing with the Sons of the Pioneers. Movies put everyone in a different world, a wonderful world. I was just mesmerized.

What household threw the best parties or the parties you remember best?

Hardly anyone threw a party at all in the Sixties, we were all so busy working and then tired after. I think I went to one "party" where everyone just sat around and dully talked "business." But one time, I threw a good party at my house that became famous. By 1964, was the first call on Fender bass and I was making great money for the first time in my life. I had three kids and a live-in nanny so I added a master bedroom and bathroom to our garage at 4904 Foreman Avenue, in Toluca Woods. I decided to put in a pink bidet. It shot a nice a stream of heated-warm water at you and also had a nice warm dryer blowing at your "ahem."

When it was installed I decided to throw a "potty party." I got a bartender and had it catered and had Stan Ross from Gold Star set up an Ampex tape machine and hide a microphone behind the bidet in in my new pink bathroom. The house quickly filled up with the who's who of the recording industry. I remember we were playing Ramsey Lewis "Wade in the Water." By the time Phil Spector showed up, we were having a food fight. I remembering Phil eating chicken and sitting alone drinking a glass of milk.

When someone would use the bidet, Dennis Budimir would turn up the amp that was always on and we'd listen and hear "Oooohhh, I've got to get me one of these!" Brian and Marilyn Wilson went in there and you heard Marilyn saying "Brian look at this, it's a microphone!" Brian said, "Carol would never do anything like that, she's too square!" The last to leave were Gene Czerwinski, the founder of Cerwin-Vega, and his wife Lois. I remembering listening to them sitting in my pink bath-tub telling funny stories to each other, clinking wine glasses. So that was my one wild party. For years after, Phil Spector would ask: "Carol's pink toilet, does she still have that thing?"

What was your first earthquake or your worst earthquake?

In 1971, I had just moved back from Camarillo to work in the studios again. I leased a nice home in Encino with a pool in a lovely hilly area south of Ventura, just off of Sepulveda. The shaking hit maybe five or six in the morning. I couldn't hang onto the bed. I got the kids in the doorway because in those days we thought that was the safest. It was dawn and the street lights were still lit and we watched them all swaying back and forth while the roads were rippling like waves of an ocean.

If you had the power to preserve a space or building in Los Angeles, what would you protect? Not necessarily for the public good but for personal reasons.

Capitol Studios. People love to hear about Western, where we did "Good Vibrations" and Pet Sounds, and Gold Star, where we did all the Spector stuff and Sonny and Cher. I can't put 'em down but you have to remember, at those places we would have to work on one tune for three hours. You're doing take after take after take after take. At Capitol, we did everything from jazz to film scores to heavy rock and roll. All styles of music. For my feeling, I love Capitol the best. The way they have both those rooms set up, it's just perfect. It's just a sound. For my money, Capitol is just the best of everything.

Conversely, what’s something you would tear down?

Western was a real good studio. We did the Beach Boys stuff there, and Elvis, but the building was just loaded with problems. The plumbing leaked everywhere and you were afraid that the building would fall down when you climbed the stairs. A few years back, some guy from the U.K. came in and spent a million dollars putting lights in the floors trying to make it look like a Hollywood set for tourists but he didn't fix anything. They should have just torn it down after he left.

Besides the traffic, what’s one specific change you observed in Los Angeles over the period you’ve known it?

The biggest change I witnessed was in 1969-1970. The music was getting worse, the tunes were yucky. You started seeing more guys in suits that didn't give a damn about the music. And then Charlie Manson. ‘69. Boy, that was it. All the musicians started to carry guns on their legs. Hal Blaine would drive around with a police siren on his Cadillac. It was crazy, the fact that somebody like Manson got that close to us. And some of us worked for him.

Everyone took home addresses and phone numbers out of the Musicians Union Directory. Some of the studio musicians got mugged going to work and one person got stabbed in the neck in his driveway. He sold his house and moved to Nashville. Jim Horn had a woman jump in his car at a stop light on Vine Street and hold a gun to head. He gave her all his money. Hollywood Boulevard became seedier and it got too dangerous to walk near the studios on Sunset. There were prostitutes and drugged-out hippies day and night. Capitol quickly built security fencing around their huge open parking lot with a guard at both gates. You couldn't stay at any motels nearby. The only safe places to work were the gate-guarded movie studios.

Conversely, what’s one thing that hasn't changed—in other words, one thing in Los Angeles that is timeless?

Crooks. At the same time, Los Angeles has a way of forgiveness.

What is a place in Los Angeles that was described to you but you never got to see for yourself? In other words, a place that lives only in your imagination?

I never got to see Bird in L.A. People say, well you must have played with Charlie Parker, but he died in 1955. I wasn't in the L.A. clubs yet.

What's a demolition that broke your heart?

Clifton’s Cafeteria was so beautiful. It was like being in a cave. It had bird cages on the inside. There were goldfish everywhere. It was lovely. You could go eat and it didn't cost you that much. That was an institution that should come back, or something like it.

Whose backyard you would return to if you could?

Oh, no, no. You don't have any time to hang out in the backyard. You kidding? You're working day and night. When you get some time, you sleep. No, no. There's no backyard.

Today, what is the current view out your window or a view that you see on a daily basis?

I’m living out in the desert. Wherever you look, you got miles of nothing but space to look at. It's beautiful out here in the desert, especially in springtime. Oh man, I can hardly wait. In about another month you're gonna have a desert smell out here, you think you died and went to heaven.

I like that you have people that work in the aircraft business. It was the people in the aircraft business of South LA who loved jazz. Everybody worked at Hughes and North American and all these other aerospace companies in South LA and that's where you had the great jazz clubs too. The jazz clubs were packed every night with the aircraft people. It takes a certain amount of smarts to be in that business. And I like to be around smart people. Sometimes you hear the planes go over and you see the Thunderbird jets out here practicing. Once in a while you hear a little boom. The pets are used to it.

Can you describe a personal memento of Los Angeles—a token of the city you've kept in the form of an image or an object?

I kept all my appointment books from the ‘60s, when I was working seven days a week, sometimes 24 hours a day. The names were always abbreviated. There no time to write out all the details. I always ID'd contractor/arranger names to get paid later through the Musicians Union. We recorded day and night and worked long hours but we made as much money as doctors did. Professional musicians had never made that kind of money before and won't ever again. This is an appointment book from July 1965. On these two pages you can see H.B. Barnum, Gary Usher, Phil Spector, Duane Eddy, the Beach Boys. "California Girls" came out that month while we were recording "Sloop John B." You see why I'm tired today? I’m still trying to catch up on sleep I lost back then. ◆